Perfection World

It became inescapably obvious to me (and the dog,) on our walk this morning--Olde Severna Park is not the same neighborhood I moved into almost 20 years ago.

The most obvious change is the houses themselves, structurally. I cannot deny that we were, to a certain extent, the trendsetters where changing the character and size of an original OSP house is concerned. Yes. We took a modest 1947 Cape Cod and transformed it--over the course of more years than I care to count--into a large, but not huge, Arts and Crafts Bungalow. It has been in most ways an extremely painful process. Far more painful than we ever imagined. But I can also say this about our house: It is the vision, design, labor, and craftsmanship of a connoisseur of the style. The two of us have invested more blood, sweat, and tears into this structure than most people would care to sacrifice. I’m not saying this with pride necessarily, but more to try to make a distinction between why we have this transformed house, and what is going on with the rest of the neighborhood.

Today it struck me with razor-sharp clarity that there are two types of houses in OSP. The done, and the not done.

I’m trying to say this with as much caution and tact as I can muster, because I know many fine people who live in neighborhoods that don’t interest me. I would call them the mini-mansion neighborhoods. They overwhelm me in their sameness, perfection, and sterility. I don’t doubt that the houses are in some way stamped with the personalities and character of the inhabitants. But I don’t see it in a casual drive-through.

On the plus side, OSP could not become a mini-mansion community. The houses were built individually over the years, and none particularly resemble any of the others in style or design. So, as they grow bigger, they grow bigger individually, maintaining their differentness. But here’s what distinguishes them from my house: When they go under the renovator’s knife, they change fast and they become perfect. There is not one that is not photo-ready for its spread in Better Homes and Gardens. Which brings me to the landscaping.

At a high school reunion last year, I chatted most of the time with a man whom I’d known as a kind of awkward, out-of-place kid. Now he was a friendly, successful, and confident landscape designer. I expressed surprise when he told me about the scale of the residential projects he designs and implements. I was shocked that people routinely put 10 or 20 thousand dollars into lawn perfection. Now I’m not. I see it everywhere, every time the dog and I walk down the street. Nothing--not a weed, not a pansy, not a hosta--is out of place. And you would know, because places are well marked by sharp, mulched borders, and perfectly arranged trees and shrubs of uniform size. Dr. Seuss would have been proud. Or not. Dr. Seuss’s world had an organic feel that my neighbors’ lawns, in all their perfection, lack.

You could argue that I’m jealous because my lawn looks like, well, the semi-neglected old style. The style that another landscaper I once met referred to, slightly disdainfully, as Cottage Garden.

Our house--at least the renovated parts--are not old. And yet by now it’s starting to look like it falls into the not done, category. Because of the yard. Because of the cobwebs on the front porch. Because of the scruffiness of the not-quite-complete shingling. Because of the chickweed, dandelions, violets, and you-name-it that grow unchecked where the done houses have only the greenest grass. I mow it. But I cringe when I see those little yellow signs sticking out of my neighbors’ perfect grass that say “Pesticide application! Stay off or you and your dog and your children and your descendants for 3 generations to come will die slow and painful deaths!”

I wonder how long until I feel squeezed out by the encroaching Stepfordness of OSP. And then I wonder if there’s any such place where I would feel right. And if I felt right, would it change? Probably. I still mean to get one of those little lawn markers that says “This lawn safe for children, animals, and bare feet, as long as you don’t mind stepping on sticks.

Not an atypical week.

Gabe is putting weird, powdery, banana flavored stuff in milk. Nothing like a hit of banana Lactaid to get you back in homework-tackling form.

It’s one of those weeks or so that I teeter on the brink of wacko. Jeff is in Colorado for two definable purposes. 1)To help his brother Wade retrofit a latter-day hippie communal housing project, and 2)so Wade can take him on a round (several rounds, from what I’m hearing) of poking from the acupuncturist, pounding from the masseuse, and prodding from the homeopath. They have noticed something interesting which I had not picked up on. Jeff can have a conversation as long as his eyes are closed. The minute he opens them the confusion returns and the dazed look prevails. This will be important for me to remember. Close your eyes...I’d like your opinion on [whatever.] Today he wondered if I would mind him staying another week as Wade has a deadline. And I don’t really mind. Since I hadn’t learned the eye-closing trick I’ve spent the last several years making like an Amazon. (we keep men for breeding purposes, but do everything else ourselves.)

I’ve been working on budgeting. The truth has generally been that I stink at budgets, but am adequate at muddling through. Muddling though, as a manner of being, is starting to get to me, and I would really like to feel capable of budgeting. To this end, I located (online, where else?) a cute little Palm program called Quik Budget (note that it offers no assistance with spelling.) Happily, Palm software has made small enough strides in the past several years that the PDA I acquired when I needed a drug database is still completely up to the task of running Quik Budget. So, as long as I remember to input the occasional lattes, and the frequent grocery errands, Quik Budget is supposed to inform me when it’s time to eat just Cheerios, and maybe even the Cheerios box.

As for going wacko--well, I’m trying to quell that tendency by doing yoga by candlelight and hacking away, bit by bit, at my story.

All that’s left of the Easter jelly beans are a few pinks and oranges at the bottom of the bowl. Pink is supposed to be grapefruit, but Becca got a bubblegum this afternoon. A factory jokester maybe. I don’t think anyone will eat the few remainders as it appears that Gabe cut a goodly number of them in half with scissors. Hard to say why. Probably for the same reason that he has a bunch of thumbtacks stuck into a roll of duct tape on his desk.

One more reason to run a yellow light.

What do other people think of intersection fundraising? The reason I wonder is because of the diverse collection of attitudes that run through my brain every time I’m faced with this type of solicitation--and that’s often nowadays. I’m not even talking about the homeless people with cardboard signs that say “God bless” on them. I’m referring strictly to the kind of folks who usually present in the following way: 5 gallon bucket with a slot in the lid, and some kind of flyer taped to the outside. They usually wear day-glo safety vests, and there are usually several at one intersection, the better to be accessible to cars going in any direction.

Today’s group, at the intersection of Forest Drive and Route 2, was a textbook example. In these cases I’m often grateful to be several cars back from the light, because they might not get to me, but today I was at the head of the line, one lane over from the median. Of course the lady crossed the lane. I pretended to be listening intently to Ladysmith Black Mambazo, but still had to turn my head slightly in her direction and shake it, just in the interest of human acknowledgment.

I did notice the bucket. It said, in slightly rain-smeared inkjet print, New Life Church. I have never heard of New Life Church. It could stand for anything or nothing. I noticed that all three of the ladies working the intersection had on hausfrau-esque dresses. How could I be sure that New Life Church doesn’t espouse a backward repressive theology requiring all women to wear dresses? On the other hand, it’s entirely possible that their manner of dress reflected the fact that they were all, shall we say, zaftig, and they were wearing what they find the most comfortable. You just don’t know, do you? And should I really care whether the church requires its women to wear ugly dresses if it uses money for a good cause? Perhaps not, but how can one possibly assess whether a)the cause is good, and b)they’re even telling the truth, at a 20 second stoplight?

So there I am subjected to a whole host of unanswerables--Would I approve of their goals? Could I even open my wallet fast enough if I knew I approved, and if I did, would I even have a loose buck? Am I just a stingy curmudgeon who engages in these psychological inner battles to avoid charity? Do I mind if they get plowed down by the impatient dude in the ugly Hummer one lane over? Couldn’t they find a less annoying way to raise funds? And if the answer is “no,” does it therefore make intersection soliciting ok?

I have more or less decided that I don’t drop money into unknown buckets. But the good that the bucket people do--if I should give them any credit for this--is that after I pass a certain critical mass of intersection bucket brigades, my guiltometer reaches the red zone and I send a donation to--for example--the Lighthouse Shelter or Habitat or something. And that is the upside.

Food, glorious food.

The time in my life when I enjoyed grocery shopping was when I lived in an apartment near the University of Maryland, with Ginny. In those days, cooking was fun. Stocking our kitchen (it had a pink stove and refrigerator, which lowered our rent by $50 a month,) gave us a giddy sense of independence, and cooking was a relaxing diversion from the necessary drudgery of studying for another chemistry exam.

As I recall, I kind of liked it during the early days of marriage too. I seem to remember having the turntable somewhere weird, like on top of a kitchen cabinet, but it pleased me to spin a Judds lp while putting thoughtful preparation into a meal at our downtown house. (which we left at 7 months gestation because I remember being keenly aware that when the burglars next came a’knocking I could easily climb from the bedroom deck, to the courtyard wall, to the neighbor’s yard myself, but a baby would limit my escape possibilities.)

I distinctly remember making the point to Jeff that grocery shopping with a baby was twice as hard as doing it solo. (not that shopping solo as a young, unencumbered 20-something is even remotely difficult, so you could make it twice as hard without doing much damage.) But even dinner prep, with the kid around, had its charm. I tended to tuck the little one in a front-carrier and carry on as usual, with the occasional tendency to drop pasta sauce on the kid’s head.

I stopped liking grocery shopping as it came to mean the following things: Someone would drop a jar of applesauce in aisle 9. Someone would sneak Sugar-blasted fluorescent gummy-snake puffs into the cart when I wasn’t looking. Someone would have a nuclear meltdown in the check-out line. And years later, someone would go shopping with me as a consultant, only to decry (the very next day) the utter lack of edible food in the house..

There was an even messier slew of reasons why my interest in cooking dried up and died an early death. Most people know this one--children like to fight and yell during dinner prep time. But I had some unique ones: A year spent with rainwater falling in 30 gallon trash cans all over the house--several in the kitchen. Several years during which the demolition stage of the house transformation meant that loose insulation and 40 year old rotten rafter debris were as likely to be unintentional dietary additives as dog and cat hair.

It seems that the family has more or less learned to accept that they don’t have that kind of mother anymore. And something cool is happening--not all the time, but last night was a shining example--Becca made vegetable pot pie. Olivia made mashed potatoes. Gabe made apple crumble. I ate. And under the circumstances, I was more than happy to help clean up.

Do what you gotta

A little bit of fire under my kettle, a little publish or perish mentality might not be such a bad thing. When you know you gotta make it work, are you more likely to make it work? I might be.

It’s still true that nobody quite believes me when I say that bashing away at the latest project is my job, but I have to believe it, so I keep bashing.

Fish dreams

My kids, to this day, don’t really get my meaning when I nix an attempt to acquire another pet. I say I just can’t handle any more animals. Psychologically. The kid (usually Gabe nowadays,) swears up and down that that’s not a problem because he’d take care of it. For now, he’s taking care of a betta fish (discounting the 4 cats and 1 dog which are givens for the moment.) That will have to do. Here’s what I mean by psychologically.

Last night’s dream involved fish. I’m sure that’s because we do have the one full time resident--the betta of undetermined gender, and the vague name “Fishy.” Also there are Barbie and Ken, the goldfish, who often accompany Rachel home on breaks. I think this dream was more goldfish-centric.

There were five fish in the tank. Goldfish, but shaped more like nerf footballs, and several colors. Two of them were, in fact, the size of nerf footballs. Clearly they had outgrown their tank, in a serious way. What to transfer them to? I found a blue plastic wading pool. You know, the kind that crackles and buckles when it’s full of water and you try to move it. Still, we filled it with water and moved the fish in. Problem #1. It had no top. Which one or both of the big fish immediately took advantage of by leaping over the side. I caught one in the act, and one on the carpet, and put them back in. Then I attempted to shore up the sides of the pool somehow, to make leaping harder, but every attempt to handle the pool resulted in a collapse of that edge, and several fish sloshing or leaping over the edge with the current. The dream ended with me at the pet shop, wondering if the 50 gallon tank would be big enough.

I had dreams of the same theme when we had gerbils. In those dreams the top of the cage had been left ajar, or they’d gnawed through the galvanized steel base of their habitat. Whatever, there were always endangered (and apparently suicidal) little animals in these dreams, and I didn’t need the extra anxiety.

Gabe wants a snake. No, I say. And I mean it. I’m sure, in my dream, that snake would be under my pillow. I do not fear non-venomous snakes. But I’d be waking up in the middle of the night and looking under my pillow in a disoriented haze to make sure I wasn’t squishing the little thing.

I don't care for Wonder bread.

We were chatting with a neighbor today. He needed some info on a roofer we’d used. Can’t remember the sequence of discussion, but some people just like to ramble and from amongst his ramblings I gleaned the following:

He’s originally from Ohio and likes the homogeneity of that part of the country. He prefers to live among people who look the same. He does not relish the multi-linguisticity, multi-ethnicity, and frequent appearance of turbans that occurs in many parts of Maryland such as near D.C. and Columbia. When he eats out, he prefers to patronize the same place repeatedly, provided they do not use any seasonings he would consider exotic. When a friend bragged to him about being on a safari in Kenya he did not understand what there was to brag about or why anyone would want to be there. He can’t see the point of a 50 foot long living room furnished with 4 wide-screen LCD tvs.

We agree on one of those points--and I’ll give you a hint--it comes near the end of the paragraph.

This was an interesting juxtaposition to the other notable personality which impacted my day. It was the first day of third-semester Spanish at the Community College. When my new prof, Thomas (Tomás) Edison entered the classroom, I smiled almost from the get-go. He was funny. He was smart. He was enthusiastic. And when he described (en Español) how much fun it was to leave the homogeneity of Southern Indiana (where most of his education happened) to immerse himself in the relative diversity of the Mid-Atlantic, he won me over as a teacher.

I mean absolutely no disrespect to the first individual mentioned in this entry. He implied, and I inferred, no animosity toward people of varying ethnicities, it was just that his personal comfort zone was sameness. But how much more delighted I was by the African-american teacher, encouraging us to seek pov-expanding experiences, and look for opportunities to employ new languages.

making a hat.

I’ve given up on the sweater I started a couple years ago. Too big, too complicated, and I don’t like the pattern that much anyway. But the urge to knit still kicks in occasionally. So I’m taking the same yarn, and making a hat. I’m on row 8, counting...knit...purl...knit...purl, 2, 3, 4...knit...

Jeff: Where’s the normal remote?

Me:...purl...knit...I don’t know. Under furniture.

Olivia: Use the silver one! Should I take keyboarding or marine biology?

Me: ...knit, 2, 3, 4...It doesn’t matter. Whichever you want.

Gabe: Look at all the salsa recipes I downloaded!

Me: ...purl...

Olivia: Gabe! you can’t waste all that paper!

Jeff: I don’t know where the buttons are on this remote.

Becca: Mom, want to buy me this stuff from Athleta?

Me: ...purl...knit...why do you need 15 salsa recipes?

Jeff: Does anyone know where the normal remote is?

Olivia: What do you think I should take?

Me: ...knit, 2, 3, 4...it doesn’t matter, you’ve covered all your academic requirements, right?

Gabe:...peach salsa, mango salsa, tropical salsa, apple salsa...

Olivia: You hate me?

Me: ...knit...purl...not that I know of...

Jeff: This remote doesn’t work.

Dog: ARF!

Me: ...purl...knit...somebody wanna let the dog in?

Becca: Mom! Gabe has me in a headlock!

Jeff: What happens to the normal remotes anyway?

Olivia: Gabe! Pick up your papers!

Dog: WOOF!

Me: ...knit...come in, hurry up...purl..

Door: SLAM

Gabe: How do I make the printer stop printing copies of mango salsa?

Jeff: How does anybody use the tv without the remote?

Olivia: Fine! I’ll just take stupid keyboarding since you hate me!

This pattern on this hat could be weird.

I can do without Walt.

For several years Jeff went to exercise class, M, W, and F, 7a.m., at SportFit. That it was held at SportFit was really incidental, since the real glue that held the little group together was sweat, camaraderie, and an ex-Seal instructor.

A few months or so ago, the SportFit powers that be concluded that the tenacity demonstrated by this doggedly faithful little group of 4 to 8 wasn’t enough for them to keep such a sparsely attended class on their schedule. It took Jeff a while to notice that he really needed to cancel his SportFit membership so they would stop debiting his card monthly, since he didn’t use their facilities for anything else, and since he’d just signed up for a substitute exercise class at the Community College.

Lately I’ve been kind of control-freaking my way into managing some business that I use to leave to him (and blissfully never thought about,) and I can no longer ignore little things that pop up on his credit card bill--like a monthly SportFit debit. Yesterday he dropped in at the front desk to cancel his membership. “Oh, said the girl. “Walt’s not here right now. Walt has to be here when you do that.”

Today, I called SportFit. “He can come any day between 10 and 3 to fill out the cancellation form,” said the dude, “but since it’s already after the 10th of the month the cancellation won’t take effect until the next billing cycle.” IOW, there’s going to be a debit for SportFit at the beginning of February whether I like it or not, but I’d be danged if there would be one for March.

So, before lunch, I went to the SportFit counter with Jeff. I hung back a bit, feeling like I ought to be rhythmically smacking a billy-club with a chain against my palm. Jeff says he wants to cancel his membership. The girl says “Walt’s not here right now.” I say “Walt wasn’t here yesterday either. But you can still get us the form we need to fill out.” The girl looks a bit miffed, but picks up the phone and says “Chris, there’re two cancellations out here.” Oh, so that’s why the lady with a baby is standing to our right. We’re not the only one’s who refuse to accept “Walt isn’t here right now,” as a valid reason for getting stuck with a March debit.

Then, amazing enough, Walt waltzes in. Walt signs the form. Jeff signs the form. I stick the form in my purse, because there are two things I know better now than I did a couple years ago. One: Don’t sign up for automatic credit card debiting unless you really really need to, and two: Keep papers.

A beau bow.

No-one would accuse Rhode Island Avenue in College Park of resembling Diagon Alley. It has that typical bleak, inner D.C. Beltway, post apocalyptic, 60’s style panache, and is the site of Gailes’ Violin Shop, where the inside is better than the outside.

This time I went for a bow. And I wanted it to be a good bow, which put me at a slight disadvantage since I wouldn’t know one if I saw one.

So, I figured what I would do is walk up to the counter, trying to ignore all the music books whispering ”You need the Celtic fiddler’s book o’tricks...you know you do,” and ask the scary counter lady, who unquestionably would scoff if she knew what a pretender I was, if I could see some nice bows please. Then she would duck back a room, where Mr. Gailes’ and the grey-bearded, other smart-looking man were tweaking violins and grab a fistfull, and I would embarrassingly scratch out a few notes on my fiddle, hoping for invisible help from the invisible bow muse.

But, actually, she disappeared a bit deeper into the back than that, reappeared with nothing, and said she had a room ready for me.

And a nice room at that, with a special fold-down table on the wall--really rather like those diaper changing stations, but instead of Little Tikes plastic it was wooden, with a velvet-lined surface. And there, on the fancy fold-down table, was a special velvet-lined, slotted box holding an array of 15 or so assorted violin bows.

I smiled and thanked her, trying to look either smart or talented since I doubted I could look both, as she left and closed the door.

Here’s what I was hoping would happen as I looked at those 15 bows (which were probably snickering at each other like 7th graders waiting to see whether their substitute teacher can summon an ounce of authority.) I was hoping that when I picked up the right one, blue sparks would shoot cunningly from its tip, as if to say you have chosen well grasshopper, and when I placed it daintily against my fiddle strings I would realize that I was Bonnie Ridout afterall, or at least Charlie Daniels.

Not surprisingly, there were no sparks. But I was hopeful that that room was at least a little soundproof as I put each bow through a bit of Sheebeg Sheemore or Gilderoy. Ultimately, I chose one on the basis of feel and dumb instinct. The weight, the balance, and other senses which I have no particular reason to trust, but I chose one.

The two smart-looking men in the back oohed and ahhed a bit that I had chosen such a fetching and clever bow which turned out to have been made in France or thereabouts, 100 years ago or thereabouts. But then, it would have shown poor business skills on their part so say “you picked that? Hah! What the hell, ring’er up.”

I told the scary counter lady that I hoped the room had been soundproof, and if not, my apologies, and she quite charmingly confessed to having recognized many of my tunes and “enjoyed my selection.” No-one ever referred to my selection before, so again, I note that the people at Gailes’ violin shop at least know what to say.

So. I have a lovely old bow. And a lovely old fiddle. And lovely old fingers. The latter have some work to do.

teacher!

I've been on the lookout for a fiddle tutor, and after a bit of scouting, I've landed a spot on the roster of a young lady who teaches right at the Severna Park Music & Arts where Gabe takes drumming. That she looks half my age is probably nothing I should mind. There's no denying I squandered my best neuronal development years where music and language are concerned, but I will go with these words from RENT. There's only us, there's only this...forget regret, or life is yours to miss...no other road, no other way...no day but today...

truth.

For the rare person and several wafting dust motes who noticed that I went on a bit last week about a book called Expecting Adam by Martha Beck, you may be wondering why I’ve removed all references. I loved that book while I was reading it. It made me laugh and cry at the same time, and for several days after I finished I would have told you that it was one of the best books I’d ever read.

In fact, I loved it so much that I wanted to see if other people loved it as much as I did. So I started reading Amazon.com reviews. And most loved it, even if with slightly less fervor than I. But some didn’t. Some knew more about the author’s life and subsequent work than I did, and some included information that I tracked down to verify.

And now I’m left with what I’d call a trust issue. I loved the book partly because I believed, and the author insisted, that the events she was recounting were true as depicted. Now I have reason to wonder if she embellished flagrantly, completely fictionalized for the purpose of book sales, or is possibly just not stable.

One could argue that it doesn’t matter. Did I love the story? Is that not enough? For example, another book of which I’m very fond--Life of Pi tackles the very issue of whether the literal truth of a story even matters. But Life of Pi did not purport to be the author’s memoir.

I’m left with a sense of responsibility toward my readership. There's no question that I like to spoof, embellish, and bullsquat. But even dust motes deserve the truth if you say it’s the truth.

seasoned, with that trendy distressed patina

This weekend’s Parade newspaper-insert ragazine largely features Gail Sheehy’s ode to Baby Boom womens' new way of inhabiting the ages from 40 on. She calls us “Seasoned Women” and tells us in anecdotal vignettes and quick-read boxes what we offer to the world and what we want in return.

I hope I don’t sound like my usual cynical self, because I don’t mean to. I do want the stuff she’s telling me I want, and I agree wholeheartedly that “finding a new dream in midlife is about finding a new concept of oneself in the world.” It’s just kind of freaking me out a little that my personal new concept is a darn good hider. Oh, we will coax it out sooner or later, me and my friend Anxiety-monster. And then we will live in a harmonious trio which has room for purpose, wisdom, and the steady, calming practices of twitching in bed, and zoning out on crossword puzzles.

Did I miss a new rule?

It is not surprising that, in my important role as bipedal ATM, I would sometimes run out of cash. Often, therefore, I have nothing but 3 nickels and a penny in my wallet when it comes time to pay for the carry-out pizza, or the caramel latte and the vanilla steamer. At times like this, I am grateful that almost anywhere takes credit cards nowadays. But here’s the weird thing, and maybe it’s just my imagination. You hand over the card. The counter person hands you a credit slip to sign which--because you are at a food establishment--is identical to the sort you’d get at a full-service restaurant. In other words, it prints your cost with two blank lines underneath--one for “tip” and the other for “total.”

I don’t think the pizza guy expects me to tip him when he hands me my food and I hand him cash. There’s not even one of those little tip cups on the counter which have become so ubiquitous at everywhere from the snowball stand to the coffee shop.

But there’s something about being handed that credit card slip to sign, with the tip and total lines sitting there looking suggestively blank, that makes me imagine a scowl flitting briefly over the counter person’s face when I hand it back, signed, totalled, and tipless.

hi ho hi ho

I’ll be needing a job soon. Not so much for money, though pocket change is nothing to sneeze at. I cannot assume I’ll ever make money writing, though write I must, and it’s quite certain that no-one will pay me for playing fiddle or whistle. As far as I know, there is no money to be had in being a student of languages, or a crossword puzzler, so fortunately, no, it is not so much about the money.

It’s about being in the world. I’m noticing that my kids are getting pretty grown up pretty fast. As their explorations become outwardly focused I’m standing here thinking you can’t leave me here in this stinking house! Houses are boring!

I’m not sure where I will go for a job. Maybe a music shop. I’ve thought about even fixing lattes. I just need to see and interact with real live people on a regular basis, and with some continuity.

It kind of stinks that there’s no branch of Lark in the Morning in Annapolis, or on the East Coast for that matter. And I’m still kind of hoping that the cosmos will drop a “help wanted” clipping on my head so the direction to go will be obvious. But I’m afraid that, as usual, I’ll have to suck it up and figure this one out on my own.

not for really religious people

Narnia did make me think. It was, all in all, a pretty good flick. As one who has read much by and about C.S. Lewis, I could not separate my awareness of the story’s Christian underpinnings from my viewing experience, so I was forced, as always, to confront my discomfort with what many consider fundamentals of Christian ideology.

In particular, the notion, beloved by many Bible thumpers, that that which we call God requires a blood sacrifice as due payment for human foibles. (Hence, of course, if you follow this line of thinking, Jesus stepping in as the killee.)

I’ve had some pretty good talks with that which I think of as god in my lifetime, and have never gotten a sense of its being that sort of blood-demanding tribal chief. But the language of the film’s analogy got me to thinking. (I’ll note that I was a great fan of the books as a young adolescent and read them all, despite my mild annoyance at the way Lewis glibly and callously wrote Susan out of the story toward the end.)

When young Edmund, one of the four principle Narnia kids, screws up big time, the bad witch points out to Aslan the lion (the Jesus counterpart) that there is “deep magic” in the land which dictates that Edmund’s life/blood/what-have-you now belongs to her, and it is for this reason that Aslan arranges to sub for Ed on the chopping block.

This is why allegorical stories can be a fine thing. They give you another vista on an archetypical theme. So in Narnia, the thing that’s going to get you is deep magic. What might that translate into in the universe as we know it? I honestly cannot envision a deity standing there, foaming at the mouth, as it demands blood be spilled because you stuck those lifesavers in your pocket (without paying) when you were seven. If the archetype of sacrifice works for so many people of religion there has to be a less primitive explanation.

I would suggest this: The human is a rare beast in its existential self-awareness. I have walked through (for example) the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem and felt the weight of human guilt on my shoulders, and I’ve no doubt that many of my species have also experienced similar guilty pain at their awareness of the depths of atrocity to which people can sink. If the sacrifice archetype works for you maybe it’s because you yourself need someone to say “It’s ok, you can let go of the guilt,” and maybe, if you’re of the Christian persuasion, the person of Jesus fills the bill. I think we sear the red A for Accountable into our own forearms with a hot iron. Nobody named God condemned you to death.

Personally, I have no particular conviction that Jesus was actually thinking of this stuff when he was executed for what looked pretty much like political reasons. But I have a sort of sense that like the ten avatars of Vishnu, god can fill a great variety of needs, and for someone in need of salvation theology, god can be that shape.

bleeping beep

It is one of the inexplicable but inarguable givens of living in this house that things won’t work right. For the last few months it has been (among other things) the refrigerator. This is a big hulking hulk of a fridge. You could not go to Sears and find a reasonably priced model to fill the gap it will leave if I give the executive order for its condemnation. I do not like it beeping at me. There are enough things that beep at me. The oven beeps when you set the timer. It beeps when it finishes preheating. The dishwasher more than beeps. It sings--in beeps--when you open it. It sings--in beeps--when you change its settings. It beeps when you start it. So I really don’t need to be beeped at by the fridge. Because there are, as I’ve stated, enough beeps, and because it’s trying to alert me to the fact that it doesn’t work. Shut up I tell it. I don’t want to know that the fridge is running at 43 F and the freezer at 16. I push buttons (which beep) and insist that it go back to 37 and 0. It doesn’t believe me and beeps back. I turn it off, hoping that a brief respite from electricity may make it forget that it was acting up, and it will return to normal fridge behavior when I push the on button (to much beeping) again. That actually worked for a couple months. Today it just beeps. Three beeps actually. beebeebeep. A third repair company is coming Thursday. The first two didn’t fix it right even though they thought they did. I doubt if a more clever muse of circuitry will follow repairman #3 in the door. I do not want to buy something that would fill the gaping hole that fridge would leave. But I might have to.

Looking

I really did it for myself anyway. Pulling pics out of photo albums that date back to 1984--ones that he was in. Pics which I could see him in and remember what 100% looked like and felt like. I squished into the chair beside him, and showed them to him. I had the stupid magic idea that he’d see himself and things would clear up like the fog of amnesia lifting. He said, “That’s your brother.” I said, “No, that’s you.” He said, “Who’s that? Becca?” “No, it’s Olivia.” He remembered lots of things, but not, I guess, what it was like to see through those eyes in the pictures. “Thanks for showing me those,” he said.

Great house--free to good home

In my dream I suddenly found myself to be the free and clear owner of a lovely, clean, light-filled house (for the purposes of the dream, my sister had given it to me--but I don’t think that was relevent in the interpretive sense,) and the thing is, I didn’t want it.

Why am I supposed to want this house,I thought to myself, and what am I supposed to do with it? I was quite certain that my real life was somewhere out there--as in not in that house--and staying there, keeping it, would be an impediment. But not to worry--it was just a weird dream.

games and monsters

Of course I want to run away from the beast. It’s not a pretty animal. And it’s certainly not a member of a species I ever had thoughts of engaging, or would have wanted to engage had I known about its existence. But, the bummer--if it is a bummer, because bummer may just be the word I’m applying...one girl’s bummer may be another girl’s dream come true--the bummer is that it’s mine, and I’ve got to figure out how to wrestle it.
Or, to completely change metaphors midstream--What if you spent 20 years playing a really cool game of Parcheesi, and they suddenly yank the gameboard out from under the pieces, slip in a Monopoly board instead, and insist you go on playing as if nothing weird had happened? (So far my best guess is you learn to play Monopoly, even if you never really liked it.)