I just received a phone call from someone named "Rob" at the Dove Foundation (that's spelled D-o-v-e), a non-profit organization, and no, this was not a fund-raising call. He wanted to speak to the lady of the house. I refused to say whether I *was* the lady of the house but was initially willing to speak to him. I did go so far as to say that I'm female and I live here, but apparently that wasn't enough. After asking twice more for the lady of the house (he was even willing to speak to the man of the house), and telling me again that he was Rob from the Dove Foundation (he didn't spell it a second time), he thanked me for my time and hung up.
A quick surf reveals that the DF assesses movies for their appropriateness to "families." They assign a "blue dove" seal of approval which movie houses and rental stores can proudly display. However, their web site is unreachable.
Or maybe, they're the other DF which was "founded in 1983 with a mission to help the discouraged, addicted and needy find hope, help, and deliverance through the word of God. The Dove Foundation is housed in the Wings of Life facility and provides over 200 ministry services per year in addition to the 1352 services held by the Wings of Life."
And the whole reason I didn't confess my role in the household was that I was afraid some fundamentalist wanted to harangue me for my thoughts about Terri Schiavo.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
signs of spring
Most of the snow has melted across the street, but parts of my yard still have a foot of the stuff. A quick glance out the back window reveals:
- Snow islands in the woods, interspersed with actual bare ground.
- Nuthatches congregating in a neighbor's tree. The lower branches were stripped of their berries earlier this winter (hungry deer), but the birds have discovered leftovers higher up.
- The first cardinal of spring.
- And finally, a snow drop. I think there are more to come, when more snow melts, but for now, spring has officially started.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
further proof...
that you should always write or translate the wine label before consuming the contents of the bottle.
Friday night, we shared a bottle of Riesling with friends, except it was a Croatian bottle and it was spelled Rizling. Here's the description:
Friday night, we shared a bottle of Riesling with friends, except it was a Croatian bottle and it was spelled Rizling. Here's the description:
A qualiti dry wine with a very characteristic sort aroma and a very nice greenishyellow coulour. The harmony of it's components claici for the best dishes made of white meat. It gives a well expression of the process of getting old in the bottle.
We were so charmed that we sneaked the (empty) bottle out of the restaurant and brought it home with us.
Friday, March 25, 2005
spring madness
The snow was getting a little dingy, and so I was glad to see it all freshened up the other day. No harm done -- roads were fine, but drivers, even after a winter of snow, were timid and moved slowly on their way to work. As the winter progresses, I feel the increasing need to stuff my cheery snow attitude. People can no longer see the beauty and just grumble each time a flake threatens to drop. And yet, lying in bed yesterday morning while the sun started to come up and the trees were fluffy white and the flakes were coming down -- and I was warm and comfortable and treated to one of the best shows in nature -- it's hard to be grouchy on a day that starts so well.
Yesterday at work, we got into a discussion about transitive and intransitive verbs. Of course, it was the non-native English speaker who understood the concept and the two of us got to explain it to a native English speaker, mostly through example. ("Ok, Eric, I've just volunteered you for a new task.") This somehow led to a quick talk about verbing nouns and nouning verbs (for a quick example, try mixing up the words affect and effect, at least in their most common uses).
And then, on the way home, I popped the sunroof to get some fresh air into the car. OK, it's been kind of cold this winter -- the temps were only in the low thirties, but it felt warm to me!
Interesting developments at work. When I was hired, it was for a full-time position, but I work, officially at least, only 60%. We've hired another person about half time, and I'm nominally project leader. Then we set some aggressive goals for this release, and then my boss came up with another important and aggressive goal for this quarter. (I've been managing the tasks going into that goal, but my boss has been helping a lot.)
Somewhere in there was the idea that I'd manage my co-worker. And oh, by the way, we got a consulting job that requires us to hire a contract writer, we've just opened a req for another full-time writer, and we'll need another contractor fairly soon. And I'm on the hook to write a short book (with contributions from others) in an unfamiliar and unstable tool and QA the tool while I'm at it (there go those intransitive nouned verbs again). At some point, I realized I couldn't do it. My coworker might like being left alone, but I'm not being attentive enough, even to one person. So I said I couldn't manage, and... it was ok.
We seem to have a good solution -- our QA manager has managed doc groups in the past, she's wonderful, and she seems to know her limitations and her areas of expertise. So the doc group has (or is about to have -- these things are very mysterious) a new manager, and somehow I get to have as much or as little leadership responsibility as I can take on. And my new manager is already moving barriers out of the way, but I still get to work closely with my old boss -- the vp of engineering.
Sometimes I feel like Ginger Rogers (who could dance just as well as Fred Astaire but did it backwards and in high heels), but then again, I like that kind of job. Whoopee!
Not sure if I've mentioned this, but I have another tiny, almost unpaid job -- I'm trustee of a piece of family property. It's been requiring a lot of attention of late -- our tenants have rightly had some needs and getting things ready for the tax people has been a bit consuming. But things seem to be straightening out there for now, and for the last few days, all has been quiet on that end. My brother and I coordinate, mostly in email, but I'm state-side, so can often get more done. But it's good to have a partner in this effort.
And finally, there was a package yesterday containing a copy of the book I cowrote, but this time in Chinese. It might not have been a huge seller here, but I'm intrigued that there's interest in two countries where the software industry is starting to boom (China and Russia).
Yesterday at work, we got into a discussion about transitive and intransitive verbs. Of course, it was the non-native English speaker who understood the concept and the two of us got to explain it to a native English speaker, mostly through example. ("Ok, Eric, I've just volunteered you for a new task.") This somehow led to a quick talk about verbing nouns and nouning verbs (for a quick example, try mixing up the words affect and effect, at least in their most common uses).
And then, on the way home, I popped the sunroof to get some fresh air into the car. OK, it's been kind of cold this winter -- the temps were only in the low thirties, but it felt warm to me!
Interesting developments at work. When I was hired, it was for a full-time position, but I work, officially at least, only 60%. We've hired another person about half time, and I'm nominally project leader. Then we set some aggressive goals for this release, and then my boss came up with another important and aggressive goal for this quarter. (I've been managing the tasks going into that goal, but my boss has been helping a lot.)
Somewhere in there was the idea that I'd manage my co-worker. And oh, by the way, we got a consulting job that requires us to hire a contract writer, we've just opened a req for another full-time writer, and we'll need another contractor fairly soon. And I'm on the hook to write a short book (with contributions from others) in an unfamiliar and unstable tool and QA the tool while I'm at it (there go those intransitive nouned verbs again). At some point, I realized I couldn't do it. My coworker might like being left alone, but I'm not being attentive enough, even to one person. So I said I couldn't manage, and... it was ok.
We seem to have a good solution -- our QA manager has managed doc groups in the past, she's wonderful, and she seems to know her limitations and her areas of expertise. So the doc group has (or is about to have -- these things are very mysterious) a new manager, and somehow I get to have as much or as little leadership responsibility as I can take on. And my new manager is already moving barriers out of the way, but I still get to work closely with my old boss -- the vp of engineering.
Sometimes I feel like Ginger Rogers (who could dance just as well as Fred Astaire but did it backwards and in high heels), but then again, I like that kind of job. Whoopee!
Not sure if I've mentioned this, but I have another tiny, almost unpaid job -- I'm trustee of a piece of family property. It's been requiring a lot of attention of late -- our tenants have rightly had some needs and getting things ready for the tax people has been a bit consuming. But things seem to be straightening out there for now, and for the last few days, all has been quiet on that end. My brother and I coordinate, mostly in email, but I'm state-side, so can often get more done. But it's good to have a partner in this effort.
And finally, there was a package yesterday containing a copy of the book I cowrote, but this time in Chinese. It might not have been a huge seller here, but I'm intrigued that there's interest in two countries where the software industry is starting to boom (China and Russia).
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
cultural adventures
Robert and I have four subscriptions to cultural events, and they all converged in the last ten or so days. So we've attended a bunch of concerts and performances recently -- from last Sunday to this past Sunday, we saw Mark Morris (dance), Chieftains (traditional Irish music), Fortinbras (a play at a local theater), and a Boston Symphony Orchestra Chamber recital. All were wonderful.
Perhaps at the Mark Morris performance, we saw an ad for Homebody/Kabul, which was playing in Boston and was about to close. I glanced at the ad, thought "I really want to see that, but we're busy, and we'll be tired, and let's not, and then I can regret it afterwards." But Robert also very much wanted to see it, and we found a way to get to it on closing weekend.
H/K is by Tony Kushner, who also wrote Angels in America. It's in part about Afghanistan, and though it was four years in the making, it premiered just after 9/11. Kushner was convinced that the subject matter would be unfamiliar and probably uninteresting, and of course his timing was so good that people flocked to it. I'll also say that it was three hours long, revised from about four, and that it was riveting and I could have seen more.
The first part, Homebody, is a monologue that lasts more than sixty minutes. At first, it seems like one of those seemingly irrelevant monologues preceding acts in Angels that is actually related to the play but takes some work to figure out. But as it goes on, you realize that it *is* the play, maybe even the whole play. The speaker is an upper-middle class, isolated and abandoned, English woman sitting in her kitchen talking about her life. Simple enough. She's on anti-depressants, as is her husband (who can't stand the sound of her voice, and she talks a lot). Her daughter doesn't have the slightest interest in her. She has friends and family, whom she gathers on occasion, but they can never wait to leave. So she lives in her head. She reads a lot. She's developed a fascination with Afghanistan and dreams of going there.
This part is packed with words, and hard, complicated words, and they come fast and furious. The context switches rapidly, from parties to the outdated guidebook she's reading, to the man who sold her the latest set of party supplies. This actress carried it off in a way I can't imagine many, if any, others doing.
And then, just as you're settling in, thinking this is the play, and what's the point (although there are a lot of points) and does this play have a climax, or is it all cerebral, and is it almost over -- wasn't it supposed to be three hours? -- just at that point, the set magically switches to ... Kabul, where the Homebody has fled.
But the Homebody isn't there. Instead, the first scene is in a hotel room with the aforementioned daughter (behind a screen) and husband (on a bed) hearing how the Homebody was ripped limb to limb when she went walking through the streets without a Burka. From this point, the husband never leaves the hotel room, but the daughter goes out searching the streets, as if she were a mother searching for her lost child. She feels in her heart that her mother is not dead, and yet every time she's close on the trail, her mother seemingly slips from her grasp. In fact, she finds people who tell her exactly what's happened to her mother, but she can never verify it. And as part of her journey, she goes back to the beginning of time to Cain's grave (who, the story goes, founded Kabul), or maybe the end of time -- the place where her mother was last seen.
The husband and daughter eventually return to England, changed and estranged from each other, and not with the Homebody but with someone else entirely. And the do-nothing husband, he who has abandoned his wife, who can't bear to be in Kabul, who has no interest in the world around him, who has rejected his child, performs a heroic act.
The play resounds on so many levels -- historical, psychological, cultural. There's a lot of talk about self and home, about finding one's home. I suspect that the play will be replayed and talked about for many years to come. And I'm so glad we saw it. I hope we'll have the opportunity to see it again.
Perhaps at the Mark Morris performance, we saw an ad for Homebody/Kabul, which was playing in Boston and was about to close. I glanced at the ad, thought "I really want to see that, but we're busy, and we'll be tired, and let's not, and then I can regret it afterwards." But Robert also very much wanted to see it, and we found a way to get to it on closing weekend.
H/K is by Tony Kushner, who also wrote Angels in America. It's in part about Afghanistan, and though it was four years in the making, it premiered just after 9/11. Kushner was convinced that the subject matter would be unfamiliar and probably uninteresting, and of course his timing was so good that people flocked to it. I'll also say that it was three hours long, revised from about four, and that it was riveting and I could have seen more.
The first part, Homebody, is a monologue that lasts more than sixty minutes. At first, it seems like one of those seemingly irrelevant monologues preceding acts in Angels that is actually related to the play but takes some work to figure out. But as it goes on, you realize that it *is* the play, maybe even the whole play. The speaker is an upper-middle class, isolated and abandoned, English woman sitting in her kitchen talking about her life. Simple enough. She's on anti-depressants, as is her husband (who can't stand the sound of her voice, and she talks a lot). Her daughter doesn't have the slightest interest in her. She has friends and family, whom she gathers on occasion, but they can never wait to leave. So she lives in her head. She reads a lot. She's developed a fascination with Afghanistan and dreams of going there.
This part is packed with words, and hard, complicated words, and they come fast and furious. The context switches rapidly, from parties to the outdated guidebook she's reading, to the man who sold her the latest set of party supplies. This actress carried it off in a way I can't imagine many, if any, others doing.
And then, just as you're settling in, thinking this is the play, and what's the point (although there are a lot of points) and does this play have a climax, or is it all cerebral, and is it almost over -- wasn't it supposed to be three hours? -- just at that point, the set magically switches to ... Kabul, where the Homebody has fled.
But the Homebody isn't there. Instead, the first scene is in a hotel room with the aforementioned daughter (behind a screen) and husband (on a bed) hearing how the Homebody was ripped limb to limb when she went walking through the streets without a Burka. From this point, the husband never leaves the hotel room, but the daughter goes out searching the streets, as if she were a mother searching for her lost child. She feels in her heart that her mother is not dead, and yet every time she's close on the trail, her mother seemingly slips from her grasp. In fact, she finds people who tell her exactly what's happened to her mother, but she can never verify it. And as part of her journey, she goes back to the beginning of time to Cain's grave (who, the story goes, founded Kabul), or maybe the end of time -- the place where her mother was last seen.
The husband and daughter eventually return to England, changed and estranged from each other, and not with the Homebody but with someone else entirely. And the do-nothing husband, he who has abandoned his wife, who can't bear to be in Kabul, who has no interest in the world around him, who has rejected his child, performs a heroic act.
The play resounds on so many levels -- historical, psychological, cultural. There's a lot of talk about self and home, about finding one's home. I suspect that the play will be replayed and talked about for many years to come. And I'm so glad we saw it. I hope we'll have the opportunity to see it again.
Friday, March 18, 2005
spring is trying to come...
I walked out of work yesterday, and it was literally the first time in months that I'd headed home in daylight. OK, admittedly, I left a little earlier than usual -- before 6 because we were going to a play -- but still. In the dead of winter, it starts to get dark before 4. And I'm waking up in brighter light, too. Cool.
Yesterday was also St. Patrick's day, a date when everyone in this area -- blacks, Jews, Italians and more -- is Irish. Many people wore green, even me (on whom it looks hideous). It was a nice change from the muddy earthtones we typically wear all winter.
However, this year, the snow drops are late. Some years, they bloom as early as late January. This year, they're still buried under the snow, with more snow predicted for Sunday, the first day of spring. I planted them to commemorate Mark's death date, so I'm more aware than I might be that they're typically in bloom on March 9.
And not one peep yet from my favorite sign of spring -- the spring peeper. These tiny creatures start making noise just as the wetlands and ponds start to melt and look to stay unfrozen. At first, they sound like they're trilling. As spring lengthens and summer starts, they (or their replacements, I'm not sure) develop deeper and deeper voices, so that over a season, they go from high soprano to deep bass. I call it a froggy singles bar -- pick me! no, pick me! hey baby, let me fertilize your eggs, and so on. Something else to look forward to.
That, and my flowering trees and bushes. The magnolia has been ready for a while -- its got big fat, fuzzy buds, just waiting for longer weather. I'll also look forward to greeting the bulb flowers, and eventually the phlox and trillium.
Yesterday was also St. Patrick's day, a date when everyone in this area -- blacks, Jews, Italians and more -- is Irish. Many people wore green, even me (on whom it looks hideous). It was a nice change from the muddy earthtones we typically wear all winter.
However, this year, the snow drops are late. Some years, they bloom as early as late January. This year, they're still buried under the snow, with more snow predicted for Sunday, the first day of spring. I planted them to commemorate Mark's death date, so I'm more aware than I might be that they're typically in bloom on March 9.
And not one peep yet from my favorite sign of spring -- the spring peeper. These tiny creatures start making noise just as the wetlands and ponds start to melt and look to stay unfrozen. At first, they sound like they're trilling. As spring lengthens and summer starts, they (or their replacements, I'm not sure) develop deeper and deeper voices, so that over a season, they go from high soprano to deep bass. I call it a froggy singles bar -- pick me! no, pick me! hey baby, let me fertilize your eggs, and so on. Something else to look forward to.
That, and my flowering trees and bushes. The magnolia has been ready for a while -- its got big fat, fuzzy buds, just waiting for longer weather. I'll also look forward to greeting the bulb flowers, and eventually the phlox and trillium.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
skinny kitty
Juliet Cat has been losing weight; she's now under six pounds. I know because I ask to have her weighed each week when she gets hydrated -- I'm still not watering her at home yet. She hasn't just "lost" weight -- she's on a downward trend, losing an ounce here and an ounce there. I go around telling my friends that she's starving to death.
I had a long talk with the technician yesterday and we talked about techniques for getting her to eat. I've bought baby food (disgusting, even to her), anchovy paste, and clam juice. None of those are big draws.
Our current plan is for me to buy a couple of tiny cans of tuna. She especially loves the juice, so perhaps she'll be extra excited about food with tuna. We've also started putting tasty treats on top of her food, which sometimes gets her to eat.
There's a fine balance here, though. Because of her disease, she's not supposed to eat a lot of protein. Much as I don't want to hasten her decline, losing weight isn't helping. We'll see what we can do.
We also had a long talk about "when it's time." The technician said that she's obviously full of life now -- she's active and curious and very bonded to us. I keep secretly hoping that we'll wake up one morning and she will have died quietly and happily in her sleep. But I've seen her get extra sick before, and I know what signs to look for. That part won't be fun, but if I do have to make a decision, I know that I'll be giving a kind gift, perhaps the kindest one possible.
I had a long talk with the technician yesterday and we talked about techniques for getting her to eat. I've bought baby food (disgusting, even to her), anchovy paste, and clam juice. None of those are big draws.
Our current plan is for me to buy a couple of tiny cans of tuna. She especially loves the juice, so perhaps she'll be extra excited about food with tuna. We've also started putting tasty treats on top of her food, which sometimes gets her to eat.
There's a fine balance here, though. Because of her disease, she's not supposed to eat a lot of protein. Much as I don't want to hasten her decline, losing weight isn't helping. We'll see what we can do.
We also had a long talk about "when it's time." The technician said that she's obviously full of life now -- she's active and curious and very bonded to us. I keep secretly hoping that we'll wake up one morning and she will have died quietly and happily in her sleep. But I've seen her get extra sick before, and I know what signs to look for. That part won't be fun, but if I do have to make a decision, I know that I'll be giving a kind gift, perhaps the kindest one possible.
Friday, March 11, 2005
life's little victories
two good things to report:
- I mentioned recently that I have a new pair of glasses. What a difference. It wasn't painful to use my old glasses -- I couldn't feel any strain -- but I was exhausted. After just a week on the new script, I have much more energy, and I actually feel rested after a night's sleep. I keep trying to remember this lesson, but I don't always catch it early.
- I decided that it's time to upgrade my cell phone. My provider does not have an "upgrade" policy -- you have the phone you have, not the phone you wish you had now. Actually, I don't want much more than I have now, but my phone is starting to fall apart. So I called and reminded the customer service representative that my two options seem to be to get a phone from them or to switch carriers. I was promptly switched to the sales department, where I was given several choices of a new phone. They're sending it out soon, and I have a new contract for the next year. Seems like a good deal to me.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Mark Bruce Stanley
July 25, 1957 -- March 9, 1995
My best friend, my soul mate, Mark, died 10 years ago today at the age of 37. He was a brilliant architect, just starting to be noticed. Because he worked for an engineering firm rather than an architectural firm, he completed four huge projects, any one of which my other architect friends would be honored to get. He did admirably on all of them and I now am the proud and careful keeper of his portfolio, one of his last gifts to me.
We knew each other for five short years, and in some senses we were married, at least some friends viewed us that way. We certainly had a til-death-do-us-part relationship, but who knew that the inevitable would intervene so quickly.
Mark was physically beautiful, and he literally turned heads as he walked down the street. He encouraged me in my work, and talked to me about his work. One of our first connections was over Edward Tufte. But our conversations ranged from Boston to childhoods to books to food to relationships and later to sickness and death. And of course we laughed a lot. He had fabulous friends and incredible experiences with them, and shared some of both with me.
To me, the most important thing about Mark was that he taught me that I am worthy of being loved. Perhaps it's surprising that after three decades, many relationships, and a marriage, I hadn't figured it out yet. But thank goodness someone was able to teach me that lesson; I will be grateful for that fundamental gift until my dying day. And perhaps all my friends should be grateful too...
And Mark was not a saint, either. He was opinionated and stubborn, and when depressed, he was a pill. He was not a "good" patient (certainly no one *said* that he was a "good" patient at his memorial service, though he was very brave) and he railed at his doctors and his caregivers and people who loved him. And yet there was a part of him that could love and that could send the message loudly enough that I could finally hear it. And there was a part of me, broken as I was, that could return the message and send it home.
While I knew him, he lived in Boston, Phoenix, LA, and finally moved back to Phoenix where his family lived. We saw more of each other than I see of some friends who live just a few miles away. I have strong memories of his healthy times, of his increasingly sicker times, and of his death.
But tonight, two stories from after his death stick out.
One of his former partners had painted an enormous portrait of him. Because it had always hung on spacious walls with tall ceilings, I never knew quite how big it was, and I asked for it after he died. After a consultation with the artist, it was decided that I should have it, and so it was professionally packed and shipped here. I came home one day and there was a huge box, almost as big as a garage door. I dragged it inside and then couldn't wait. So I opened it up and realized that inside the box were some plastic peanuts. At some point, the box, the peanuts and I ended up in the garage, and after pulling and tearing, I was up to my ankles in styrofoam. It was as if a volcano had gone off and the lava was rising. At that moment, and call me crazy but I swear to it, I heard Mark laughing loud and long. And I started laughing. And I knew he was OK and looking after me.
And a few years after that, Robert and I went to San Francisco and somehow stumbled on the brand new SF MOMA (museum of modern art). Oh my, was the building ever beautiful. I was so moved that I started to cry and I suddenly blurted out "It's like I'm feeling for two." Robert said "but you are." And it's true, and it will be true most likely forever.
My best friend, my soul mate, Mark, died 10 years ago today at the age of 37. He was a brilliant architect, just starting to be noticed. Because he worked for an engineering firm rather than an architectural firm, he completed four huge projects, any one of which my other architect friends would be honored to get. He did admirably on all of them and I now am the proud and careful keeper of his portfolio, one of his last gifts to me.
We knew each other for five short years, and in some senses we were married, at least some friends viewed us that way. We certainly had a til-death-do-us-part relationship, but who knew that the inevitable would intervene so quickly.
Mark was physically beautiful, and he literally turned heads as he walked down the street. He encouraged me in my work, and talked to me about his work. One of our first connections was over Edward Tufte. But our conversations ranged from Boston to childhoods to books to food to relationships and later to sickness and death. And of course we laughed a lot. He had fabulous friends and incredible experiences with them, and shared some of both with me.
To me, the most important thing about Mark was that he taught me that I am worthy of being loved. Perhaps it's surprising that after three decades, many relationships, and a marriage, I hadn't figured it out yet. But thank goodness someone was able to teach me that lesson; I will be grateful for that fundamental gift until my dying day. And perhaps all my friends should be grateful too...
And Mark was not a saint, either. He was opinionated and stubborn, and when depressed, he was a pill. He was not a "good" patient (certainly no one *said* that he was a "good" patient at his memorial service, though he was very brave) and he railed at his doctors and his caregivers and people who loved him. And yet there was a part of him that could love and that could send the message loudly enough that I could finally hear it. And there was a part of me, broken as I was, that could return the message and send it home.
While I knew him, he lived in Boston, Phoenix, LA, and finally moved back to Phoenix where his family lived. We saw more of each other than I see of some friends who live just a few miles away. I have strong memories of his healthy times, of his increasingly sicker times, and of his death.
But tonight, two stories from after his death stick out.
One of his former partners had painted an enormous portrait of him. Because it had always hung on spacious walls with tall ceilings, I never knew quite how big it was, and I asked for it after he died. After a consultation with the artist, it was decided that I should have it, and so it was professionally packed and shipped here. I came home one day and there was a huge box, almost as big as a garage door. I dragged it inside and then couldn't wait. So I opened it up and realized that inside the box were some plastic peanuts. At some point, the box, the peanuts and I ended up in the garage, and after pulling and tearing, I was up to my ankles in styrofoam. It was as if a volcano had gone off and the lava was rising. At that moment, and call me crazy but I swear to it, I heard Mark laughing loud and long. And I started laughing. And I knew he was OK and looking after me.
And a few years after that, Robert and I went to San Francisco and somehow stumbled on the brand new SF MOMA (museum of modern art). Oh my, was the building ever beautiful. I was so moved that I started to cry and I suddenly blurted out "It's like I'm feeling for two." Robert said "but you are." And it's true, and it will be true most likely forever.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
the sun shining through the clouds
And in amongst all the hard stuff have been some delights.
I started attending a macrobiotic cooking class on Friday; it'll run for a few weeks. I find the food to be bland but at the same time fresh and interesting. Good, but not a steady diet. I'm taking the class because it's hard to find cooking classes which are about healthful cooking and which are vegetarian.
This class has a lot off "woo woo" in it -- things like it's ok to eat onions and scallions, but garlic makes people angry and you should avoid it, unless you're just using it for a little flavor. Things like if you're really sick, you should cook over gas because it's more natural, but if you're relatively healthy, it's ok to cook over electric heat, especially if your choices are limited.
I figure that in my big mix-and-match lifestyle, I can take the parts that work for me and disregard the rest. I've assured Robert that at this point, I can't envision myself totally adopting the macrobiotic lifestyle, and he reassures me (earning even more points than he already had) that he'd still love me if I did. I do realize, though, that when I'm sick, I tend to veer towards this style of eating quite naturally.
But aside from the two-part approach -- (1) learning to cook interesting food and (2) eating it -- there's another huge benefit to the class. After one class, I'm incredibly drawn to the teacher. She's a middle-aged Russian immigrant and former computer programmer. And she radiates such unbounded amounts of love and compassion. She reminds me a bit of my yoga teacher, Phil. The class should be interesting.
--------
On Friday, we attended a local theater to see a piece I'd already seen twice before -- Falsettos by William Finn. It's about a guy who leaves his wife for a man, the wife marries the husband's shrink, the man and his lover break up and get back together again, and the original couple's son is confused and approaching puberty. Oh, and the lover ends up getting sick and dying (part of the play is set in 1981, the first year AIDS was discussed in the New York Times). The characters play out as a little cartoony, but the material is deep and complex and the language is sublime. And oh, it's a musical with really difficult-sounding parts; in fact, it's "sung through," and there are few, if any, spoken words.
On the one hand, I wanted to support any local theater performing this piece; on the other, I was concerned about whether they'd pull it off. And they did, admirably. I was once again blown away. It was funny and sad in all the right spots. Bravo!
(We went with two friends, brought Robert's car, seated him on the outside aisle, and told him to just leave if he needed to. But he was fine, thankfully.)
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And last night, with the same friends, we attended another local institution to hear a small orchestra perform a "night at pops" (a la Boston Pops). Again, I was wary. Some of the pieces sounded like they were a little too popular -- they've been played badly before, and there was nothing stopping them from same this time. That, and though I have unending tolerance for enthusiastic but amateur theater performances, I have little patience for badly played music. And I've had bad luck with "community orchestras" before -- the obvious joy does not overcome lack of talent. In recent years, I've pretty much confined my attendance at live classical (and semi-classical) music events to professional venues.
Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised. The conductor is also something like "principal guest conductor of the Boston Pops," and he runs a tight ship -- the orchestra was coordinated, in tune, and played well. The conductor joked around with the audience. In fact, he stopped the first piece (Pomp and Circumstance -- see what I mean?), told us we were being way too polite, and encouraged us to talk amongst ourselves until the music drowned us out. That was hard! But it was fun, too.
The featured guests are a jazz ensemble from the "real" pops, and they were a lot of fun. They played their own set, then joined in on selections from West Side Story. And of course, they took solos on Bernstein's work, making those old familiar chestnuts that much more alive.
Great evening. The organization -- Indian Hill Music -- is way out in the 'burbs, but the auditorium was packed. And deservedly so. I think we'll be back.
I started attending a macrobiotic cooking class on Friday; it'll run for a few weeks. I find the food to be bland but at the same time fresh and interesting. Good, but not a steady diet. I'm taking the class because it's hard to find cooking classes which are about healthful cooking and which are vegetarian.
This class has a lot off "woo woo" in it -- things like it's ok to eat onions and scallions, but garlic makes people angry and you should avoid it, unless you're just using it for a little flavor. Things like if you're really sick, you should cook over gas because it's more natural, but if you're relatively healthy, it's ok to cook over electric heat, especially if your choices are limited.
I figure that in my big mix-and-match lifestyle, I can take the parts that work for me and disregard the rest. I've assured Robert that at this point, I can't envision myself totally adopting the macrobiotic lifestyle, and he reassures me (earning even more points than he already had) that he'd still love me if I did. I do realize, though, that when I'm sick, I tend to veer towards this style of eating quite naturally.
But aside from the two-part approach -- (1) learning to cook interesting food and (2) eating it -- there's another huge benefit to the class. After one class, I'm incredibly drawn to the teacher. She's a middle-aged Russian immigrant and former computer programmer. And she radiates such unbounded amounts of love and compassion. She reminds me a bit of my yoga teacher, Phil. The class should be interesting.
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On Friday, we attended a local theater to see a piece I'd already seen twice before -- Falsettos by William Finn. It's about a guy who leaves his wife for a man, the wife marries the husband's shrink, the man and his lover break up and get back together again, and the original couple's son is confused and approaching puberty. Oh, and the lover ends up getting sick and dying (part of the play is set in 1981, the first year AIDS was discussed in the New York Times). The characters play out as a little cartoony, but the material is deep and complex and the language is sublime. And oh, it's a musical with really difficult-sounding parts; in fact, it's "sung through," and there are few, if any, spoken words.
On the one hand, I wanted to support any local theater performing this piece; on the other, I was concerned about whether they'd pull it off. And they did, admirably. I was once again blown away. It was funny and sad in all the right spots. Bravo!
(We went with two friends, brought Robert's car, seated him on the outside aisle, and told him to just leave if he needed to. But he was fine, thankfully.)
--------
And last night, with the same friends, we attended another local institution to hear a small orchestra perform a "night at pops" (a la Boston Pops). Again, I was wary. Some of the pieces sounded like they were a little too popular -- they've been played badly before, and there was nothing stopping them from same this time. That, and though I have unending tolerance for enthusiastic but amateur theater performances, I have little patience for badly played music. And I've had bad luck with "community orchestras" before -- the obvious joy does not overcome lack of talent. In recent years, I've pretty much confined my attendance at live classical (and semi-classical) music events to professional venues.
Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised. The conductor is also something like "principal guest conductor of the Boston Pops," and he runs a tight ship -- the orchestra was coordinated, in tune, and played well. The conductor joked around with the audience. In fact, he stopped the first piece (Pomp and Circumstance -- see what I mean?), told us we were being way too polite, and encouraged us to talk amongst ourselves until the music drowned us out. That was hard! But it was fun, too.
The featured guests are a jazz ensemble from the "real" pops, and they were a lot of fun. They played their own set, then joined in on selections from West Side Story. And of course, they took solos on Bernstein's work, making those old familiar chestnuts that much more alive.
Great evening. The organization -- Indian Hill Music -- is way out in the 'burbs, but the auditorium was packed. And deservedly so. I think we'll be back.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
big week, at least emotionally
Yes, we're back in the states. And no, I haven't written much. Briefly, it wasn't hard coming back, though I acclimated a little more to the warmth while away than I realized, so I keep feeling knocked upside the head by being cold. Well, it's winter, and it is cold! Also, it's snowed several times since we returned; it's been a very white winter.
Some recent events:
. Jef Raskin died. This was reported all over the press -- Google, in fact, found hundreds of articles about it, and there was a nice obituary in the Times (New York) and the Globe (Boston). He was credited with being the "father of the Macintosh." He was also married to the daughter of my mother's first cousin, so I met him a few times, both socially and professionally, because he was interested in human factors and I sometimes hung out with that crowd. He was a sweet guy, very bright, fun and interesting, and only 61 when he died of pancreatic cancer.
. One of my mother's best friends from college has been diagnosed with an aggressive recurrence of cancer that he thought he'd beaten. Another sweet and very accomplished guy. My mother's lost a lot of friends in the last few years (after leading many charmed decades with few losses). I know this one will be hard.
. My stepfather has been in the hospital with pneumonia. While I will confess that I am neither cheering nor crying, it has been hard on my mother, and it's also spurred her to start making funeral arrangements, both for her and for him. He's been disabled since 1983, more than half their marriage, and in fairly bad shape for several years now. I realize that if this latest bout doesn't kill him, at the very least, it will weaken him further.
. Robert's been sick this week. I've never felt that it was life threatening, but it did seem to cause a near total shut down. Low energy, headaches, icky symptoms... and he's not used to being sick, so I think it was a surprise for him too. He seems to be on the mend. At least he has more energy, but he's not completely back to himself yet. I'm pleased at the general trend, though.
. And you may laugh, but the next part is hard because of what's happened in the past, mainly abuse (humiliating but not painful) around my face. I had to get my eyes examined this week because (a) my prescription has changed and (b) I smooshed my glasses in Costa Rica. So I went to the eye doctor. The little side benefit is that I got a cool new pair of glasses, and I realize that it was becoming physically painful and exhausting to read. Now it's noticeably not painful to read.
. And in the same week, I chipped a tooth, and the dentist felt that he needed to shore it up. So yesterday, I had a traumatic session in the dentist's chair. He's very sweet and very patient, which is good, because it's so hard to be there. Although I'm sure that I came across as a big ol' scaredy cat, I felt very brave for even admitting that the piece had come off my tooth in the first place.
With this list, no wonder I'm not that interested in doing much. Perhaps tomorrow I'll feel more inspired.
Some recent events:
. Jef Raskin died. This was reported all over the press -- Google, in fact, found hundreds of articles about it, and there was a nice obituary in the Times (New York) and the Globe (Boston). He was credited with being the "father of the Macintosh." He was also married to the daughter of my mother's first cousin, so I met him a few times, both socially and professionally, because he was interested in human factors and I sometimes hung out with that crowd. He was a sweet guy, very bright, fun and interesting, and only 61 when he died of pancreatic cancer.
. One of my mother's best friends from college has been diagnosed with an aggressive recurrence of cancer that he thought he'd beaten. Another sweet and very accomplished guy. My mother's lost a lot of friends in the last few years (after leading many charmed decades with few losses). I know this one will be hard.
. My stepfather has been in the hospital with pneumonia. While I will confess that I am neither cheering nor crying, it has been hard on my mother, and it's also spurred her to start making funeral arrangements, both for her and for him. He's been disabled since 1983, more than half their marriage, and in fairly bad shape for several years now. I realize that if this latest bout doesn't kill him, at the very least, it will weaken him further.
. Robert's been sick this week. I've never felt that it was life threatening, but it did seem to cause a near total shut down. Low energy, headaches, icky symptoms... and he's not used to being sick, so I think it was a surprise for him too. He seems to be on the mend. At least he has more energy, but he's not completely back to himself yet. I'm pleased at the general trend, though.
. And you may laugh, but the next part is hard because of what's happened in the past, mainly abuse (humiliating but not painful) around my face. I had to get my eyes examined this week because (a) my prescription has changed and (b) I smooshed my glasses in Costa Rica. So I went to the eye doctor. The little side benefit is that I got a cool new pair of glasses, and I realize that it was becoming physically painful and exhausting to read. Now it's noticeably not painful to read.
. And in the same week, I chipped a tooth, and the dentist felt that he needed to shore it up. So yesterday, I had a traumatic session in the dentist's chair. He's very sweet and very patient, which is good, because it's so hard to be there. Although I'm sure that I came across as a big ol' scaredy cat, I felt very brave for even admitting that the piece had come off my tooth in the first place.
With this list, no wonder I'm not that interested in doing much. Perhaps tomorrow I'll feel more inspired.
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