Sugar and Spice

…And everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of. On November 7, 2008, the gender of my baby was revealed and yes, it’s a girl! My boyfriend and I are so happy. I have to say that I was a bit shocked because I was absolutely certain that I was carrying a little boy. It was just this feeling, something I couldn’t really put my finger on, but whatever, I was wrong. Maybe others influenced my opinion; roughly 48 out of 50 people were convinced I was having a boy. I guess I was "carrying low" and since my morning sickness (which should really be called all-day sickness) was extremely mild, supposedly that also meant I was incubating a boy.

When I first found out I was pregnant at 7 ½ weeks, I was considerably stunned, but didn’t feel "pregnant." A week later, things were noticeably different. Nausea, among an assortment of other pregnancy symptoms, settled in. I started eating crackers to curb the nausea and it worked like a charm. Then another thing happened: I began to crave fruit. I hate to use the word crave, but I just desperately, and rather urgently, wanted fruit. Watermelon, nectarines, peaches, plums, and grapes, that was it. It varied day-to-day, and once, I made a trip to the grocery store around 11pm because I downright HAD to have a nectarine. The very next night, I was back at the grocery store and required the ingestion of red grapes. I walked past the nectarines, stopped for one moment to observe them, and shuddered; they looked positively disgusting to me. Blah. The thought of a nectarine was sickening, but it was only the night before that I absolutely, positively had to have one. What the hell?! It was during these two weeks of seeking out fruit that I thought I might be carrying a girl; apparently, girls stimulate fruit cravings, whereas boys induce strong meat and/or protein desires.

My 20-week ultrasound clearly reveals that I’m having a baby girl. Well, it was clear to the ultrasound technician, not to me. My boyfriend Greg is over the moon; he got his little girl. I know it is going to be exhausting and require endless days and sleepless nights of patience, dedication, and hard work. Although I have no idea what it’s like to bear and raise a child, I have worked as a nanny for 12 years and believe I have a very good indication of the commitment and energy it takes to nurture one. The work will be worth the outcome. This baby girl will be loved and loved and loved for all her life.

I cannot wait to meet her.

Impossible Project

Go outside on a clear winter night and look up at the sky. Find a star, a bright one, and make a wish. Don't tell anyone what you wish for.

Wait until your wishing star falls from the sky. Catch it and hold it close. Then take it and put it in your pocket. Keep it safe.

The following winter, pass your star on to a loved one.
Forget about what you wished for.

Fundamentals of Sheet Music

Music plays a great role in my life and to be able to create some of that music is a sensation I cannot wholly explain. Playing the piano is soothing, peaceful, satisfying, and so many other things. It is beautiful to listen to and even better to compose. I have been blessed with the skill to play and will carry that with me for all my life. Below I’ve compiled some fun and easy directions that might help equip a piano novice to read sheet music. For starters, the standard piano is made up of 88 black and white keys and the first thing to teach someone is where middle C is located on the piano. Your piano should have a row of white piano keys interrupted by alternate sets of three and two black keys. The white key to the left of the first black two-set is known as C. On the standard piano, count the C keys from left to right. The fourth C to the right is Middle C. The next important thing to learn is knowing the names of the notes and where they are located on the piano. You cannot read sheet music without knowing the names of the keys. On the white set of keys the names are A,B,C,D,E,F, and G. After learning where those keys are, you need to be able to know the names of the black keys and where they are located. The black keys are are either going to be read as a flat key or a sharp key. The sharps are C#, D#, F#, G#, A#, and the flats are D-flat, E-flat, G-flat, A-flat, and B-flat. After learning the names of the notes and where they are located you will have to identify where they are loacted on a staff. A staff is bascically the bar which one reads when learning a piece of music. It lets you know if the piece is going to have any sharps or flats. And of course it has all the notes themselves listed. Next is learning rhythms. You need to count how many beats you hold down a key. A whole note is 4 beats, a dotted half note is 3 beats, a half note is 2 beats, and a quarter note is 1 beat. A beat can also be known as a count. Another thing to learn is the fact that on a piano you use both hands. This means you need to know the notes on the treble clef and the notes on the bass clef. The treble clef is attached to the right hand and the bass clef is designated for the use of your left hand. There is a little trick to remembering which note is what on the staff. For the treble clef, any notes that fall on the lines of the staff remember the phrase "Every Good Boy Does Fine." The first letter of every word is the name of the note. For the notes that fall in the spaces, you spell the word F.A.C.E. For the bass clef you can say "Great Big Dogs Fight Animals" for the lines and "All Cows Eat Grass" for the open spaces. In general, once you get all the notes down, it’s all about practice. You need to train your mind and your fingers to be able to work at the same time. That involves reading the music and memorizing where your fingers go on the piano in unison. Practice is an extremely crucial element to feeling comfortable enough to have your fingers dance freely along the keys. Once you get that down, it should be easy as 1-2-3. You’ll be a pro before you know it!

Warhol/Goldsmith

*Warhol*
Diamonds
Diamonds are overrated. There is nothing that could stand in the way between a woman and her jewelry. How a rock, a stone, could wind up costing more money than anything has a right to cost is beyond me. Engagement rings, wedding rings, anniversary bands…marriage is overrated. Although I am a promoter of love (whatever that may be, it is by any measure undefined) marriage is a trap. The way I see it, love should not be caged, or possessed, or confirmed by a vow, ring, and a license. A partnership should be confirmed by proximity and longevity, how long a couple can stand to be next to one another, that is all.

Technology
Technology is a curse. A blessing to most, but a curse if understood correctly. When applied, it can save lives, connect people together that are living extreme distances apart, it can make all forms of communication more simple, more accessible. But conventionally, it is unconventional. Efficient? Perhaps, but it consumes our thoughts as well as our actions. Creativity is restricted in one way, like entertainment for starters. Our minds are limited, our focus is shifted. Bigger and better, more frequent and faster. A factory is born. We have turned into machines. The simple life as we knew it is fading. Men on the moon? It is nearly terrifying of what will they think of next.

*Kenny Goldsmith*
Good Morning
The alarm sounds at 7:30am. Wake up. Turn over to the right. Open eyes. Grab the telephone and with blurry vision hit "Disable." Turn over and lie on my back. Turn over to the left and touch Greg. "Babe, it’s 7:30am, time to get up." Groggy and quietly, he replies, "Okay, 15 more minutes." "Okay." The alarm is off, so I am only half asleep, anticipating 15 minutes to go by. It goes by quickly. "Babe, it’s 7:45am…" "Okay, 3 more minutes…will you get the ironing board from your sister’s room for me?" "Okay…" I sit up halfway, the blanket still covering most of my body. "Where are my pants?" I feel around with my feet for my pants, which I’m certain are somewhere near the foot of the bed…I can’t find them. I sit up, shift the covers, lift them off my legs…there are my pants. I grab them, put the covers over me, and put on my pants while lying on my back, and with the covers up to my neck. I’m cold. I sit up and move from out under the covers. It’s cold. I find a hooded sweatshirt and put that on over my tank top. Open the door, open my sister’s door, and take the ironing board that’s lying against the wall behind her bedroom door. I shut her door behind me, walk into the kitchen, and unfold the ironing board. I walk back into my bedroom, Greg sits up, sighs heavily. "I don’t want to get up…can I have that sweatshirt?" I take off the sweatshirt, hand it to Greg, he gets up out of bed, I crawl into his spot. It’s warm, but I’m still cold. I lay under the covers until 8am, watching the hands tick on my new clock.

Novels In Three Lines*

USA Today
The Associated Press
Nov 7 2008
Snake oil is being sold to tourists in Chesterfield, Idaho; the product is said to make old men young and young women frisky.

USA Today
The Associated Press
Nov 7 2008
A deer rammed its way through glass doors at the Deery Bros. Collision Center in Burlington, Iowa; the animal died from its injuries.

USA Today
The Associated Press
Nov 7 2008
Eliot Spitzer, former Democratic New York governor who admitted to hiring call girls, will not face criminal charges; he resigned in March and has since been spending time with his wife and three daughters.

USA Today
By John Bacon with staff and wire reporters
Nov 7 2008
O.J. Simpson, who was convicted of kidnapping and robbery, could face life in prison; he is seeking a new trial.

USA Today
By Alexandra Olson
Nov 7 2008
“Black boxes” found on the plane that crashed and killed two of Mexico’s highest government officials have been sent to the U.S. for investigation; drug cartels are under speculation for having caused the crash.

Redmond Reporter
By Bill Christianson
Nov 06 2008
A 24-year-old software engineer was found murdered in her apartment. The cause of death was listed as strangulation and asphyxia; there are no suspects in the case.

Redmond Reporter
By Bill Christianson
Oct 30 2008
Former Microsoft employee impersonated a police officer, forcing a woman to have sex with him. He has been charged with rape and faces 20-26 years in prison if convicted.

Kirkland Reporter
By Kendall Watson
Oct 18 2008
Employees of the Red Dragon Spa and Red Rose Hot Stone Spa, who were not state-licensed massage practitioners, offered massages and other sexual favors in exchange for $100. The owner has been charged with felony prostitution.

Journal of the San Juans
www.sanjuanjournal.com
Oct 29 2008
A man who was vacationing with his wife suffered a heart attack on a ferry en route to the San Juan Islands. He later died at the hospital.

"News From Home"

Film: "News From Home"

By Chantal Ackerman

a dim alley, cars pass, people pass...
switch scenes: more cars, slightly busier street. i can see the water, just a small peek.
switch scenes: dialogue begins, even more cars and people. someone is reading a letter. it is new york! a mother reads a letter to her child, i think perhaps a daughter. she ends with "your loving mother." it is her birthday.
switch scenes: darker alley, rundown, littered streets.
switch scenes: not a cross section or alley, but a direct view of the front of some building. everything is so dark and gray...
switch scenes: one parked car, a crooked sign.
switch scenes: a street...nothing special here. it's all the same, people walking, cars driving, dirty streets.
switch scenes: it is getting dark. headlights are on; i can see the body of water again, this time at dusk. it looks cold.
switch scenes: another letter, the voice is drowned by traffic. "don't walk" flashes...who are these people? i'm afraid they might be homeless, how terribly sad...
switch scenes: a dark skinned woman on the sidewalk sitting on a stool i think...what is she doing there?
switch scenes: a parking lot. the camera moves! scenes are switching more quickly now, letters are harder to decipher, the traffic is loud. it is now very dark outside, almost pitch-black. the camera spans from one angle to another. a subway appears, no one is there. it is loud. it's dark. there are a lot of people outside on the street; another letter, a man smoking a cigarette sits outside a shop. view into a store, looks like some sort of eatery, maybe a deli. it is so dark outside. an empty diner, a donut shop...another letter. new days, new scenes, less letters from the child to her mother. letters are redundant...they sort of mirror life. nothing new seems to happen. it's the same old routine: money is sent, parents' health is poor, they are worried about their daughter. sounds like my mother, always talking about the same things. it's boring. it makes me crazy. where are the letters being sent to? ughhh...conversations are frustrating when redundant...the mother sounds interrogating. letters are being sent overseas i understand, from new york, but to where exactly is still unclear. the images in the video are repetitive, just like the letters. it is all getting a little dull to me now...this is not exactly the bright and busy new york i had imagined.

"The Last Clean Shirt"

Short Film: "The Last Clean Shirt"
By Alfred Leslie
Subtitles By Frank O'hara

To view the video, click on this link: http://ubu.com/film/leslie.html

Where are they going? Why is the woman passenger doing all the talking? How obnoxious, lol. What is she talking about?! It must not be important, since the conversation isn't reciprocated by her male companion. What is Alfred Leslie trying to imply, that what women have to say is essentially unimportant? I think so, but you know, not all what women communicate is unnecessary, mindless jibber-jabber. What's with the clock? I wish I knew what his intention with the clock was. My God, his driving is horrendous. In fact, everyone behind the wheel of a car is driving horrendously. Yikes! And they're not even wearing any seat belts... Oh, something familiar--I love T.S. Eliot. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is my favorite poem of all time. In fact, it might be the best poem ever written. Okay, maybe that's taking it a little far. I forgot a moment about Shakespeare, Poe, Keats, Emerson, Frost, Dickinson, Whitman, Twain, Yeats, and another personal favorite, e.e. cummings; he's probably not as popular as the rest, but I love his work. Well without further adieu, here it is, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the
floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . .I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

This woman has absolutely no sense of personal space! Was the "Africans building dams" a racial slur? He doesn't talk, but he smokes...typical. Gosh lady, slow down! Are we women that bad? That we don't even pause to speak as our voices are drowned out by buses, by sirens? What a slap in the face, what an insult. Is the gentleman timing how long she talks, or the distance between point A and point B? Who is the narrator and why is he quoting from the book of Genesis? Is someone going to die? "Ashes to ashes, from dust to dust..." Unconnected? The title has no connection to the plot. I'm not even sure if there IS a plot. The woman has no connection to the driver...he has no connection to his passenger. Is this all just a waste of time? Who is thinking? Because the man thinks and the woman speaks, does that mean he's some sort of an intellectual? He doesn't even hear her...ah-HA! The universal truth is revealed: when women speak, men aren't listening. "A far cry from a hard-on?" Of course they're thinking something sexual; stereotype confirmed. Unconnected...we are all lost, detached. No wonder things hardly get resolved, we're not on the same page. Where the hell are they going? Nowhere. Why won't he hear her? How completely disrespectful, but she doesn't seem to notice...or care. "Making out with the kangaroo..." Sex again! Oh man..."I like you." Then listen to what I am saying...