Crankypants

Since I am up at would be dark o'clock were it winter, a little posting is in order. In keeping with my early morning mood, I will regale my readership (yes, both of you) with a story of evil, high finance (the ubiquitous they, say it is the root of all evil), aggression and general crankitude.

I'm not going to lie to you. In the days following the end to my musical retirement, I was in a good mood, even an optimistic one. Anyway, shortly thereafter, we (me, myself, I, and my mom - the car was packed!) were driving home from an outing, feeling Pollyanaish rays of sunshine warm our benevolent little faces and talking about how generally good and kind most people are.

Because I owed her money and was too lazy to actually get out of the car, I decided to stop at the drive up ATM before going home. Under the circumstances, it seemed like the wisest course of action. Even though she looks sweet, my mother is not above hiring some silver haired goon from the senior center where she volunteers to break my knee caps (or at least feebly hit them with a cane), if I don't pay up on time.

So, we stopped. As was getting my money out, a BIG, black monster truck pulled up behind me. It was one of those huge, gas guzzling vehicles that I abhor. It had tinted windows and bedecked with flags, making it look like the first vehicle in the Presidential motorcade. If I had noticed him before he started screaming something mostly intelligible, but recognizably peppered with obscenities, I would have wondered when the band was going to show up to play Hail to the Chief . As it was, I only noticed him as I was putting my ATM card away.

At first, I thought he was impatient at having to wait, which annoyed me, because I wasn't exactly dwadling. I don't know what possessed me, because I am usually not at all confrontational, but before my brain realized what it was doing, my head had stuck itself out of my window and my mouth was yelling the words: "What is wrong with you? Can't you act like a human being and wait quietly for five seconds until it's your turn?!?!?!?!?" In retrospect, I realize that human beings are capable of some pretty horrendous behavior, so he probably was just taking my advice when this made him scream and curse even more. He looked as though his hate-filled head was going to explode. If he is this way with strangers, I can only imagine what a nightmare he is for those close to him.

Who is he to try to bully me anyway? Half of me wanted to go back and be just as aggro back at him, and then I realized that his tantrum probably had more to do with the "U.S. out of Iraq NOW!" sticker in the back window of my car than it had to do with any ATM related malfeasance or sluggishness on my part. I imagine that he is one of those flag wavers who veer from patriotism into chauvinism and that my disagreement with U.S. foreign policy irked his "If you're not for us, you're against us" sensibilities, because he doesn't grasp that when you're "for something", you have an obligation to speak up when it is going down the wrong path.

Why is it that such people believe in freedom of speech, as long as one does not have the affrontery to disagree with them? Even if the four sweetest words in the English language are "You are SO right!", it is simplistic to see the world, and especially politics and policy, as anything but nuanced. It strikes me that this man's behavior is, on a small scale, exactly the sort of behavior in our policy that has half the world angry with us. There is nothing wrong with looking out for one's interests or even with strongly espousing a particular point of view, but there is something wrong with doing so with no regard to the rights of others.

I don't know what this man's problem was. Maybe he had a son in Iraq, maybe he is just some ueber-patriot, who can't handle dissent, or maybe he was just a garden variety asshole. All I do know, was that by the time I had made it around the parking lot to give him a piece of my mind, I was thinking "What's the use of me getting my blood pressure up over someone like this?" So, instead of screaming back at him, I just waved and told him as sweetly as I could to have a nice day.

The Sound of Music

How is it that we can love doing something, yet fall away from doing it? Why is it that when we grow up, many of us do not make the time for those things that bring us joy?

When I was a girl, I remember spending hours in the back yard, singing selections from The Sound of Music. I sang about alpine flowers. I sang about goatherds. When I could get someone to sing with me, I harmonized about alphine flowers and goatherds. Either way, I sang loudly. I sang proudly.

As I got older, I started badgering my parents for instruments and music lessons - first the piano (though an ill fated twist involving my dad and a smooth talking organ salesman, ended up with me getting an organ instead), then it was the violin, then guitar, then, finally, voice. I sang in choirs and talent shows and harbored a secret, childish dream of being a musician, diligently practicing singing into my hairbrush every night.

Then something happened. I started to grow up, and suddenly it wasn't enough to just sing. It had to be good. Somehow, like Salieri in Amadeus, I became consumed by the idea that perhaps I was just a mediocrity. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I began to distance myself ever further from being a participant in the music that I had once so loved, leaving it to the people who really were good at it.

Oh, sure, I did my share of shower concerts and duets with Toby the dog (in case you were wondering, he prefers to howl along to songs sung loudly with his name as the lyrics, most notably The Battle Hymn of the Republic, The Macarena, and the Habanera aka the L'Amour est un oiseau rebelle song from Carmen). I am also always up for some good belting on a road trip, but the idea of seriously participating as anything but a listener to anything musical left me somewhere back in my early college years.

Then, last year, I made the acquaintance of a choir director, who gently nagged and cajoled me for a number of months before I finally showed up for one of her projects - a performance of the Missa Luba designed to raise money for hurricane victims in the Gulf states. I ended up in the soprano section. Immediately my thought was "This is too high. I can't do this." For some reason, though, I decided to stay in that section. After weeks of rehearsal (and vocal exercises at home), I actually managed to bring my range back to where I could reach those notes. I'm not saying anyone would want to hear me do a solo on them, but I could reach them respectably enough for group singing.

In the end, the performance went off well (except for one train wreck section during the Credo, but we managed to recover in the end. It wasn't perfect, but it was exhilerating. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it. I can't wait until we do it again next year (and at a bigger venue, I might add)! Now I want to sing wherever I go. Since this could potentially cause problems, I will probably just end up joining a choir or something. Whatever I do, I do know that I want to hold on to that good feeling.

I realized in participating in the concert that the good feeling comes from somewhere other than acheiving perfection. So often when we engage in creative pursuits as adults, we want the product to be too perfect. When they're not, we berate ourselves not being good enough writers, artists, poets, photographers, musicians etc. The fear of not being perfect drives us ever further away from perfection. The truth is that creative endeavors only have a chance of transcending the mundane, if we don't lose our sense of play. You can't worry about the note you just flubbed or the really hard passage coming up on page 10. You can only live in the now (oh, clown of life, how wise you are!). Enjoy and feel the note you're on. Sure you have to practice and learn and even refine, but ultimately, it's the ability to let go and just put whatever song, words, picture, idea one has out there and develop it that makes the whole process rewarding.

Anyone who wants to produce something, needs to hone his or her craft. But the more I think about it, it's not the technical honing that makes greatness. It's the ability to build on that honing by letting go and putting one's heart into the act of creation that creates greatness. But perhaps I'm becoming too esoteric. My point really is simply that creative endeavors should be fun.

So, my advice for everyone is this: Find something that you used to love (or always wanted to try) and just do it. Don't worry about being perfect, just throw yourself into it. Take the time to learn, take the time to enjoy. It will make you feel SO good, and ultimately you'll find with time that you do get better at it. Sometimes you might even come as close to perfect as humanly possible, but mostly you'll have fun.

IALFLWSIWRYSERTWMYLMFSYSI

Welcome to the first installment of "I am lazy and don't feel like writing, so I will refer you to something else to read that will make you love me for showing you something interesting" (or IALFLWSIWRYSERTWMYLMFSYSI for short).

Today's winner is the weblog of Michael Bérubé, in particular the Wednesday, May 19th post "St George and the Dragon, a fable by Richard Cheney", written by guest blogger Lance Mannion. Bérubé's blog is also good when he's there, but being a Terry Pratchett fan, it is Mannion's artice that I want to point out today.

So mote it be

DCP03320
Originally uploaded by jensect.

There are times when I am almost (but not quite) surprised at some of the places I end up. In the early months of 2006, I have helped plan a peace rally, joined a choir, ferried a group of nervous coworkers around greater Los Angeles in a rented PT Cruiser (a model that is completely sucktastic to drive, by the way), developed a fondness for South African music, and suddenly gone from mind-numbingly boring work to helping manage a test program that has me back to working with publishing, tight deadlines, reps, merchants and schools.

In this spirit of embracing the unexpected, last Sunday found me at a Beltaine celebration at a country home in Newberg. Not only did I attend, I made my pagan debut reading the part of East. Actually, I think the official term is something like "invoking the elements", but since I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, I read my part: “With the warmth of the sun, The seedling blossoms into color, Standing tall and proud beneath the radiant globe. Its glory admired and loved by all.”

How did I suddenly become High Priestess of the East? Out of curiosity, I accepted an invitation to attend the ritual from an acquaintance from my choir. Then, when I got there, the person assigned to the East decided she didn’t want to do it. So, I figured that if I was already making myself an affront to all things holy by attending a heathen ritual, I might as well read a few lines too.

As it turns out, the evening was fun and fascinating. I’ve always been curious about what pagans actually do, so it was a good opportunity to see. The event was held out in the country in Newberg at the home of a couple whom I know vaguely from church. It was so lovely and peaceful out there. It makes me want to move out of the city even more. It must be so nice to live somewhere where you can do whatever you want without having to worry about bothering the neighbors (or about them seeing you!).

At any rate, the event was attended by probably 20 or so people, a gorgeous malamute Portia and a short and excitable dachshund named Willie. It was a very mixed group - Americans, Germans (thanks to me and my pagan cohort/mother), an Asian and an African. Even the pastor of the church we’ve been going to was there, which did surprise me in some ways, even though I already knew that she is very open minded.

The evening began with the forming of The Circle. There was drumming and a procession around the fires before I got to make my pagan debut only after first waiting for a Jester, a Cleric, North AND South to finish yammering on. Only West went after me, and frankly, I think she was a bit overshadowed by my brilliant performance and inspired reading of blossoming seedlings and radiant globes, especially since all she had to talk about were withered blooms and fruit.

After the forming of the circle around the fire, there was a welcoming of the Divine, which involved two people representing the Lord and Lady passing around the circle, and also a serving of grain and wine that was very much like taking communion in church, except for that they were accompanied by “May you never hunger” and “May you never thirst” instead of “This is my body, broken for you...” Once the “meal” (a chocolate chip cookie, dipped in wine) had been taken, there was more travelling as all the participants took another stroll around the fire before taking a bundle of sage and throwing it into the fire along with a silent prayer for the world (mine being for peace in general and more specifically that some asshat doesn't start a nuclear war).

Sages wishes made, we went about the business of choosing a Scapegoat, which was done by drawing tissue-wrapped cookies from a basket. (Who knew pagans were so big on cookies? I might have joined them years ago, had I realized). All the cookies but one were coated in powdered sugar. The burnt one (actually just coated in cocoa powder) was the one meant for the scapegoat. As we each took our cookie, I prayed that I would not have the burnt one, because I don't think that Martina falling into the fire and torching her new skirt makes for a successful celebration of any sort (though I did once manage to ignite my hair on the flame of a candle at a pub and still have fun, but that is another story for another time and another place).

Luckily, my fears were assuaged when our host's pre-teen son drew the scapegoat cookie. He was the perfect choice, since he was definitely spry enough to leap over the fire pit without any mishaps. Before he took his leap, however, he had to put on a white aprony thing upon which everyone had to write or draw some wish for the world. Not being able to draw, I confined my artistic endeavors to just writing "peace" and "health", which apparently worked, because the boy made it successfully across the fire without needing an extinguisher.

Once the Scapegoatery was done, there was some poetry in place of the point in The Mists of Avalon movie (the universally acknowledged authority on all things pagan) where the orgy begins. Then the divine was released by means of another chant (the Spiral Dance Chant) and we all were given prayer bundles to throw into the fire when we were ready. I’m not sure if I should tell what mine were. Perhaps such things lose their power when they are not kept secret, but I will share that one of them was for an acquaintance who recently lost her newborn twins to a rare genetic condition and that the others were more personal.

After the ceremony was over, there was a huge dinner with lentil soup, salmon, leg of lamb, a really great salad with kale and potatoes, a quiche-like dish with dried fruit and nuts (which I know sounds odd, but tasted so good!), and fresh strawberries for dessert. Frankly, if pagans always eat like this, I think I've found my people! We sat around the fire for quite a while, eating, drinking, and chatting. It was a nice evening, not only due to the company, but also to having learned about something new. I don’t know that I believe in it all any more than I believe everything one hears in church, but it’s interesting to learn about different spiritual traditions and absorb the things that speak to me into my own eclectic sensibility.

For more information on Beltane (and some really cool pictures!), visit www.beltane.org

P.s. Thanks to Jen for the use of her very cool and mysteriously named DCP03320.

Don't Attack Iran

The Senate and House has passed the Biden amendment to the supplemental spending bill. This amendment bans any use of the supplemental funds for the purpose of establishing permanent bases in Iraq.

Unfortunately, it appears that the Bush administration not only appears to be considering attacking Iran, but with use of nuclear weapons. Please take a moment to urge Congress to assert its constitutional power to decide whether or not the President may go to war. Tell Congress to tell Bush and Cheney NO!
http://democrats.com/peoplesemailnetwork/80

I have decided

It is a gloriously sunny Saturday morning, and I'm the decider, and I decide what is best. And what's best is for Don Rumsfeld to remain as the secret... No, wait. That's not what I decided. That's what the other decider (clearly a false prophet trying to usurp my authority) decided. What I decided is there are some things you my dear reading public (yes, I mean all three of you) should know about.

Back at the end of March, someone not only bought me tickets to see the Cirque du Soleil's Varekai, but she also sent me a link to a documentary called Loose Change. At the time we still had dial-up, which left me somewhat disinclined to spend the 4500 hours required to load a 1:21 movie, so I just saved the link, but never really did anything with it. Now that I've watched it, I can proclaim that it has something for everyone - political junkies, conspiracy theorists, people who don't believe the official version of 911, and general Bush bashers alike.

While I'm not saying that I buy into everything presented in the movie, I am saying that it raises some interesting questions. One review I read of the movie suggested that all it got right was the date of the event, but I think there is more than that. They got the year right too. Also, while I'm not sure that Loose Change's answers are all the right ones, I can get behind the acknowledgement that not everything is as clear as the administration or the media (which is increasingly just an arm of the administration) has admitted, and the movie definitely presents enough evidence to merit further study. It's a stark contrast to the also controversial (but for different reasons), new United 93 movie, which opened to mixed reviews this weekend. Either way, you can view Loose Change by going here.

But life is not all about accusations of manipulation of the facts leading up to the war with Iraq. It is also about accusations of mismanagement of FEMA and the 2005 Katrina disaster in the gulf coast. Recovery efforts continue to this day. In hopes raise money in support of recovery, there will be a performance of the Missa Luba in Portland on May 20th, benefitting Hope Shall Bloom, the UCC's continuing recovery efforts in Mississippi and Louisiana. I bring this up not only because it is a good cause, but it marks my re-entry into the music world. Yes, after a 15 year retirement (judging by the Behind the Blow special devoted to my early years, the music world has sorely missed me), I have joined Bridgeport UCC's joint venture with other churches and choirs in performing an African Mass in pure Congolese style.

The piece originated when Belgian missionary, Father Guido Haazen, who came to the Congo in the early 50's, formed Les Troubadours du Roi Baudouin, a choir of 45 boys and 15 teachers from the Kamina Central School. The mass, which is a combination of traditional Latin liturgy and traditional Congolese rhythm and melody, was first recorded in 1963. However one views the history of colonialism and cultural empiralism from whence (that's right, I said from whence) it came, there is no denying the beauty of the Missa Luba. I like to hope that something so lovely embraces Felá Sówándé's plea to "Respect the culture and the religions of my people, too. Teach, if you will, but do not impose. Even better, let us learn from one another."

Analyse This!

I was enrolled in an Idol style singing competition where I was doing double duty performing and assigning everyone a song. This is apparently not a conflict of interest when I am the one doing it. Even though I had scrawled the song choices on the back of a folded up piece of brown paper bag, I couldn't figure out who had been assigned what (and most importantly what my own song would be). Ever ready to intervene and micromanage, my boss showed up. She then took my paper away from me and reassigned them all, giving me that awful Mariah Carey Hero song. This did not please me one bit and not only because I don't know the words to Hero, even if I have been unable to escape its lesson that a hero does indeed lie in me. Luckily, I miraculously remembered my original plan and changed everything back, so I'd be singing Bob Wills' Drunkard's Blues as performed by Kelly Hogan on the Pine Valley Cosmonauts Salute to the Majesty of Bob Wills, which is only true and proper.

Happy with my final choice, I headed off to the school cafeteria as an excuse to look for David Boreanaz at the salad bar. He had been flirting with me earlier outside, so it seemed the sensible thing to do. So, I toddled off to the salad bar to feign the inability to eat, because I was so nervous about my performance. This would allow me to be delicate AND advertise that I'd be singing without directly asking him to come. Unfortunately, when I tried to bump into him line, I learned that he would not be able to attend the competition. Undaunted, I offered to sing for him there. He declined, claiming he had work to do.

Apparently he was investigating a girl, who was turning into a demon and had to go to her room (probably to look at her etchings). In the end, as is so often the case, she exploded and then I was on a bus looking for her residence hall (and David Boreanaz). I never did find him, but her remains (the shredded plastic of an exploded blow up doll) were indeed scattered about her boudior.

After that, I hopped back on the bus and headed over to the campus information desk, which was made of bales of hay. The two information officers were very friendly, so I talked to them for a bit while I waited for my friends to arrive. They asked me if I knew anything about the anti-war rally on the 19th, so I gave them a poster sized flyer out of my purse.

Poster distributed, it was time to adjourn to the Underworld with my mom, a guy from church, and a small Chinese woman from work. First, though, we had to find a meeting room. We parted ways when Churchy went off up the stairs to look for it, while we looked in our area. It was then that I noticed a door to outside and immediately to the right of it, a door back to the inside. We took it, and ended up in a long hall that lead to a dimly lit sanctuary filled with demons with white, scaley skin. We walked down a long walkway between the pews they were sitting in, ignoring them, but afraid they would try to grab us. Then we went around another corner and into another even darker cavern that had rickety, rotting wooden ladders, over a pit of fire. When we got to the bottom, there was a narrow path between the coals, leading forward.

After that, we were in a very small movie theater alone. Strange beings kept coming in. The others were afraid, but for some reason I was not. Because I am apparently a hippie in my dreams, I told the others that all they had to do was medidate on the word "Peace". This would give us time to determine what to do and also protect us from the demons. My coworker (whom I actually DO like in real life) kept jabbering and interrupting the necessary quiet with her incessant prattle. I kept meditating and trying to ignore her as a group of spooky looking hooded beings in black came in. I tried not to focus on them and kept focusing on the word "Peace", they turned into black men in nicely tailored pin-striped suits, who asked if they could sit with us. I was just contemplating inviting everyone to join me in using one of the exits to the front of the theater, when I was rudely awakened by the alarm clock, which is a shame, because I suspect John Wesley Harding was waiting outside to fly us all to safety in his magic bus.