Big Bend ~ December 28 ~ Sick

One of the worse things that can happen on vacation has happened. I got home last night feeling exhausted (to be expected) and chilled (not quite expected). I took my temperature and found I was running fever. I felt a little sick to my stomach, too. That resolved into hunger at one point, so I ate some bread and cheese. That turned out to be a mistake. I was fevered and nauseated all night and most of today. I’m mostly glad it didn’t hit me on the Ward Spring trail. I only met two people coming back ans I was headed out, and no one on my way back.

I didn’t even make it to the end, to the spring. I’d thought it was just my usual hard time with the thinner air, and the fact that I’m really not very in shape. I’d climbed down and back out of one wash and almost fallen asleep when I stopped to rest. When I saw the next downhill stretch, the tall cottonwood trees around the spring already in sight, I knew I just couldn’t do it. I’d already frightened myself by the nearly drowsing off.

It’s a real danger, hiking by myself. If I’d slept until sundown somehow, I’d have probably still found my way back to the car, since I had a flashlight and the Garmin. But I’m glad I didn’t have to find out, and I’m REALLY glad I didn’t start throwing up out in the Chisos foothills. The ravens perched nearby must have known something, but I disappointed them.

Tired as I was, I didn’t want to quit after Ward Spring. I drove up into the Basin and walked the Window View trail. That one is a sidewalk, pretty much, and I’d have to be pretty badly off to not be able to manage it. Then I stopped at Terlingua Ghost Town, but the inverse sunset on the Chisos wasn’t very dramatic and the porch of the store was pretty crowded. I saw a man in a number 8 Manning Saints jersey, and thought about striking up conversation, but I didn’t feel like it. I came here to be alone, after all. And when I got home, I found myself sick.

So today I’ve been all alone indeed, shut up in my room, away from the mountains and the desert I came here for. And even if I feel well tomorrow, I won’t be doing any more hiking. I should be able to drive and walk a little, which will be nice, but I’m sad to have missed so much of my time here.

I am, at least, feeling mostly better now. I walked around Lajitas some while the sun set. I’ll probably eat some bread and honey in a bit, if I keep feeling hungry. Here’s hoping that doesn’t ruin tonight!

Big Bend ~ December 27 ~ First Day in the Park

I think I’ve done more driving than walking today. I’m definitely a flatlander from below sea level now. A two-mile hike to Burro Spring is worlds away from my two-mile walk to and from work. The sun and breeze and thin air make me so sleepy so fast! I did finally catch a second wind on my way back, after a sit and a drink.

I had just started thinking about how ridiculously soft I am when I heard children’s voices and was passed on the trail by three Suburbans’ worth of people of all ages. ( I saw the trucks when I got back to my car.) One of them, a beautifully-coiffed older woman in pristine and expensive hiking gear asked me with a laugh if it “was worth it?” I didn’t like to say that if she was already tired, after less than half a mile, then probably not. Her family probably wouldn’t have liked me much for that.

After my late start and slow progress, I’m thinking I won’t make it to all three hikes today. Maybe I’ll save the Blue Creek fragment I had planned for some time when I’ve either planned better, or might have more than one vehicle, so I can start in the Basin and go downhill the whole way. That leaves Ward Spring, which has lighter traffic, and which I wanted to do last year, but never managed. It’s almost 1:30pm. I’d better get started if I want to get through the 3.6 mile round trip before dark.

Big Bend ~ December 26 ~ Of Morning Frost and Drowsy Owls

Today’s odyssey began at roughly 6:30am just outside of La Grange, Texas. I packed up my belongings, grabbed the muffins and juice my hosts at the Big Tin Flag bed and breakfast had provided for my dine-while-dashing convenience, and stumbled out the door into the dim pre-dawn light to find my car sparkling with frost. I loaded my bags and breakfast, turned on the defroster, pulled out an old gift card, and scraped away as a dim avian shadow, high in a leafless tree, silhouetted against the brightening horizon, hooted at me sleepily.

With visibility adequately improved, I drove to my grandmother's to launch a brief hunt for my missing sunglasses. An abbreviated search in the dark front rooms revealed nothing, and I didn’t want to turn on lights or hunt in earnest, because two of my cousins were crashed on couches within my search perimeter. I also just didn’t have much time. I dug through the suitcase I stowed last night in my sister’s Tahoe, full of the gear I wouldn’t need for Big Bend, until I came up with my old French Market Jackie O shades. Non-optimal for rugged terrain, but better than nothing. Then I hit the road for real. (I later found the missing shades on the floorboards in front of my passenger seat. Mystery solved.)

I’d forgotten about that time of day, early early, before the sun is quite awake, where every passing instant brings a change to the light, and the world looks completely different after a blink. The dry tawny fields were silver with frost, and as I crossed the Colorado, I caught a glimpse of the pearly wreaths of mist rising from its still-seeming waters. I’ve got my favorite book of all time, Jane Eyre, on my iPod now, and the miles slid by as I listened, driving through fields, past farms, churches, agricultural equipment repair shops, in the strengthening day, racing the sun as it rose.

I made excellent time, in spite of stops in Austin for groceries, Fredericksburg for a snack, and a handful of other towns along Interstates and lesser highways for gas, breaks, and additional supplies, shifting from westward to southward to westward again across the biggest state in the lower forty-eight. (It helps that the speed limit on I-10 is 80 miles per hour out west.) The road seemed to jump over the rolling hills like a kitten running through tall grass, peak around the shoulders of more rugged heights, curve in a long stretch playing with the horizon like a narrow string, then finally sprawl tired and flat for long stretches.

Around 4:15pm, during the golden hour, when the sun droops gracefully toward setting, my heart jumped to my throat as I topped a rise and recognized the Chisos Mountains and Casa Grande Peak ahead. I have so many homes these days, but the few weeks I’ve spent in the park have been so unbelievably rich that this particular horizon has been etched into my heart like the profile of an old love.

I pulled up to my hotel, cut my engine, and opened my car door to absolute silence. No traffic on the nearby roads, no people walking the surrounding gravel paths, no birdsong and not a breath of air to rustle the dry grasses. Just utter stillness for several heartbeats, until I climbed out, swung my door shut, and headed for check in. I’d found my room and was starting to unload my bags when the soft call of an early owl drifted from a nearby grove of scrub, like an echo of the cold central Texas morning I left behind.

I went for a walk after sunset, and remembered how the deepening of twilight mirrors the early dawn in that every blink brings new stars to view. I sprawled out on a park bench on a putting green in the middle of the Chihuahuan desert with the blossoming night all to myself, ignoring the cold for as long as I could just for the joy of seeing six of the seven Pleiades. I’ve been told the seventh sister just cannot be seen by the naked eye these days, but I may try again tomorrow when I’m better prepared to outlast the chill of desert night.

Now I’ve unpacked and am enjoying one of my favorite indulgences: Summer sausage and cream cheese on sesame rice crackers and a glass of sweet red wine. I’m also enjoying the broken and sporadic free wi-fi here in the Badlands portion of the Lajitas Resort. On the agenda for tomorrow: Burro Spring, Ward Spring, and the Blue Creek trail to Cedar Spring. A few relatively short hikes (one to two miles one way) to get me warmed up and to figure out just what I’ll be capable of this year.

On the agenda for tonight, coming soon: sleep.

New York, New York ~ The Voyage Home

Sitting in La Guardia now. Mental note to self. Driver’s license is not enough to self-check in at a Delta Kiosk. My flight is delayed, and won’t take off until about 1pm instead of noon. But that’s okay. It just shortens my layover in Atlanta, without making it so brief as to be worrisome. It’s funny, I’ve been out of the loop a little, traveling and playing tourist. Getting back to the airport and news on television always seems to be a shock. I remember getting into the Spokane airport after a week in Glacier and finding out that back in Houston, Ken Lay had died. Right now I’m hearing that George Steinbrenner is dead. Wow. And tonight is the MLB All Star game. Very sad.

But it looks like they’re working to cap the well in the Gulf, and there’s some hope that this new plan could get things contained quicker than waiting for the relief wells. Fingers crossed!

I’m a little confused, because there’s information for a delayed flight to Atlanta up on the screen, but it’s a different number than my flight. The delay keeps moving later and later, so I should probably check this out.

Well, it’s not quite 1:30pm, and my flight through Atlanta has been cancelled altogether. There’s a flight direct to New Orleans leaving at 8:40ish PM, though, and I’m now booked on that. Here’s hoping that the weather has cleared and that everything goes well. It gets me home pretty late (11 something pm?) but it gets me home tonight. Work tomorrow is going to be decidedly unfun.

Of course, La Guardia is a zoo, because my flight isn’t the only one that’s been cancelled. A lot of people have no option but to go home and try again tomorrow. So I’m not so bad off. The point at which I was connected to a representative, and couldn’t hear her and asked her to speak up, and got hung up on, and then called back and was told that the call volume was so heavy that no calls were being taken, THAT was a pretty low point. I’m feeling much better now.

But it really just means that I have a whole day to sit in the airport and organize my photos and proofread my journals and meditate upon a very fun trip. I saw everything I really wanted to see, while leaving enough unseen for another trip some day. And exciting as it all was, I have to agree with the sentiments of the friends I made on my flight over. New Orleans is MUCH more fun! Definitely glad to visit Manhattan and live in NOLA! Love you, my city! Coming home soon!

New York, New York ~ Day 4, July 12

The last days of a vacation like this always do seem to be like a test of will between me and my feet. My feet have hurt so much, but I’ve still walked as much as I’ve subwayed. There’s just too much to see to spend all my time underground. But I really appreciate the subway. I navigated it more today than any of the days before.

First, I took it down to Rector Street stop to see Trinity Church. I’ve been reading Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles, and I believe it appears in the fifth book, which I finished last night. I’ve always enjoyed it when my travels interweave themselves with literature. I read The Da Vinci Code on the way to Paris and Angels and Demons on the way to Rome. I hadn’t known that Memnoch the Devil was set partly in New York, but it’s an apt coincidence, and since the church was said to be at the foot of Wall Street, and I wanted to look around down there anyhow, Trinity made a nice focal point for that wandering. When I got there, it was additionally AWESOME to find out that it was the resting place of Alexander Hamilton. How cool is that? I did not know!

It was a beautiful, ornate Episcopal church, and it seemed fitting to offer a prayer there for the souls that passed and the families bereft through the destruction of the World Trade Center towers, which was where I was headed next.

There’s not a lot to see at the site of the towers themselves right now. It’s off behind fencing and banners because of the extensive ongoing construction, but it does make an impression to see nothing but cranes rising into the sky, so empty compared to the rest of the city. There’s a memorial and a preview for the planned rebuilding set up in nearby offices. The weeping of people around me in these rooms as much as the exhibits themselves were sobering and moving. There are things I will always remember, as those before me remember hearing about the death of John F. Kennedy. I will always remember the Challenger and the shuttle Columbia, and I will always remember watching the towers fall. I couldn’t stay for long. I didn’t want to cry. I cry enough as it is. But it was important to me to go, and I’m glad I went. I will come back when the permanent memorial is finished, and pay my tribute there.

After that I had just enough time to catch the subway back up to Times Square and meet some friends at a really great little Italian restaurant called Sofia’s, a block off of Broadway. The food was wonderful, the restaurant virtually empty, and it was great to catch up with Jeremy and Cindy. (They’re doing well and staying busy and return the hellos everyone sent through me.) After lunch, they joined me in my wanderings to FAO Schwarz, Max Brenner’s for chocolate, eaten on a park bench in Union Square, the Strand bookshop, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and finally Lombardi’s and Ferrara’s in Little Italy for pizza and cannoli, respectively. They walked me to the Bowery subway stop before heading back to their car after a very fun and busy day.

But it wasn’t over yet. My friend Jayna, from New Orleans, was singing at a bar in Brooklyn, at the foot of the Bridge, so I took the subway over to see her. I’d hoped to walk the Brooklyn Bridge, but my feet were just too sore. The 68 Jay Street bar is a wonderful little community place. The bar tenders knew everyone there, and everyone there knew each other. One patron’s dog wandered from person to person for attention, and the little toddler daughter of another climbed in and out of laps and arms all around.

And they all LOVED Jayna and her band. One bartender, who seemed like he might also be the owner, took a break during one song to dance with a lady there, another man began singing along and was cheered up to the microphone when Jayna invited him to join her. It was pretty much the ideal Monday happy hour. I could feel the hurry and go of the city draining from me in the relaxed and friendly atmosphere, even before I started my slow way through a glass of sangria. I headed back to Manhattan early so I could get most of my packing out of the way, but it was really the perfect end to my trip, quiet and relaxing. Tomorrow is all about the journey home. Tonight, with my packing done, I will rest.

New York, New York ~ Day 3, July 11

Today I thought I’d jaunt across Central Park and finish the Metropolitan Museum of Art, then come back and do the Natural History Museum. Well, I set off across the park, munching on some rolls I’d bought for breakfast and sipping a tasty, low calorie, caffeinated beverage. I walked for about the time it should take to cross, and I saw buildings up above. I came up out of the park and found myself… on West Central Park Drive. Somehow I’d looped around and ended up about seven blocks south of where I’d started, sweatier and dustier, and ready to just forget the art museum all together. So I went to the Natural Science Museum. It’s on the west side.

And I actually saw ALL of the regular exhibits and two special exhibits!. I didn’t end up reading many plaques or looking at everything in detail, of course, but I did scan a lot, and I looked more intently at things that interested me. I was excited about the Lizards, Snakes Alive exhibit, because I hoped it would be interactive and informative, but it ended up being a zoo reptile house with some pretty poor habitats, so that was disappointing. I felt especially bad for the huge python who had nothing but a ten foot by ten foot concrete floor to curl up on, and seemed to be trying to sleep his way through the entire ordeal. I can’t blame him. I intend to write a disappointed letter. I’m not much of an activist for any cause, but we can and should do better.

Other halls were much more interesting, though the taxidermy animals are always a little sad to see. I enjoyed the halls of indigenous artifacts much more, especially the displays showing art, clothing, and tools of the Tlingit and Haida of Souteast Alaska. After my cruise there, I’ve felt a nostalgia for the huge trees of the temperate rainforest and the bold native iconography of eagles, ravens, bears, beavers, and whales. The halls of fossilized skeletons of dinosaurs and prehistoric mammals and such were fascinating as well. I took photos of a lot of things from reading Jean M. Auel novels. I’ll have a much better frame of reference now for some things I was having trouble picturing from the textual descriptions. Still, it wasn’t as awe-inspiring as the art museum, to be honest.

In spite of my poor feet, I tried again to walk across the park and finish seeing the Met. I stuck to a cross street this time, and it worked. I spent the two and a half hours from arrival to museum closing finishing out my photos of things I saw yesterday and seeing a few more new things. I’m glad I managed it. Then, to get back to my hotel on the West Side… I took a cab. I definitely needed a break. I soaked my feet in hot water and sorted through my photos some. I was debating a quiet dinner close to home, but after a good hour’s rest I felt much better, and decided to go find Café Lalo, recommended by a friend.

After a first glance at the menu, I was disappointed. The food seemed lighter and healthier than the substantial portion of beef I’d be hoping for. That’s how I get when I’m tired. But then I found the rather mouth-watering cheese menu. I ended up with a dinner of toasted bread with herbs, three delicious cheeses, and a tiny cordial-sized serving of cranberry wine. It was the sort of place your expected to take your time, so I read and looked out the window and ate my cheese and drank my wine and had one of the most relaxing and delicious dinners that I’ve ever had this side of the Pond.

I decided I was rested enough to see if Midsummer Night Swing was on at Lincoln Center, but apparently Sunday night is not a dancing night. Still, I got to see Lincoln Center at twilight. One of the halls has paintings on the Mezzanine level by Chagall, the same artist who did the new rotunda mural in the Opera Garnier. It was lovely, and I wished a little that I’d arranged to see a show, but, really, I could sit inside a concert hall for three hours and see one thing, or I could walk around a museum or the city streets and see hundreds of things. I think I spent my time wisely.

After Lincoln Center, I went to Times Square. For the first time I saw the New York I’d anticipated with just a little bit of fear. People, lights, ads, cars, sound everywhere, waves and waves of it all. I had to laugh, there were signs that said “Subway” and I couldn’t see why they needed a sandwich shop on every corner, until I realized they were actually entrances to… the subway! I went by Birdland see if I could have a drink there. But there was a show going on, and I couldn’t go in, though I could hear a little from the vestibule, and it was wonderful. At least I tried, and got a tiny listen.

But mostly today was the day of friendly New Yorkers. I didn’t really expect anyone to be rude, but I didn’t expect so many people to be friendly! One older man I passed on my way to Birdland saw my red hair and said, “You’re just like orphan Annie! Hah! You’re beautiful!” Two people spontaneously complimented my hat, one of them a docent in the art museum who also very patiently gave me directions twice when I got lost trying to exit the museum at closing and ended up back in her hall, and the other a young man at a snack cart near my hotel when I stopped to see if he had any bottled sodas. And in the subway outside Times Square, an older gentleman joked about cooking an egg on the sidewalk down in the stifling tunnels, which started a conversation about Houston where he’d worked once and New Orleans where I have a friend who once did cook an egg on a black car hood.

The subway tunnels were warm, for sure, but about like any of the outdoors back home. I was really fortunate to miss the triple digit heat from last week. The weather has been gorgeous, and I hope it keeps up tomorrow, because I’ll be out wandering in it all day. Better get some rest now!

Remissness

Just realized I never finished posting New York trip journals, and now I have Big Bend journals on the way. Also Just realized I haven't been posting much at all.

New Year's resolution... be a better blogger.

To that end...

New York, New York ~ Day 2, July 10

I am completely exhausted. I am beyond exhausted. I am utterly spent.

Today I saw the Statue of Liberty (after a two hour wait in line to catch the ferry over), Ellis Island, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. That last is what did me in.

For one thing, the two hour wait for the ferry threw off my schedule, so my meal time was squeezed away, and I ended up subsisting on a Milky Way bar and a 20 oz Diet Coke until after 5pm, when I finally grabbed a terrible hamburger at the museum (the cafeteria at the Louvre was SO much better). So much for all the wonderful food I’d planned on enjoying today! But I found a European bakery with a pizzeria in the back just down the street from my hotel on my way home, so now I’ve got a slice of pizza with pepperoni and sausage cooling over there, and some delightful looking tiny cookies next to it, just waiting for the moment when I’m no longer too exhausted to chew.

In addition to the physical exhaustion, my brain is… absolutely full. Part of me wants to go back and spend all day in the art museum tomorrow, because my camera battery died in the hall of musical instruments. Another part of me is still just so overwhelmed by the epic scope of the art on display. Grand halls designed as courtyards to display Italian marble architectural elements. An entire medieval choir screen, from floor to vaulted ceiling, surrounded by medieval art including carved boxwood rosary beads that seem to take the question of how many angels can dance on the head of a pin as a challenge. A vast room, with one sloping wall entirely of glass and fronted with a reflecting pool, containing, among other relics, several small rooms that were part of an Egyptian temple, which you could actually walk partway into. Suits of armor for four equestrian knights, mounted on four mannequin horses, also in plate mail, with every facet covered with intaglio, and that was just the centerpiece of a network of galleries devoted to armor and arms from at least a half a dozen cultures.

The three hours I spent there weren’t nearly enough, but I’m not sure I wouldn’t need three weeks. I was awed, overwhelmed, and finally almost browbeaten by the magnificence of it all, and I think the only way I could see it adequately and maintain my sanity would be to see one exhibit at a time, and only spend four hours at a time, for as long as it took at that rate. Imagine a Faberge egg the size of the Superdome, but with the level of intricacy and detail multiplied, not just enlarged, permeating the whole. Now imagine trying to see it all. I feel almost literally stupefied, and I may leave the remainder unseen on this trip and go only to the Natural History Museum tomorrow as planned, purely out of self defense.

It’s amazing, though, how much repair work can be done by consuming the necessary calories. I didn’t really feel hungry, but after the first bite just now, I consumed that pizza pretty much involuntarily, and now I think I’ll go soak my poor feets and completely unwind. No matter what I do tomorrow, it will be another long, full day.

~~~~~~~~~

Note: Two photo albums are up at http://leberwick.smugmug.com/Travel/New-York-New-York-2010. Got pics from my travels and wanderings around town, and from the Statue of Liberty.

New York, New York ~ Day 1, Friday, July 9

Ah. Yes. Even here it’s still Friday, though only barely. And soon I’ll sleep, whether the city does or no. I brought ear plugs!

A friend once called New York City the pinnacle of civilization. Maybe he’s right. All I can say for sure right now is that Manhattan Island is the most intensely urban area I’ve ever been in, and I’ve been in Mexico City. Traffic saturation in the La Guardia airspace kept us on the ground an hour and a half in New Orleans. Think. A city so bustling that the fingers of its business extend invisibly throughout the country and perhaps the world, holding planes gently but firmly to the tarmacs in airports hundreds or thousands of miles away. Yet for all that, my luggage appeared on the conveyor only a few minutes after I got down to baggage claim, so they apparently run a tight enough ship. And I didn’t really mind the delay. After all, I’m on an adventure!

The adventure did start on the plane. I sat a seat away from a friendly woman who lives in Connecticut along with her friend who was across the aisle from her. She quickly drew me into their banter, and we chatted about what it was like to live in New Orleans. Pinnacle of civilization or not, they both agreed that New Orleans was a far superior city in terms of fun to be had. I can’t imagine they’re wrong, but then, I’m in love and biased. Because this is a cyber-age, chance meeting need not be an end as much as a beginning, and we exchanged names with the intention of becoming friends on Facebook. God bless Facebook.

A guy outside the airport offered to take me to my hotel for $49, but that seemed high, so I headed over to the bright yellow cab stand. It was the right decision. My cabbie was silent for the entire drive, but turned out to be incredibly nice when the hotel wasn’t where I expected it to be. He turned off the meter so we could go another block looking, while I called to verify the address. I’m glad that we found it within half a block. But for the half-block that I felt incredibly awkward and troublesome, he was incredibly kind.

I wish I’d asked him all the questions I was wondering. Like what, if anything, the beautiful old bridge beside the one we were on as we crossed over to the island was used for. Its stonework was heavy and ornate and it was a lovely structure, along completely different aesthetic principles than the ethereal trellis of the suspension bridge we were on. It seemed almost gothic, and certainly grand, in spite of the graffiti on its thick columns and its heavily-rusted girders.

It made me realize how much New Orleans complements or has shaped my sensibilities. In New Orleans, we would treasure this sort of bridge, and keep it maintained if we could, at least for foot traffic. Maybe they’ve done that here, though I doubt it. The lamps weren’t lit and the whole thing was in heavy shadow. But in my mind I could see horse carriages crossing a bridge like that, with lanterns swimming in murky, mysterious bay fog. And out the other window, buildings. Buildings. So many tall buildings. Until we reached the oasis of Central Park, that’s all there were… buildings. I caught myself wondering how people could live in so many buildings. But they do. We passed wrought iron railings around areas and flanking stoops while above climbed flat after flat, into the sky. Stoops that people sit on. People were sitting on a few, talking, just like in movies or on Sesame Street. I must sound like an absolute yokel. Maybe, for all my fairly adequate international travel experience and my 15 years resident in the nation’s fourth largest city, maybe I am.

And that’s the secret to why I didn’t chat with the cabbie, like I’m normally inclined to do. For a rare moment, I find myself utterly and thoroughly intimidated. It’s similar to the feeling I had at the doors of St. Peter’s in Rome, when I felt small enough to fit through the eye of a needle. But this is a crucible of a much different sort. Tomorrow I will leave this snug little hotel room I find myself in now, and I will step into whatever weekend traffic one finds on Broadway on the West Side. I expect it’s fairly epic. I will skitter like a small insect along the streets and down into the subway, probably brushing shoulders with hundreds of strangers and not making eye contact.

And for all the excitement I feel to be here, I’m afraid.

But I don’t really have time for fear. I need to sleep soon, because tomorrow is going to be a big day. I only have three days here, and spending them eating take out Chinese in a rented room and looking down on Broadway on tiptoe, peering over the window unit air conditioner because I’m too terrified to go out on the streets isn’t anywhere in the schedule.

For heaven’s sake, Laura, you’ve wandered Rome on your own. You can do this.

Remember. It’s an adventure!

The Price

I took my car in for service today, and since the service station was only a couple of blocks from the National World War II Museum and I've been meaning to go there... I went.

It seemed the fitting thing to do.

I'll have to go back, I only got through the exhibit up to the campaign to retake the Philippines, and I didn't listen to any of the two-minute personal accounts. Still, I found it incredibly moving.

In fact, I spent the entire time holding back tears.

I suppose I don't know too well the men who have touched my life personally who were in those battles. And now I never will. They've all passed on. But I saw them. In every photograph, I saw them. Most especially, I saw Popo, over and over.

My mother's father was a Czech dairy farmer in central Texas. He had two sisters who were nuns and a brother in the priesthood. His accent was sometimes so thick I had a hard time understanding him, but I remember early mornings, before sun-up, helping him in the dairy barn, and I remember riding shotgun or in the back of the pickup, checking the cows.

He died on the land he was born on, and I of course never really thought about it, but it certainly never seemed to me like he'd ever left it in his life. It was his home. Where he belonged. Then one day I saw a photo of him...

In front of the pyramids.

A friend gave me a rosary from Rome, blessed by the Pope, and mom told me that Momo had one, too, that Popo had brought back for her, when he'd been in Italy during the war.

And he came back. Thank God. Or I wouldn't be here.

But seeing the photographs of what those boys went through, seeing them glassy-eyed with exhaustion, or, almost more chilling, seeing them smiling and bright on their way to D-Day, seeing the articles they carried with them or wore, reading their stories... It brought home to me what my Popo lived through, the man who always seemed so simple. I never even thought about it, that he was in the war, until he went through a bad time, and Mom said he'd have flashbacks of the fighting. Of climbing cliffs while the enemy fought to knock him off. I remembered that again and again today, and choked on the pain I will never have to feel.

Because it's a different world now. We don't have the draft and we don't have rationing and we no longer send so many of our men off to war that we have to fill the factories with women. Men and women both can and do choose to be part of the most powerful military in our world, and the vast majority of us can leave the worry and the suffering to them and their families. I'm sure all of us know someone serving, but how real is it for so many of us? How invested are we individually in American military action overseas? How much do we sacrifice, day to day? No one asks us to cut back on our use of gasoline, drive slower to preserve the rubber in our tires, use margarine instead of butter, recycle our used cooking grease.

All that war stuff is the business of the military, and so many of us have the luxury of approving or disapproving without really being touched. With the exception of one September day almost a decade ago, war and its devastation happens... on the news far away. Not here. Not to us.

It's trite to say that freedom doesn't come free. But it's true. Some of us, like my friend Emily, have been paying a price for months, while her husband is in Korea. My friend Nuance and her family have paid an enormous price, but, thank God, not the highest one, with her brother's injury. And me? I... I pay so little. So little.

There's no moral to this story, only my own reflections. Take away from them what you will, or take nothing at all. But today, among the black and white photos and the scratchy recordings of radio broadcasts and the written remarks of those who served from the lowest to the highest ranks, I was sobered, chastened, humbled. I owe SO MUCH, and I may very well never be asked to pay anything back.

Other's have paid and continue to pay that price for me.

They have all of my gratitude and respect.

Unconditional

I've been pondering. No, it's never enough for me just to feel a feeling and leave it in peace. Sometimes I can do it for a while, but most of the time I have a... need? No... a THIRST to understand. What is it that I'm feeling, why do I feel it, what are its limits, if any? What are its depths, if I can even reach them? I dive into myself and begin to tease apart the water weeds, comb through the Lorelei's hair, insinuate fingertips into the oyster and root out the pearl. Then I can put it back and resurface and just be. The rest when the quest is complete.

My idea of unconditional love has been a bit simplistic. Not that the feeling itself isn't radiantly elegant in it's simplicity, but the words I reduced it down to in my mind were, "loving without wanting anything back." Does that seem right? It used to, to me, but now it seems... subtly wrong. To miss truth by only a slight shift. Maybe it's more loving without needing anything back? Or maybe even closer, loving without needing anything else, anything different. Even God, it's not that He doesn't *want* to be loved back. It's that not loving Him back does nothing to change His love.

So if a person loves and you don't really feel like you deserve that (and really, who of us *does* deserve it? who of us will never hurt, never disappoint, never fail in some small or large way?) but if you don't feel like you're worth that love, maybe it's tempting to think that the person doesn't really love YOU. They must really love the person they *think* you are. They don't know you, really, who you truly are, and if they did, they surely wouldn't love you. Because obviously they want something different, want something back.

Of course they *want* something back. But the full knowledge that they will never get that something isn't necessarily the cure-all you think it will be, the magical silver bullet that will kill this unwanted feeling and make the world a safer place for them in spite of themselves.

If that love is unconditional, it is what it is. No matter how you hurt, disappoint, or fail them, that doesn't stop it. Even if they can't honestly say they want nothing in return, the lack of return won't change what they feel. And if you try to prove them wrong about you, about their feelings, you can hurt them well enough without proving or changing a damn thing.

I've never been the sort to try, and I'm arrogant enough to think I deserve the best of most things, though in all honesty, I'm humbled at how many of the best things have come my way. Humbled by the people who love me deeply, even when I turned away and flew out on my own. Even when I was sure I had failed, and could only hurt and disappoint. I've never been so low that I would dispense with the people who cherished me, though sometimes I would wish some feelings for me different, for the good of the people who felt what I couldn't return.

Still, something in me always knew better than to try to change that feeling through actions of my own. I could never hurt someone any more than necessary, and I think it's the respect I tried to show and the care I felt that allows me to still be blessed with the friendship of those people today.

These are things I'm only starting to think on seriously. Maybe it would have come to my mind sooner if I'd had a child, because I'm beginning to see and feel the depths more and more when I see my Dylan friend. Those depths are glowing, and I hope I reach the light some day, feel the very utmost of all I can feel for a little someone of my own. There are other depths that are darker. But if I keep going, and keep untangling, maybe I'll find the light there, too.

This has all gotten far from the point, and it's time for bed. And for once I haven't made any more sense in my ponderings than I had when I started. Thanks for bearing with me.

Indulge! ~ The story of my first ever Mardi Gras.

The carnival crescendo has been building, it seems, since Thanksgiving. First came the lightly racing rise in pulse of the holiday season, travel, festival, wassail, and the splendid fireplace warmth of yuletide. The serene peace of the nativity and diamond stars in a blue velvet night was a breath of respite before the joyous chorus and cry, welcoming in the New Year with masquerade, champaign, and fireworks. With the air cleared, and all that out of the way, we began Carnival in earnest, excitement mounting with every play-off victory that led our New Orleans Saints to the...

SUPER BOWL OMG!!!!!

With the Vikings in town, the streets teamed with Mardi Gras purple against our black and gold, purple that quickly disappeared in the minor explosion in the French Quarter, as fans erupted shouting from every bar when we won. The pause over the next two weeks was like the still surface of a giant river, belying the roaring currents beneath. We love our Saints, and would celebrate their glory, win or lose, when they came home from Miami, but when they went all out and won, we went all out, too, and PAR-TAYed. The Quarter was packed, and even my quiet street saw it's share of revelry in the early hours.

Now, with THAT so delightfully settled, New Orleans got down to the REAL business of partying.

Mardi Gras.

I have never seen anything like this. The air is electric with the wild-running energy of our passion for life. I wandered the streets this weekend past with a friend, and was almost overwhelmed by the force of it all. I wondered how any mere Tuesday could ever compare.

Then I stepped outside today.

I have to say, one can't enjoy Mardi Gras at it's best when one is not at one's own very best. And I'm not at my best. My head has been stopped up for days and the weekend has me exhausted still. But on a day dedicated to indulgence and license, even I have done my poor best. :-)

I first celebrated Mardi Gras by sleeping until noon. That was over twelve hours of sleep, which just goes to show that my reserves are pretty low. After getting up and readying myself to face the day, I went to pick up a prescription for my sinuses from the CVS across Canal Street and caught some beads thrown from a balcony on Burgundy.

This outing could have been much more of an adventure than it was, as some of the days parades could have cut me off from that CVS completely. I was able to cross Canal right after the end of Zulu past, and just as the beginning of Rex reached Canal and Baronne. I got my medicine and skittered back across Canal, ready to put my own personal Mardi Gras plan into action.

My favorite indulgence in the city is, of course, food. To me, Mardi Gras felt like a day to dedicate to rich and delicious tastes and treat myself to some really great food. Once I slipped back up the streets of the Quarter, I wandered slowly towards a restaurant that I knew could serve me both steak and sweet potato fries, approaching this goal slowly, savoring the anticipation, whetting the appetite, and photographing the bizarre, the absurd, the beautiful around me.

I enjoyed my steak and fries slowly while reading a good book, and decided my next stop should be the new cupcake shop I'd found a few weeks ago. I made my way there slowly through the milling crowds, and met a friend on a street corner, a masked pirate, who bowed as I curtsied, and greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks and a warm embrace. This little delight made up for the fact that the cupcake shop had run out of cupcakes and closed.

My reserves of energy were getting low, and I remembered the rock-slide brownies at the Community Coffee House on my street, and the praline crunch ice cream at Matassa's, so I decided to round off my day of indulgence with some sweet treats I could take home and enjoy while indulging in some movies or a season of X-Files on my couch.

Fortunately both of those shops were open, and my sweets await me downstairs. My very first ever Mardi Gras has been SO much fun, and I hope the next one will be even better. I will wear a costume. I will enjoy the parades. I might even have a drink. I will hopefully not be sick.

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, and I have a lot to reflect on seriously this Lent. There's a noon mass at the church downtown. Tomorrow I imagine the streets will be empty and quiet, compared to today. Tonight the bars close early. Everyone will go home, and life will slip back into a comparative stillness and calm.

But there are a few hours left, my friends, so eat, drink, and be merry!

Indulge!

Hard Lessons Pondered During Morning Shower and Walk to Work

Everyone… Feel free to laugh at my naïveté. I just learned that sometimes just because someone says they really do want to be friends doesn’t mean they have the same expectations of friendship that I do. I feel kind of stupid. When I put it like that, it seems like it should be fairly obvious. I’m normally pretty astute when it comes to people, and aware of and able to negotiate of this sort of disconnect.

Generally speaking, there is a lot I will personally do to maintain a friendship. Not all friendships are effortless. People can be hard to understand or engage with and still be good people, well worth cultivating. So it isn’t always easy to foster that sort of care and loyalty. Sometimes you have to go through some rough patches, but it seems like I’ve always managed when I wanted to. And I think it’s totally worth it to not lose a friend. My friends are good people, and I hate letting good people go out of my life.

But now I’ve come up against someone that doesn’t play by the same rules I do, and the cost is finally too much. If it were the sort of friendship I’ve come to expect, due to the many wonderful people I am blessed to call my friends, I would make the effort. But this isn’t friendship on those terms. I don’t really know what it is. All I know is that I’m no longer willing to pay the price to perpetuate it, now that I know what it isn’t.

Fortunately, I have many, many people that I care for, who care for me, and between us friends means the same thing. It means a lot. I am so blessed. But I wanted to be that kind of friend for someone, and I can’t any more. I know it’s not all my fault, but it does feel like a personal failing. I love my friends. But this has to stop. I’m only hurting myself, and I’m not benefiting anyone by that.

Still… I hate that this is so quantifiable. That the cost benefits analogy is even relevant.

And I really…

… really…

hate losing a friend.

Silver Lining

I carry a bright, rainbow paneled umbrella. When the sky is gray and gloomy, I do what I can to keep the day bright. One panel is red, and one is orange. One yellow, one green, one turquoise. Blue and indigo and violet. I bought it somewhere like Walgreens, I think, so it's not like it's all that rare. But I've never seen another like mine out on the streets, and I've always thought it was a shame.

Today on my way home, through the wind and the rain, I saw three.

We'd pass each other, see, and smile. We called compliments and laughed. Finally I stood at a crossing, waiting for the light to change when a guy crossed over to stand beside me, holding the very same umbrella. We laughed and he said, "You'll never believe it, just as I saw you, this song started playing..."

He reached over and held an ear bud to my ear so I could hear.

It was Somewhere over the Rainbow

Quandry

A man I know died last week. We hadn't even known he was sick. Then the day after we found out he was in hospital with terminal liver and kidney failure, we learned he was gone. We weren't close. I didn't know him very well. But we were friends and there were certainly things I admired about him.

There were also things I didn't admire as much. Now, I know I'm not very worldly, and might not be a good judge, but it did seem to me that he drank an awful lot. During one period of his life, he lost a LOT of weight, which was something he really needed to do for his health. When I asked him how he'd done it, he laughed and said he went on a gin diet. He didn't eat much, but he sure drank his gin. I don't honestly know how much of this was joking overstatement. But now that he's gone, it's instinctive for me to think this might have played a part in his final illness, or at least to think it didn't help.

It reminds me of Daddy, who had high blood pressure for years before he was killed by a heart attack, and how his doctor warned him again and again to stop smoking. It's easy enough to say that if he'd listened, he might still be here. And part of my grieving when I lost him was sheer fury that he *didn't* listen. That he didn't give up smoking for our sake, his girls, whom he always said he'd do anything for. That he didn't do everything in his power to preserve himself for us, if not for himself.

I've come a long way from the more intense grief, though I still miss him every day. And I'm not angry anymore. At the end of the day, it's easy, *too* easy, to say, "If only...." It's glib to think we have any answers. It's presumptuous to think we know better than another how they can best live their life.

To me, smoking was irrelevant to who my father was. But I'm not a smoker myself, so I'm no judge of how hard it is to quit. To him, smoking was something he did every day, as a matter of habit, as a matter of course. Maybe it was more. Maybe it was part of his self-image, a lifestyle choice made glamorous in his youth by people on television, on stage, on the big screen. Maybe if he could have seen the future with certainty, he would have quit. But without that foresight, it may have been a risk he was willing to take to live his life on his own terms. And I can't fault my father for his terms. My father lived life with a zest and joy and pleasure that few manage, and that was his greatest gift to me, the thing that makes him my hero, in spite of his flaws.

It seems to me the same could be said of my friend. Good food and good drink were part of his joie de vivre, and maybe if he could look ahead, he would have changed his habits if there was a chance it could have saved him even days or months. But we none of us know the future, and it's so easy to blame in hindsight what we can't change in the present.

I have other people I love, still living, that make choices that give me cause for concern. I am so proud of them when they make an effort to change. I worry when they don't. I want them in my life for always. I don't want to lose any part of them and their health and their joy. But when all is said and done, it's their life, not mine. If they don't want to alter it for their own health, I certainly don't expect that they'll alter it for my benefit, and if I start asking them to, I could easily be seen as intrusive, presumptuous, a nag, and lose what I have in their friendship already.

And now I've made choices of my own. A doctor wanted to put me on a medication to adjust my hormone balance. She said if I didn't address certain levels, I put myself at much higher risk for high blood pressure and heart problems in middle age and beyond. But the medication was something I would always have to take, and wouldn't cure the underlying cause, just force things into balance. And it made me sick as a dog, no matter what we tried. I currently have excellent blood pressure, so I made the decision that I would rather risk these issues in the future, since I feel the risk is reasonably small, than be guaranteed sick every day of my life in the present. It's the right decision for me, but it *is* a calculated risk, and I know it might catch up to me some day. Knowing what I now know, how can I blame someone else for doing as I've done?

I still feel helpless, though, when a friend tells me about actions that seem to me hurtful. I want there to be a change. I want them to take and be able to take the steps I don't or feel I can't. For their own sakes, and for mine, because if anything ever happened, I would miss them, and I don't want to hear that "If only" whispering in the back of my mind.

But we can't change people. We can only change ourselves, and sometimes not even that. We can suggest, but if we really love them, we have to, in the end, support them with our friendship even if we don't agree with their choices. It's their life, and their life is a gift they share with us, not an obligation.

We can only love them for who they are while we have them. And if we lose them, we can grieve, and grow past blaming, and love them still. That's all we can do.

I wish, of course, as always, that I could do more.

Paint

Hmmm...

So I tried something different today. On my way home, I popped into a couple of my favorite galleries, and leaned in really close to the canvases to look at the paint. Especially the ones that look the way i want my painting to look. When I look at a work, I think I normally see a picture more than a painting. Sometimes we miss the forest for the trees, getting caught up in details, but sometimes the opposite is true. Sometimes we're so focused on the big picture that we remain in absolute ignorance of the the elements that create it.

A painting is, after all, made of paint, not picture. So I tried to focus on the details. Examining brush strokes, or knife strokes. Feeling in my mind the body of the paint on the brush, how it pulls on the canvas. Seeing the brush or knife in my mind. The size. The shape. The angle it's held at. Imagining even the mixing of the paint, the subtle variation in shade, the pools of color across the palate.

I think I see my problem. I'm just so damn scared of putting paint on the canvas.

This probably makes all sorts of sense, since I'm still very inexperienced with my medium. I've been trying to put the picture on the canvas somehow without really placing the paint, because I just don't have any idea what the paint is going to do.

The picture is what I want to see when I'm finished, and what I want others to see when they look, but I get so nervous about how to build that picture. I can mix the right shade, and i can put it on a brush, wield that brush with meticulous care, and I can make the shape where it needs to be, but I end up with something very static. Flat. Too polished, too smooth, too stylized, almost cartoonish.

Or I go to the other extreme. I put paint on my brush, then push brush to canvas with no deliberation, and hope the brush creates what I want to see. I'm not using it as a tool, but as a crutch. This gives those parts of the painting more motion and texture, but they're crude, inelegant, unlovely, and not at all what I want, only what I stopped at because things were getting worse instead of better.

Really, the only way to find out what the paint will do when it hits canvas is to just start scooping it up and putting it there. Playing with it. Experimentation and observation, like any good little scientist. But also, just like getting 8 count lindy hop steps into my muscle memory alongside 6 count east coast swing, or feeling where in my voice an interval falls, or how my fingers run through a lick on the trumpet, I just have to DO it so I can feel it.

In imagining the painting of the pieces I looked at today, I think I have my mind around it a little more. Next I have to get my body around it. Get the picture out of my head and sculpt it into the paint.

Then let it out into the world.

This Week in Review... or... Halloween, Part One

There have been so many things I wanted to share, and thought to myself, as they happened, I need to blog about that. But I keep forgetting them. Such is life.

I do remember that people have been saying awesome things about my dancing lately. I still feel like following is fundamentally against the grain of my personality, and I'm not very good at it. There's a lot to work on, but considering I've only been dancing seriously for about five months and many of my partners have been at it for years, I should probably go easier on myself.

This past Wednesday at Rock'n'Bowl, one of my frequent partners who has been out of town for a while struck up a dance with me, and immediately said, "Wow, you're moving a lot differently now!" Something good about style, confidence, attitude, things I really found myself settle into during the 5 days of dancing around ULHS. I danced a lot and found my step in many ways, and I felt this, but it's nice to know that it shows.

Later, chatting at the bar with Mr. Bud (who is one of the most cheerful, courteous, and complimentary partners a person could have), Mr. Bud said how much he always enjoys dancing with me, how nice it is to have someone he doesn't have to be afraid to try new steps with, how ATHLETIC a dancer I am (I've never been called athletic before in my LIFE!), and how he'd come off the floor after a dance with me, and a brand new dancer he talked to was *amazed* at all the cool moves we had. I know I watch the dancerly dancers I know and marvel at the moves, so it was both humbling and exhilarating to think that someone thinks that when they watch me. Wow. Just... wow.

Today I got my latest and so far most cherished compliment. I had just finished a dance at Nickel-a-Dance on Frenchmen Street when an older lady with a cane, sitting in the front row of seats by the dance floor waved me down. She said she'd been trying to get my attention three times already, and as I leaned forward to hear her better, she reached up and took my chin in her hand and said, "Sweetheart, I just had to tell you how much I enjoy watching you dance. You and that young man you were just dancing with. I used to teach dancing, and you have such a step, you keep up so well, you dance beautifully. All you need to do is smile just a little bit more, but you dance just beautifully."

I swear, I nearly cried. I love dancing so much, and I have a good time, but I've tried not to worry about whether or not I look any good doing it, because I know self-consciousness will just kill whatever poise I'm currently scrounging up. Apparently I don't need to worry. I guess if I look half as good as I feel, I'm doing just fine.

Hmm. So far this hasn't been much about Halloween. Let me correct this. I know it isn't actually until next Saturday, but, like any other excuse for a party, they start early here in New Orleans. I went to a birthday/Halloween/swing dance party on Friday night. Costumes were optional, but I love dressing up, so I wore my gypsy ensemble. Seemed like it would be fun to dance in. I also brought a change of clothes in case I was the only one there in costume.

Well, I was, but every time I started feeling awkward, someone would say how awesome my costume was, so I never did change out of it. It was a BLAST to dance in. In fact, a little too fun. Every time I spun, my skirt would keep going for two beats, and I would watch it with that easily-amused, childlike delight that I tell myself is endearing, but is probably mostly silly. Whatever. :-P

Even cooler than my twirly skirt, though, was how, about halfway through the evening, a bassist, a banjo player, and a trombonist walked into the party. I know that sounds like the start of a joke. What it *was* was the start of the dancing to LIVE MUSIC portion of the evening. Some of the best musicians I've heard play around the Quarter and Frenchmen Street, and they just show up at a party as guests, and decide to pull out their instruments and play out the dance.

I.

Love.

This.

City.

The next day I went to my friend Adé's Mad Hatter Tea Party as the Queen of Hearts. That was too, too fun, and we've decided to wear our costumes again on Wednesday at Rock'n'Bowl, so Halloween just grew an extra day. I went home early-ish in the afternoon so that I could get my car parked and all before things got too nuts for the Krewe of Boo parade. Then I decided to slink up my costume and go tool around the Quarter and see the parade in style.

I got SOOOO many compliments on my costume! Most were of the simple, "I love your outfit!" sort, but I think I did steal one heart. There was a guy standing by himself waiting for the parade whom I had to walk past to get where I wanted to watch from, and he watched me for about fifty feet as I walked towards him, and as I passed and smiled, he said softly, "You *are* something!"

The parade was fun, though I think maybe the most fun part was walking down the route after it had ended where I had been watching, and seeing three Ursuline nuns laughing and clapping and reaching to catch beads. No, those weren't costumes. I see those same three nuns often on my walk to work, as they head to morning mass. Too fun!

I decided to walk up and down Bourbon Street just to see and be seen. I got high-fived by two frat boys, told that I "got it goin' on" by lady encouraging people to enter one of the gay bars, and caught countless stares and double takes. It was fun.

Outside of Fritzl's I stopped and looked in to see the trombone and banjo players from the night before, along with a different bassist and a washboard player, on the little stage at the back. I hesitated, then couldn't resist, and went on in. I sat down near the band and ordered my drink while they finished a song. Afterwards, the banjo player said he wanted to welcome all the beautiful people who had just come in, and especially this pretty lady in the costume. He looked at me again and asked, "Weren't you at the party last night?" And I said yes I was, and he asked me to stand up and show everyone my absolutely beautiful costume. Yeah, I tipped the band and bought a CD after that. :-) After a while the guy who hosted Friday's party and the girl whose birthday it was came in. They didn't recognize me at first, but when they did they asked me to join them, and the guy said I looked BEAUTIFUL.

All that attention, all that costume-wearing, and Halloween isn't even until next weekend! Then the weekend after that I dress up again for Ren Fest! I am LOVING life right about now.

So, yeah, I feel amazing tonight. Incredibly happy, incredibly liked. If I'm walking around for the next few days or weeks with a really self-satisfied grin and a little extra confidence in my step, and if my head is a bit of a tight squeeze getting through a few doors, don't blame me! Everyone is saying such nice things! I love this town, I love these people, and I LOVE Halloween!

Dance, Dance, Yeah

I want to tell you all how mind-blowingly spectacular Ultimate Lindy Hop Showdown this weekend has been for me, but I can't. I really just can't. But of course I'm going to try.

On Thursday, I danced on a paddleboat. On Friday I danced in front of the steps across from Jackson Square, then in a wax museum. On Saturday I danced in the rain at the French Market, then at the World War II museum. Today, Sunday, I danced all over Frenchmen Street.

I learned new moves. I met new people. I lost five pounds. I listened to phenomenal live music. I watched competition dancing that had me wide-eyed, jaw-dropped, clapping-along-until-my-hands-hurt, heart-poundingly enthralled. These people are magic.

I made new friends. :-)

I tried to work on some of my existing technical issues and, yes, discovered a few more. But thanks to one partner in particular, I started to loosen up and follow his steps in blues dancing better, and I'm MUCH better now at relaxing into a dip instead of doing the cat-about-to-be-bathed cling that I've been specializing in lately. Oh, and I found out that my hips CAN move like that, as long as I don't pay any attention to them. :-P

All in all, I can honestly say that I have NEVER IN MY LIFE had a more amazing, more fun weekend. I woke up every morning energized and ready to go, in spite of the late nights. I walked down the street to the next dance event with my heart singing and my feet keeping time to the song. I wish I could have done all the events today and this evening. Next year, because there WILL BE a next year, I'll schedule my vacation accordingly. This has been an experience of a lifetime for me, and over the next few days I expect I'll be thanking everyone who convinced me to come and who danced with me from the bottom of my heart for the gift it's been. If you EVER get the chance, even if you don't dance, go to one of these. Go search ULHS 2009 on YouTube and see some of what I saw.

Now. My legs and feet are screaming and I have to get some sleep tonight. I'm going to take some more Advil and go soak in a hot bath and dream of next year... when I'll actually know the Lindy Hop

If Chivalry Is Dead, You CanNOT Pin That on Me

This one has been percolating around in the back of my mind for a while, ever since a friend IMed me as follows:

well, men and feminists alike agree that the reason men act this way is because women let them. they are so busy trying to be like men (independent), that they, the ladies, actually killed the chivalry. i think it might be true

The more I think about it, the more I feel like I have to go with my gut reaction.

Bull shit.

First off, let me get a rant off my chest about the men who would rather open a door or a jar than their hearts. For whom reaching something of the top shelf validates their existence more than reaching out to another person. Who would rather lift heavy luggage than help help shoulder an emotional burden. Who would rather buy dinner and drinks for a girl than share anything meaningful or personal with her. And who, if they want to get laid, would much rather it be with someone they don't know or care for or respect, because God forbid they have to recognize her humanity, her personhood, as commensurate (or superior!) to their own. That would make it so much harder to squelch down the guilt of using her than ignoring her. Those of you men who do not fit this description (I'm truly fortunate to know quite a few) BLESS YOU. Of course, it's no wonder most of you aren't single. :-P End rant.

Another quick point. I'm not sure many people would recognize my qualifications to lady-hood beyond having two X chromosomes. I don't care for clothing that is conventionally reserved for women alone (i.e. dresses and skirts). I've always been fascinated with, and only rarely frightened by, reptiles, insects, and all manner of creepy crawlies. I drive fast and assertively. On the other hand, I like to bake, I can mend clothing on a simple scale, and I sing and draw and write/talk about my feelings. The most "typically feminine" things about me are probably my tenderness for all things small and weak, my love of beauty in nature, and my hypersensitive emotions. I do maintain that in spite of everything I am a lady in the truest sense in that I have a regard for the feelings of others and am led by this to act graciously, generously, courteously, and kindly on most occasions.

Back to what my friend says about chivalry, or the lack thereof. Let's do a close reading.

men act this way because women let them...

I'm of the opinion that a man who is discourteous will be discourteous regardless of what any woman "lets" him do. It's not about allowing bad behavior, or rewarding politeness and punishing rudeness. It's about a fundamental consideration for others, and if a person has that, they will treat others with respect and deference. If they don't, I'm not quite sure how I, as a woman, have "let" things get that way. I think this assumes something fundamentally false about chivalry: that chivalry is a courtship behavior on the part of a man to obtain a reward from a woman, and that she can control this behavior on a Pavlovian level by granting that reward when he does it right, or withholding when he does it wrong. If that's all chivalry is, than it is certainly among the undead, still stumbling along causing what mischief it can now that it's lost its soul. Chivalry in its heyday (from the French chevalier, or knight on horseback) tenuously encompassed three duties:

1. Duty to country and countrymen
2. Duty to God
3. Duty to women

Principle among "women" was the knight's own lady, but women meant all women, the young and lovely and highborn AND the old, poor peasant. So I protest the notion that chivalry is about who pays for dinner and who opens the door. True chivalry is being respectful of and considerate to all men, women, and children. I concede that back when safety depended on how much physical strength you possessed or could co-opt, and highborn ladies were ideally seriously lacking in physical strength, it made sense that chivalry would be more of a one-way street. It's true that things are different now. If women aren't pale, tremulous, collapsing little morning flowers wearing flimsy footwear, then men may not feel that courtesy obliges them to cast their cloaks over puddles. But I'd contend that a more equal playing field demands that women show the same courtesy they expect to receive, not that men show less courtesy.

they [women] are so busy trying to be like men (independent)...

Okay. I think it's obvious that my friend could be called more conventional, more old-fashioned, more traditional, or more feminine than me. She inherently defines independence as a masculine trait.

I protest. A thousand times, I protest. I'm a very independent person. I always have been, and my parents always encouraged me to think and take responsibility for myself. I don't think they were trying to make me manly. I don't think dependence is inherently feminine. I think certain social norms try to make it so, and I think other cultural customs combat this. If females in nature, including our fellow primates, have typically relied on protective male strength for survival, I think it's true that males often rely on females to an equal extent for something else, like food. Drones do very little in a honeybee colony. Lionesses are the hunters of the pride. Females in nature often bear more of the responsibility of tending the young, and if you don't think this is something males depend upon them for, then you're ignoring the post-coital portion of the biological imperative of sex as procreation. A male's drive to sire as many offspring as possible isn't going to do him much good on a genetic level if no one takes care of the young. All in all, independence isn't some new-fangled crazy notion women have gotten into their heads. Self-reliance and mutual inter-dependence are much more natural patterns than total dependence one way or the other. In being independent, in holding my own well-paying job, in cultivating my own skills and talents to maintain that job, in relying on my own abilities to navigate my world, I'm not trying to be a man. I'm trying to be a woman who can survive and, more, thrive in a world that does not just hand me a male to take care of the dirty work. And I'm trying to put myself in the best position possible to be relied upon as well as rely upon the people I need and who need me, male or female.

they, the ladies, actually killed the chivalry

A woman who scolds a man for opening the door for her is equally as rude as a man who lets the door shut in a woman's (or anyone's) face. A man who feels so affronted if a woman opens the door herself that he considers himself justified in no longer opening doors for women is as dependent as a woman who never opens her own door. Not everyone is considerate, not everyone is fair, not everyone is generous, candid, and kind. Personally, I think I prefer knowing the have-nots up front, and not being in the dark because a strict social code has forced a person to behave with a consideration they don't really feel. (I also think that nice guys need to take gallantry back instead of complaining that girls prefer smooth-talking jerks. Of course we like to be flattered. So do you. Give a little, get a little. But that's a related but distinct topic.)

I don't think at all that independent ladies killed chivalry. We've only exposed the fundamental flaw in the system it propped up. I think people are just lazy, and are eager to blame the results of their laziness on anyone but themselves. In a world where gender roles are becoming less well defined, it *is* more difficult to negotiate the expectations on both sides. I think a more equal playing field demands more of everyone's courtesy, not less, as the old assumptions don't hold and we are all required to act and speak out of true respect and consideration, not just mouth and motion our way through a preordained script. And I think that if chivalry is dead or dying, it's not because women killed it with their independence, or men killed it with inherent sleezery; it means neither men nor women have risen to that challenge.

Oh, and by the way, if you want to say that's all well and good, but chivalry really means it's always the man's job to take care of the woman, and it's a woman's place to always require or insist upon that care, then personally, I think it can't die fast enough so we can replace it with something better.

But that's just me.

Hail, Poetry

I've realized that I've started posting to Facebook a lot, and here not at all. I suppose there might be some overlap, but I do have a special place in my heart for Scribbledom, and so this makes me sad. Well. I have complete control over it. Here is a poem I've posted to Facebook recently. Enjoy!

Caddo Shade

Impossibly white

Like a ghost or a god,

An alabaster egret

Stands in somber niche,

Ancient, aloof, enigmatic,

Barring the gates

To a shadow world

With eye of unconcerned flint

And gleam of unworldly elegance

Between the cypress trunks

Like stony temple columns

Surrounded by worshippers

On their knees

Frozen in mystic rites

Beneath fluttering wraiths

Of trailing, faded moss,

Like tattered banners

Of long forgotten kings,

Barring the gates

To a world apart

From blue sky and blue stream,

Green moss beneath

Green leaves above

A world suspended,

Dark and still, a mystery

Between water and air

Haunted by one white spirit.

The way is shut.

I dare not pass

The silent sentry.

Even sun rays are muted,

Unable to penetrate

A secret inviolate.