When Derrick first saw the vintage Indian scarf I hung up on my wall the other day, his eyes went wonder-wide and globe-y, big blue sky marble and sniff-sniff-what's this. I later found one of the sequins on the pillow, so I'm guessing he was enchanted by the way they glimmer enough to explore, all paw thump and nosebump.
He actually reminded me of myself the other night, when I was running on the East River right as night fell. Have you noticed how silent, how aching, how beautiful and secret the sky is in November? I think it has to be my favorite. Anyway, as the light fades the sky goes all stripey, from robin's egg to royal to naval to midnight, and the river gets all moony and gentle like a bathtub, and I'm like OMG…Sky! How can I have never seen you like this? Like I've had a crush on you my whole life, and finally this is our first date, you're all twinkly and dressed in velvet and whispers.
According to my friend Dina, who recently posted this photo from the New Gloucester Village Store on her Facebook page, I may have actually met this beautiful bird when I stayed at a nearby bed-and-breakfast last year. She was in the backyard when I met her, but too bad we didn't have much time to talk. I would have told her to definitely go for the Cabernet.
P.S. I love this song and its sentiment so much that I stole my "About Me" from it! And when I saw Ray play this like 10 or so years ago, he looked right at me as he sang the second verse. Swoon! I'da thunk I was just imagining it if the person next to me hadn't noticed, too. I'm not the autograph/photo/groupie, type, and as a rule I think that famous musicians are no fancier than some regular old everyday people, like the people I know who save animals and make the world safer for cats and dogs and yes, chickens. But Ray, well, he's pretty fancy. At the time I was wordless. Unlike this post.
…like Mick at the end of this clip in which the band is listening to a recording of "Wild Horses," we'd shamelessy, blamelessly, delightfully, rightfully know that we're perfect as we are.
It took Bing 10 minutes to get into this position, which is actually pretty good for him. I don't know what's going on in his self-described matinee idol mind, but his MO is like this: he'll sidle up to Derrick and just kind of loom over him, staring, not moving, but very obviously engaged in some sort of special for-kitties-only spatial/energy-moving task. Then, after what could amount to 15-20 minutes of this, he hunkers down, first try, in the most comfortable, perfect position. His moves are few and well-choreographed--but then again, I've been saying all along he's a minimalist.
Lately I've been working on being energy efficient. Not like an air conditioner or anything, but as it applies to movement. I have no lack of strength or force, but I tend to fritter away my energy in the moments before and after I really need it. Like, hmmm… when you do pirouettes, the preparation is the most important thing--it's your time to center yourself and prepare for lift-off. If you get all excited and anxious about it, like I sometimes do, you might hop into your preparation, thinking you can use that extra force for pirouette-y goodness. No, no, no, though. You're actually screwing up your delicate balance. Far better to step the foot down, and use that errant kilowatt or however you measure energy--what is it? ergs? newtons?--for the actual turn.
Then of course you can waste energy on the back end, too, like fidgeting when you finish a yoga pose, which is sort of like laughing nervously at the end of an otherwise smart-talkin' sentence. Not that I'm some sort of energy prude, but geesh…things go much smoother when you don't blow your wad before you even start.
P.S. Snort! Somehow this post didn't end how I'd expected.
My name is Pune and I am a slob. I think. It's not like you'll find toenail clippings on the dining room table (true blind date story!) or rotting gourds from last Autumn (If you poke holes in them, they'll dry out and you can shake them like maracas. Am I the only one with a thing for tambourines?), but it's just so much easier to fling clothes on the chair instead of hanging them up.
If I were happy as a piglet in $hit in my barnyard, I wouldn't care. But the visual clutter really bothers me, and the fact that I can't let go of certain things weighs me down. Like why is my Halloween costume from 3 years ago (back-up dancer for Prince) still in the dry cleaning basket… Because I'm waiting for the next occasion that calls for a 1980s sparkly purple v-neck jumpsuit? (Ironically, the only other time I wore it was to a Dave Davies concert at the Bottom Line, and it clearly resonated with some fans from Japan, who took my picture for their fanzine. Ridonkulous, I know.) I vacillate between wanting lots of things I can look at and touch and throwing everything out because it's all just crap, crap, crappity crap. Like Sri Swami Satchidananda says, By simply going into your room and seeing its condition, people can tell how much rubbish there is inside your mind.
And the possessions, ugh! He has more to say on that: Remember, when you say that so many things are "mine, mine, mine, mine" you have literally thrown mines all around you. They are ready to explode at any moment. You cannot even walk with ease. True. Just today I stepped in a stray blob of cat food that had fallen in the kitchen, and it sent me sock-skating across the floor. You don't want that kind of rug pulled out from under you in your own house.
And it's really more about what you can't see, what's smouldering/mouldering in the corners and under the sink. Seething and stuttering in the bookshelves, stashed in the crisper. On a bad day it can make me feel dirty deep inside, to know that there were, say, little brown bugs in the flour.
I'm pretty sure this feeling goes back to my childhood. I'm telling you now, Catholics can be a bunch of snoops, always actively looking for the dirt on someone else while covering up their own messes. When I was about 16, my friends and I, being normal teenagers, bought a Playgirl (don't repeat our mistake if you're 16--it's about as sexy as a Lifetime movie and you're not the target audience anyway) and I hid it in my bottom drawer. My mother confronted me one day and told me I was filthy, having found it after being tipped off by my brother.
I can't really blame them any longer, 'cause I have had lots of time to work it out. (Besides, I totally reciprocated.) And so I've decided to sort of formalize it here, announcing in a public forum that in 6 months, I will be living a clutter-free life. I've already started with a variety of actions, such as buying a $7.99 grout brush at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Too bad it's not as simple as that, so I'm currently working on my strategy as outlined in a Health Commitment Plan in The Wellness Book: The Comprehensive Guide to Maintaining Health and Treating Stress-Related Illness. It's a little over the top for self-help books, because you have to come up with a 3-page plan that lists your short-term goals as they correspond to what stage you're in in terms of readiness to change (all the way from "Attempting change--need structure, support and skills" to "Change made--slipping back into bad habits"), but my process-oriented department mates at work will know just what I'm talking about.
I hope you don't mind if I report on my progress here every so often, 'cause it'd be helpful to know you're out there. So the most burning question that needs to be answered, right here, right now: What should I do with the Prince jumpsuit?
Aerosmith covers Oscar!
Oooh, I just LOVE this one, in spite of, and actually because of, the two very distinct themes going on here--George is singing about red bell peppers while Bob's covering the automotive theme with wax jobs et al...
Butterflies live for only a week in the wild, but in that week, they've got a lot to do. As they get older, their wings just sort of fall apart. We saw them just sitting on top of these big slices of banana. Imagine sticking your nose, your most sensitive organ, in a flower and letting it, and yourself, stay there for hours. Is it like those people who swim in big vats of jello? Or freezer pops. Geez, I hope flowers don't taste like freezer pops.
Sweet freedom, whispered in my ear
Um, here's what's written on my copy of the album on which you'll find this next song: "To Suzy/All our love/The Cowsills/you've got a great/dad."
