dona nobis pacem

As is usual with everyone, I've had a lot going on. The summer was filled with more busyness than reflection and relaxation than I had anticipated or wanted, but it stretched me and I found the distraction welcome; but now that things are beginning to settle down, and fall approaches with its mellowing and dying of the year, I'm beginning, with the settling, to settle, and with the drifting of the silt of my own private hubbub to the bottom of the riverbed, I'm facing with clarity of a number of the things that I didn't have to before, and coming to some choices.

One of the key phrases Leigh Ann and I adopted from Dark Angel was "Stay Strong in the Struggle," and one of the principle ideas we gleaned from Angel was that life is all about the fight, and sometimes we get melodramatic (purposefully, or at least in self-awareness) about it; but I experienced a couple of significant upheavals this year of a kind which I normally try to avoid, and I was still recovering from another significant upheaval from the year before, and I dislike situations without finality, I hate uncertainty and living in the question, and toward the end of this summer I got just plain tired of fighting my own emotions and sank like Eddie Izzard's "flan in a cupboard" into a little self-protective funk.

And it's time to let it all go. It's time to come to finality by embracing the question, it's time to close the door by forgetting it's open, it's time to move forward by letting what's gone be gone and holding on with gratitude and joy to what I have. It's time to relearn that, sometimes, love is letting be; that bitterness and resentment are best combatted by prayer and understanding; that the kindest memory is the shortest; that the best goodbyes are unspoken; that forgiveness trespasses and upholds the boundaries of the necessary. I'm not good at most of these, but life is long, and there's no time like now for getting started.

Besides, I have a lot of work to do. The job is busy (always), my friendships are rich and deepening, I'm reconnecting with some of my old companions, some of my old ambitions, I'm led by a God of healing toward peace when I least expect it, and, ever and again, it's almost fall.

Monday moldrums

That's the word I've invented for the day. "Doldrums" is way too strong, and there isn't a word quite suitable enough, so now I have one. "Moldrums." It sort of evokes a nicely flat, cruddy blahness, nothing nearly deep or dark enough to be despair, but just the sort of Monday feeling that makes you want to flick the alarm button off and roll back under the covers and pretend the day never started. Moldrums. Like a potato slowly going bad in the dark of the pantry, collapsing and getting wrinkled and losing its firmness and starting, just a little bit, to stink, to give off that weird "what's that smell" odor that makes you wonder what's lurking behind the door, when the day outside the kitchen window is bright and sunny. Moldrums. A word of contrast, when nothing can account for the present state of "meh" but you feel "meh" anyway, when you feel that you ought to feel chipper and feel just a little guilty that you feel "meh" instead.

Yup. Moldrums.

Fortunately I have the office mostly to myself, so I can molder in the moldrums to my heart's content...and maybe put a little of my new music on without disturbing anyone. :) Gotta take your perks where you can grab 'em.

Bah. Mondays. Why are there never enough hours to sleep on the weekends to make you ready for Mondays? Tuesdays are fine. Wednesdays are great. Thursdays are splendid. Fridays are celebratory. But Mondays?

Moldrums.

feathers

Yesterday Meggers and I girded our loins and sold a little bit of our souls to consumerism...that is, hit the mall for some much-needed apparel -- she for work clothes (maternity ones -- yes, folks, she's going to be a mom, and I'm going to be an auntie!!!), I for something to wear to my sister's wedding in the Caribbean in November.

We both hate shopping. I learned to be more okay with it during my stint as a retail associate three years ago (summer is a season of anniversaries for me -- three years ago on August 14 I first rolled into the Bend to call it home), but it's still not my first choice of Fun Things to Do, and we both grew considerably grouchier as the day wore on. But we powered through and we made it, rather productively, I thought, and something about doing something mutually hateful together bolstered our determination.

The best part of my experience was finding dresses for the Cayman Islands. Of course my first stop was at Ann Taylor -- I found my bridesmaid dress for my (woopee!!) maid of honor status on their website (it's beauuuutiful) and I wanted to see how their sizes are running these days, so I tried on a few and found one to add to the wardrobe, insanely, deliciously on sale, pretty as a pin, and I remembered my dictum for dress buying when I was an associate: Buy the dress that makes you dance.

I also found one at Old Navy for six bucks, and a fun pair of hempy sandals to go with both at DSW.

Now all I need are the appropriate undergarments, shoes for the bridesmaid dress (already picked out online, but again, I need to see how Ann Taylor's sizes are running, so it's another trip back to the store), and jewelry. And it isn't even close to the last minute yet. I'm somewhere between pleased and surprised with myself. But maybe it's the Scots find-that-sale-and-save-that-penny streak rearing up in me at last.

post-it note of poe-ian pallor

I am very tired. It's raining constantly here, and the rain calls me to rest, and all I want to do is curl up in my apartment and sleep for a week, with nothing to do and nowhere to go and no obligations.

I've been working harder than ever at my job, and I love all the problem-solving I get to do, but the torrent of tasks is never-ending and I only want a break. Everything is damp and I need to hibernate.

A little soul-restoration would not go amiss. I am not unhappy, just weary and worn and a little put off by the influx of people in the office. Need to recharge the introvert batteries with a fresh bout of solitude and a good dose of Nature, which I haven't had in forever and which I'm starving for, especially with the ending of August and the coming of September and the beginnings of fall.

Love to all.

Summer 2007 Music Spree Addendum

Yeah, you're probably all sick of hearing about my musical endrownment, and believe me, there's plenty going on life-wise, but I don't feel like airing it on the blogosphere this time around...can't quite explain why, but there you have it, the princess writing about music from her Ivory Tower, and keeping everything else private. Email for more personal updates, if you want them! I imagine it won't be too long before I return to the voice you're familiar with.

Until then, here are the albums I ordered today (I love that extra paycheck):

1. Josh Ritter, Josh Ritter (1999) (oh, yessss, his self-titled...and unavailable on Amazon. I went to his official website to procure this one);
2. Rabbit Songs, Hem (2001);
3. Ohio, Over the Rhine (2003) (this one's a gamble, based purely on my own websurfing and Amazon's recommendations -- something I don't normally do; I ordinarily wait for the endorsements of friends -- I'm excited!);
4. Cold Roses, Ryan Adams (2005).

The truly lovely thing is that this spree has necessitated more CD holders in my living room, since I've finally run out of space for them. Delightful -- rearrangement, organization. Perfect way to spend a rainy weekend.

hello starling

Why didn't I get this album before?

While I enjoy a lot of artists, there aren't many whom I trust. I trust these: Nickel Creek, Sufjan Stevens, and Josh Ritter. Everything they do. Hands down. I know that, no matter what's in the album, I'm going to love it, and I don't have to ease myself into the listening; I can throw myself there, and it's all good.

It must have been those reviews on Amazon about Hello Starling saying it was too imitative of Bob Dylan that dissuaded me from making the purchase before, and the fact that Amazon withheld the listening samples, so I couldn't preformulate my own opinion. But that was back before I knew that I trusted Josh Ritter; and, with his newest coming out SOON (omigosh in like two days), I wanted to listen to EVERYTHING he's done -- much like I read my way backwards through all the HP books in preparation for the coming of Book 7. So I bought Starling and popped it in almost "breathless with anticipation" this afternoon.

And all I can say of Starling is that if this is Josh's worst, he can't do a bad album. It's not as masterful as The Animal Years (duh; it's not as mature), but it's still better than good -- really fabulous -- and there are a lot of strains of pure young joy running through it that catch you up, even though the songs themselves aren't always that happy. (I remember a time when a friend came over and asked me to put in some happy music, and I looked at her blankly. "Happy music? I, uh...don't really have any." Meanwhile Josh was spinning through my mind, but I didn't think he'd qualify to her as happy. She snorted at my attempts to produce this thing called "happy music.") I listen to Josh and I want to drive all night, I want to camp out under a cold open sky, I want to stare into a fire and sing along to someone's guitar, I want to smell the nearness of that one man and rasp my fingertips and my cheeks against a day's growth of beard, I want to laugh and cry and spin around with my arms outflung like no one's watching until I'm too dizzy to stand up.

It's hard to be sad with music that makes you feel like that. You feel safe instead. Free.

Highlight tracks of the album: "Kathleen," "Rainslicker," "Snow is Gone."

But really, I love it all. It's folksy, Wurlitzer/Hammondy, jubilant in many places, energetic, just plain old great stuff. And it's neat to see this piece of his journey as an artist.

And I can't wait for The Historical Conquests.

Jacksonville City Nights

These Amazon sellers are unbelievably on the ball.

So I received Jacksonville City Nights on Wednesday, started listening to it yesterday, and love it.

The car is my music-listening studio; I make too much of a stink about the volume level of my fellow tenants' various electronic devices to feel comfortable playing anything in my apartment that isn't quiet (and in fact rule the "Shhh" atmosphere of the house with an unconscious iron fist -- all of my neighbors tell me, proudly, that they only play their music when I'm gone, and are careful to turn it down when my car pulls into the driveway. Sometimes I puzzle over how things came to that pass -- I've never complained to the landlord about them; the only neighbor I've bothered about his music is Jim, but I call him directly when it's too loud; but somehow the girls know I like it quiet, and respect it. It's funny). And I like my car stereo because I can hear everything, every tone and vibration and harmony, it surrounds me, and I can turn it up and blast away without worrying about bothering anyone else.

So. Jacksonville City Nights. I can't give a complete review, only a sketch, as I have yet to listen to the entire album, and that thoroughly; as with all albums I begin to love, I get stuck on one song and play it for a week or more, and right now that song is Dear John, which Ryan Adams sings in duet with Norah Jones. It's beyond incredible -- gut-wrenching, mostly quiet, sweet, raw. The vocals -- hitting five- or more-part harmony in the choral lines -- rip right through you with a penetrating power that leaves you almost too sick for tears, in a gorgeous way.

The album overall is Ryan Adams' alt-country, full of old-school twang and grit and steel guitar, but without the contemporary vapidness and too many drums and shallow lyrics and pointless predictable rhymes that I hate about the country you pick up on the radio. This has sorrow with soul, and no corn-meal mush. It's the kind of thing you'd expect from the 'way-back-when country artists, with updated dashes of jazz and flairs of modern life fanned in.

Thumbs up. I can't wait to get lost in the rest of the album.

(And I'm so glad to have this half-hour commute to work and this half-hour commute back home every day...it's so much enriched my listening experience. And something about these bluegrass/country indie artists, unfolding their tunes in my car as I drive across the Michigan fields and through the Michigan woods, does something to me. I don't know. But the Midwest is becoming more and more a place that I love, not just a place where I happen to live.)

feasts for the musical palate

Periodically -- about twice a year -- I go on a music binge. This usually coincides with my three-pay-periods-in-a-month month, which also happens twice a year. Handy, eh?

So once every six months I troll Amazon for my favorite artists, or scope out Amazon's recommendations, or pick my way through recommendations from friends, and give myself eyestrain scanning album and track titles, and reading over editorial and listener reviews. I give my brain the equivalent of a stomachache from listening to the hors d'oeuvre offered by the sample playlist bytes. I take notes. I jot down promising-sounding albums and artists. I muse over the handwritten list, evaluate the expenses, cull a great many of them, settle on five or six, add them to my cart, and then spend weeks in breathless anticipation waiting for those beautiful media mail envelopes to bring me my treasures from the hands of the overly taciturn mailman, colored with anxieties never yet fulfilled that my neighbors will steal them before I get home (I should start sending these things to my work address, but I'll have to verify it with Boss-Man first to make sure it's okay).

The last six months have seen me dive even deeper into my bluegrassy-country-indie tastes, and I decided to risk a headache and forge through the long, long list of accomplishments by Emmylou Harris to select the albums I think I'd prefer. (I settled on one to start with.) I also decided to broaden my appreciation for Ryan Adams by an album or three.

But by far the most exciting find is that one of my ultimate favorites, Josh Ritter, is releasing a new album in ten days. I preordered that baby faster than you can say "whistle." I've been checking the web hopefully for the last YEAR looking to see if he's put out anything new. And the reviews are good. (I lurve him.)

So, if anyone is interested, and even if anyone isn't, here's my Summer 2007 Music Spree to date:

1. Easy Tiger, Ryan Adams (2007);
2. Jacksonville City Nights, Ryan Adams (2005);
3. Heartbreaker, Ryan Adams (2000) (v. bluegrassy);
4. Roses in the Snow, Emmylou Harris (1980, rereleased 2002) (one of her most bluegrassy);
5. Hello Starling, Josh Ritter (2003);
6. The Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter, Josh Ritter (2007).

All of this puts me in the mood for The Golden Age of Radio.

getting the message

So, the other week as I was standing outside of work, a truck pulls up. The guy driving it looks vaguely familiar. He starts chatting me up.

This happens a lot on my office street -- it's a small town, and I'm clearly "not from around there." One of the first questions men ask me is where I live, and unless they're really creepy, I usually interpret it to mean, "which town," because obviously I don't live in that one. Everybody knows everybody there. Hell, when I was thinking of changing apartments back in April, before I got to know Luchenne better, and mentioned it to the guy who runs my favorite junk shop, the next week when I went to get my lunch at Subway, the girl behind the counter asked me if I'd found a new apartment yet. It's that kind of town.

Anyway, I get a lot of attention there. Most of the time it's flattering, and this guy seemed nice...a lot older than I am, but nice. Until he asked me out, and I remembered that he'd come in to the office once to see about starting his divorce.

Um. Now, I have a policy of accepting date invitations from almost anyone, but a legally married man is crossing the line. Especially when he has a ten-year-old daughter, and his oldest kid from his first marriage (the one that's currently ending is his second) is only five years younger than I am.

I had given him my cell number before the nice rational paragraph above crossed my mind, however, so when he called me right after work I had to turn him down. I told him I couldn't see a man who was still in the process of getting a divorce. I also said I didn't want to hurt his case, since he wanted custody of his daughter, and I didn't want to complicate matters and have the situation wind up hurting his little girl. He was disappointed, but said he understood. I congratulated myself for cleverly getting out of that one.

But I was dragged out of a nap this afternoon by my phone ringing, didn't recognize the number, didn't pick up, and when I listened to the voicemail, it was him, asking me if I would consider hanging out with him "as friends," until his divorce was finalized.

I was very glad I didn't answer the phone. Part of me wanted to bang my head against the wall, part of me was ashamed for not just coming out and telling him, "look, I'm not interested," and part of me was annoyed. I mean, I guess you can't blame a guy for trying, but what's a forty-something doing wanting to try the "just friends" label? When has that ever worked? And whom has that ever fooled? What, was I born yesterday? And part of me was mad on behalf of his daughter. Is he just okay with dating and having women "friends"? When he called me that one time after work, his daughter was in the house -- just leaving to go to a friend's, but still in the house. What's he thinking of? Little kids need stability, not Daddy-who-dates-around. I don't want to be part of something that wrecks a child's sense of solidity.

I didn't call him back. I think silence will answer eloquently. I don't have "just friends," except for guys I've known from years back -- they get grandfathered in, my high school friends, my college friends, the guys I met when I first moved to South Bend, because we are friends, in a lot of senses we grew up together. But this weird garbage? I don't think so.

Sigh. As Sir Peter said, paraphrasing Sports Night, "Beware the Almost-Not-Quite-Divorced Man."

housekeeping

It's back to the mad nest lining.

Don't know what brings it on, but periodically the only thing that makes me happy is holding a drill. The other week I found the perfect (cheap) Monet Nympheas print to put behind an old window I bought back in April, and hung the whole thing up on my bedroom wall for an old-time gardeny effect -- which I hope to find psychologically warming when the freezing snows howl outside my real windows in January. And of course by "hung up" I mean "drilled into the wall with eight unnecessarily long drywall screws which blend beautifully with the old stain of the wood, because the frame was satisfactorily heavy to warrant such measures. Oh and took out once because I misgauged the placement the first time, so I had to try again."

I did mention once before that my method of putting up wall arrangements is, if you want to be charming about it, whimsical. If you're not trying to be as kind you might call it cockeyed. I hold up the object, guess where the nails/screws might go, bang them in, and see if I was right. If I was, yay! Job finished. If I wasn't, okay, cool, let's give it another go. If I misjudged it by a tenth of a millimeter and the plaster won't accommodate my mistake, I'll either spackle if I'm feeling patient (yeah right; so far that option is only theoretical), or, nine times out of ten, come up with something new or live with the mistake.

So a few of my walls are full of tiny holes, like the miniature soldiers' bullet holes in Secret of the Indian.

But the whole process makes me happy. If it stressed me out, I wouldn't do it that way. I'd rather guess and guess and guess again, and wait for that moment when my whole gut tells me, Yes. You got it, than fiddle around for far longer than I'd like with rulers and pencils and angles and whatnot and find out I'd guessed wrong anyway. Way too technical. And I'm impatient. I prefer to judge with my eye and with that something else that tells me it feels right, that everything is well suited and in its proper alignment and in harmony with itself and its neighbors. The only measuring tool I find worth troubling with is my trusty level.

So the other week was the window, Tuesday was finding a new home for the two small Van Goghs that the window displaced (that involved a hammer and not a drill, but a hammer is fun too -- and an adventure in my walls, which are all plaster, and which are studded as whimsically as my hanging methods, so you never know when you're going to run into one and run the risk of a bounceback blow to the forehead, even if you've tapped it out beforehand -- some of the walls are good-old-fashioned studs, some of the walls are latticed), and today was the new coathook contraption I bought antiquing.

Next it's going to have to be some more old crates in the hallway, as supplementary bookshelves, and a bow-out to the absence of available floor space. But that won't be until after I've hung the pot rack in the kitchen, with Meg and Phillip's help -- that kitchen wall is latticed, and won't hold a couple hundred pounds of pots and pans and pot rack, so I'm following their recommendations, and that's going to cost a dollar here and there. The result is going to be fantastic -- I can't wait.

So currently all flat surfaces in my apartment are free of unnecessary papers, everything is in its proper place, the bookshelves are beautifully arranged (there's something so attractive about full, organized, arranged bookshelves, like walls of comfortable, happy, inviting, protective friends), and, with the exception of just a couple more things I'd like to hang up (drill), one of which I have to find first, two or three of which I have to buy first (crates), two of which I have to do some work on (windows, pot rack), the feng shui is just about perfect.

But it's nice to have ongoing projects around the house -- always something to keep me busy. Always a little more finish to the nest lining. Always the prospect of more drilling.

And once my drilling opportunities are exhausted (weep), I may have to turn my attention back to sewing. I should make curtains for the kitchen.

I should also strip the paint off the valance windows and let light into the hall.

Happiness.