Hibernation Aspirations

Something about the initial onset of winter catapults me into a homebody state. I want to stock up on all the foodstuffs, hot beverages, and fleece blankets on the market and never leave the cozy 400 square feet of my studio condo.

However, watching How I Met Your Mother on Netflix gets tedious after a few hours, and though I still feel adamant about not leaving home until the need to earn money through exchanging labor for a paycheck deems it necessary, I start to get aspirational. Like "what do I want to be when I grow up" aspirational. This antsiness to set goals and contemplate career paths could also be correlated to the copious amount of coffee in my bloodstream.

Nonetheless, for the first time in forever, I began seriously contemplating re-entering the grad school ring. My so-called professional life has been windy to say the least. I have experience in preschools, Italian homeless shelters, candy stores, national nonprofits, London-based charities and fondue restaurants. Two years ago, I got stoked on the idea of applying to the Jack Kerouac School for Disembodied Poetics. I got as far as writing a personal statement and creating a shrine (see below). But I may be able to get serious this go-round and get all the way to actually submitting an application.

However, slowly--and unexpectedly--a common thread has developed in much of my work: a focus on youth and community development. I sat lamenting to my boyfriend (I have one of those and I love him) about how I felt I never developed one particular passion and he thoughtfully responded that maybe my passion has been right under my nose--that I care about education and education reform that my words ring of conviction and I speak more excitedly.

Hence, while Netflix played in the background and my banana bread baked (see below for a picture of its majesty), I diligently researched graduate programs in education. Ranging from a study of Adult Education and Training to School Counselor Education to a program in Education, Culture & Society, I felt jazzed about the potential of these courses of the study and the chance to marry my odd myriad of experiences with a specific academic credential. 

So, we'll see what happens. (I'm clearly the master of strong endings.)

on september 11th and comedy

Time: 9:11pm

Location: Kitchen

Knock knock.

Who's there?

September Eleventh.

This isn't a September Eleventh joke, is it?

Just ask, “September Eleventh who?”

Okay. September Eleventh who?

You said, “Never forget!”

My cousin was actually in the Twin Towers that day.

Oh wow.

He was on the sixty-first floor. They told everyone above the sixtieth floor to go up. That they would be evacuated by helicopter from the top of the building. But the helicopters never came. If he'd been one floor lower, he may have lived.

Oh my gosh, your cousin died?

Yeah.

One of my friends worked in an after school program with twelve-year-olds. One of their outings was to a local library where they learned about all of the research implements that have basically been made obsolete by the information dominance of the internet. You know, microfiche and the like.

The kindly librarian guide explained how they could use the library tools to help them with school research papers. The topic she chose to demonstrate how the available resources could be used was September Eleventh. To engage the youths she asked what year the September Eleventh attacks occurred. These children of the new millennium answered, “Sometime in the 1960s, right?”

To further illustrate how removed the school children of today are from the tragedy that defined mine and my peers' adolescence, one of these twelve-year-olds nearly ate pavement tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. Her response to her near-brush with scraped knees was, “Man, I almost went down like the twin towers.” The twenty-something group leaders we appalled alleging it was “too soon.”

I've always been an advocate of humor and its power to take the edge off of life. Everything is absurd an unpredictable and I guess we get to choose if we are going to laugh or cry at the chaos of it all. But maybe sometimes we have to cry before we can laugh? And we are not really allowed to laugh at the pain but is it okay to laugh at the absurd? Am I terrible person for telling a silly September Eleventh joke to someone who had to attend a funeral for someone who died that day?

Comedian Tig Notaroperformed some groundbreaking stand-up comedy after she was diagnosedwith breast cancer. She announces her diagnosis to her audience in her characteristic candid and dead-pan way. The respond with a concerned guttural sound, like they'd been gently punched in the stomach. However, as she continues to discuss the sounds emanating from the crowd turn from pained “oohs” to uncomfortable laughter to genuine amusement and a beautiful cacophony of encouragement. Interestingly, her monologue is mostly her convincing those gathered to hear her performance that it will be okay. And it is funny.

I like the idea of comedy as comfort. I also like the idea of comedy as a means of awakening sensibilities (e.g. racism exists, sexism exists, the world in many ways is not fair, etc.) However, I guess it has its limits, but I am all for gently and respectfully pushing those limits.

un[der]employment and thoughts and such

i got my hair cut today. it was out of vanity's necessity. the edges were frayed by the flames of an early spring bonfire where we roasted the carnage of the day's tree trimming ventures. those branches burn hot. hot enough to singe the tip of my pony tail, a few of my eyelashes, and a portion of arm hair.

the hair stylist kept clucking about how scraggly my ends had become as a result of this minor mishap. i bemoaned the four inches of length i parted with, though this this webcam shot has helped me to affirm that my locks can still be classified as "long."

Hello, Emo-Eye-Covering-Bang-Sweep.

these days getting a haircut marks the highlight of the day. mostly because right now, i tend to work one or two days a week tops.

i always get excited by the prospect of unemployment. while unencumbered by the responsibility to show up at a certain place at a certain time and trade my labor for dollars, i expect that i will engage in all those creative endeavors that i put off because of how much time of my day is reserved for that "the man" character referred to so often. 

but in reality, i spend an inordinate amount of time on websites like these:

eelslap.com 

and 

www.sanger.dk 

(i highly encourage you to click on them. on eelslap.com, you literally slap a man with an eel.)

i suppose productivity comes down to goal-setting, but i do not want to set artificial goals and feel an artificial sense of accomplishment, you know?

i feel there is an often overlooked precursor to setting goals and that is assessing personal values, priorities and passions. A goal that makes splendid sense to you may be completely wrong for me.

like on old parks and recreation. garry/jerry/larry gergich and leslie knope.

one particular episode in which garry/jerry/larry's retirement is celebrated, leslie tries desperately to piece together the highlights of his decades-long public service career and comes up with next to nothing. she visits his home to see that he never cared much for professional accolades. he was more of the type of guy to leave early to spend time with his family rather than put in extra hours to win a promotion or to prefer dedicating time to a painting class than climbing the career ladder (in fact, in one of my very favorite episodes garry/jerry/larry paints a scene which ignites controversy. the painting even has its own wikipedia page.) 

conversely, leslie is a community and career-minded go-getter whose focus is building a better pawnee using the mantle of power granted to her by her deputy director of parks and rec status.

however, i do feel like the family/career goal dichotomy is far too simplified. nonetheless, i hope it drives home my point that a goal is only as good as it is relevant to what brings an individual fulfillment.

i guess that is what i am working on: determining my values and assessing what life objectives (big and small) align with those values--in between eel slaps.

accidental satisfaction

These days, I essentially live inside a blanket fort, or if I am being perfectly forthcoming about my sourcing of materials, a thrift store bed sheet fort.

I still call the Foam Dome home and am beginning to earn the moniker "Summit County local."

Long-term residence in Colorado was never a part of the plan. I was to fulfill my duties as a fondue wench (which really means a young woman, especially a servant. I am not admitting to any lewdness of character here.) and take leave of the Rockies for some new adventure at the end of winter. (What sort of adventure was never really articulated in the [rather vague] plan: European backpacking? Career ladder climbing? Running away to join the circus?).

But Der Fondue Chessel closed, and I stayed. I deviated from the plan.

The grandeur of the place was a major contributing factor. However, more intensely, I became enchanted with my mountain people. I couldn't take leave of the people and place that made me feel so at home. Summit County will get at least one more seasonal change from me. I cannot imagine not being here for the summer with all of its promises of hikes and fishing and biking and watching beautiful sunsets and gazing at starry skies and kickball leagues and bonfires and campouts and hot springs and drinks with little umbrellas in them.

So, I am drinking it all in. Sometimes with my roommate's dog, TT, by my side.

I may not be putting my Italian studies degree to its full use (see Exhibit A), but I am pretty happy with the state of my life at this point in time. I feel like there is some sort of moral of the story that I could put here. Perhaps, I could craft some unique way to reiterate the sentiment that it isn't our achievements that make us happy but our connections to each other, to beauty, to the divine.

 But I'll just let Mother Teresa say something (that in my mind relates):

“I am not sure exactly what heaven will be like, but I know that when we die and it comes time for God to judge us, he will not ask, ‘How many good things have you done in your life?’ rather he will ask, ‘How much love did you put into what you did?”

I want to remember this no matter what I am doing with my life.

Exhibit A: This post comes to you from The Colorado Shop, where I am currently acting as a shopkeep to earn some of that green. Since it is mud season here in Summit County, the store is dead. So I like to try my hand (or should I say head?) at hat modelling. It passes the time.

Home Sweet Dome

Nestled on the Blue River in Silverthorne, Colorado, the Foam Dome provides residence to a ragtag bunch of human beings drawn to the mountains, an eclectic living space and cheap rent in a county that boasts an average home price of $750,000 (fact courtesy of Wikipedia.)

When endeavoring to explain the structure to acquaintances I typically say, "Think Hobbit Hole."

Boot tries on his White Elephant gift at the Christmas Party

The place was built in 1971 by Stuart "Boot" Gordon, a WWII Fighter Pilot who on more than one occasion survived being shot down. He raised his children in the Foam Dome and now renting out spaces provides an additional income for the nearly 91-year-old. He also stays busy for a nonagenarian. He still goes out to chop wood and even went out ice skating with us.

He is also highly committed to raising consciousness. He keeps tabs on folks' LQs [Love Quotient]. Barack Obama's is rising, if you were curious. He's a published author of numerous writings. You can buy his tract Synergistic Capitalism on Amazon. He also just finished a new book that he is in the process of editing. He's one of the most interesting conversationalists out there.

Since I live in a Martini glass, should I change my name to Olive?

I live in the Martini Glass room. It is conveniently directly above the living room, so I can converse with my roommates without leaving the comfort of my bedroom or pajamas. Also, I very rarely wake up late and know right when the coffee is ready since I lack walls. Occasionally, I miss the privacy of four walls that reach the ceiling, but I figure this is an exercise in communal living [and did I mention cheap rent?] Also the view from my room is killer. (Speaking of that, my roommate obsessed with murder mystery shows recently saw one about the Blue River Killer, which featured a couple of scenes on our property. Don't worry, the crime occurred in the early nineties.)

My room lies beyond that window.

As with most things in life, sometimes I forget to revel in this unique and awesome living situation. Taking a walk around the property in preparation for this post caused me to rekindle the initial amazement at my luck in securing the opportunity to call the Foam Dome home. It has its quirks (read: mice) and I feel lucky to live with nine amazing people, but that number of cohabitants can pose its own challenges (read: my bladder has acquired new levels of endurance while waiting for the one bathroom to be vacant.)

I've definitely done a 180 (something I can't do on a snowboard) going from NYC to Silverthorne and am still compelled by vagabondish whims to take leave of this place when the snow melts. To where is the great mystery that will be revealed to all (most particularly myself) in due time. In the meantime, I'll try not to forget to marvel at the view of snow covered pine trees or the way I can make out what seems like every star in the universe on a clear night.

Contradictory Desires

Astrology, numerology, palm reading, tarot and the like are all pleasant enough diversions. In the past, I've written of my propensity to offer my hand to palmists in order to divine some sort of direction for my coming days (because honestly, my future seems quite shrouded in mystery--though I know "I am the master of my fate; I am the captain* of my soul" (thanks William Ernest Henley).)

So once, I simply did a google search as to what sort of characteristics someone born on the Gregorian calendar's July 13th might possess, and received the following opening sentences:

You are full of contradictions. You have deep domestic interests, but at the same time, you are really restless and you have a decided longing for travel and change.

I doubt these contradictory desires are reserved solely for the cadre of personages born on the thirteenth day of July, but they definitely resonated

Right now, I live in a foam dome [more on that, perhaps, in a later post] in the Colorado Rockies. My room is more of a giant bowl with walls that do not  reach the rounded ceiling of the dome, and actually barely reach my knee.

It is always a trip bringing people to the dome and watching them marvel at its unique design (as I did the first time.) But it is sort of a hub for the young, very transient population that passes through Summit County. Nine different living spaces are rented and I have already seen a fair amount of transition in my roughly six weeks here.

This morning however, I longed for my own little set-up with fresh flowers on an eclectic little kitchen table and only dishes from my cooking endeavors in the sink and a nice bedspread maybe with a real headboard. But all of this requires an investment in staying in one place. I've left beds and comforters and kitchen appliances many places because the freedom of being able to move was more important than being set-up.

I really deviate between wanting to be vagabondish forever and wanting establishing a hearth. I want to be able to take off at a moment's notice, but I also want a garden. I want to go places where no one has any preconceived notions of who I am, but I also want to be around people who've known me forever and understand my past.

*I used to think the line was "I am the conqueror of my soul." I've also really liked that interpretation. I little more violent, I suppose, than captain, but definitely empowers the I. But, is the I really separate from the soul? Ahhh, the deep questions of poetry interpretation.

On The Catcher in the Rye

Every so often I resist the compulsion to splatter the following quote all over the social media channels to which I subscribe: "Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody."

The line comes from J.D. Salinger's masterwork, The Catcher in the Rye. I refrain from posting it because I have already shared it multiple times before and feel I ought to venture into new literary sentiment.

Because--to tell the truth--The Catcher in the Rye, while still ranking among the most loved books to have ever graced my hands and mind, doesn't hold the same all-consuming appeal it held when it first lured me in. Maybe that is because I am so familiar with it, but I also think it has a little [or maybe a lot] to do with growing up.

I can remember when Salinger first grabbed hold of my adolescent soul. I was fourteen. I was bored. I grabbed the nondescript copy of The Catcher in the Rye off of my mother's nightstand. It wasn't the ornately embellished version, but one that made ultimate use of white space. I did not honestly think it would hold my attention. My forays into my parents' respective literary realms usually ended with my abandoning the tome after fifty pages. (I just could not get into my dad's classic sci-fi collection, as much as I tried to enjoy Harry Harrison.)

But I remember so clearly being unable to put down the story of Holden Caulfield. Initially, I was fazed by the abundance of "goddamns" but I was so drawn in my the voice of the sixteen-year-old protagonist that I let unsavory language wash over me. I remember thinking I ought to have a highlighter and pen to demarcate important passages and scribble thoughts in the margin. I remember thinking that was maybe mild sacrilege, as that was the sort of thoughtful reading that I should be doing in the scriptures, and I felt guilty that I had never been as inspired by canonized text as I had by this story. I remember not being able to put it down. I remember lying on the berber carpet of my bedroom staring up at my dusty rainbow paneled ceiling fan. I remember being sad when I finished the last page, simply because it was over.

But do you want to know the line that affected me the most? The line I still think about most often? It is a bit of dialogue from Mr. Antolini, one of Holden's favorite past teachers: "I can very clearly see you dying, in some way, for some highly unworthy cause."

 That statement lodged itself in my teenage psyche like gum in the hair. Maybe it was my youthful belief that my life had to mean something, that I had to be bold and drastic as I became an adult to prove that I was worth taking up space on the planet. As a burgeoning adult, one of the things that I have grown to like most about myself is my level of idealism (I am an INFP according to Myers-Briggs), but I don't feel like I am required to prove my idealism through any sort of unnecessary flagellation. However, I especially love this line now in light of some analysis by author John Green (you know, that guy who writes all those deliciously witty and insightful, bestselling teen novels.)

Green said:

This is where – if you are the kind of person that thinks that books should be read with their authors in mind – it becomes relevant that JD Salinger saw more combat during World War II than almost any other American. The ‘Great American War Novels’ of that generation (Catch 22, Slaughterhouse-Five, The Naked and The Dead) were all written by men who saw far less of war’s horror than JD Salinger did. He was on Utah Beach on D-Day, at the Battle of the Bulge and he was one of the first Americans to enter a liberated concentration camp. And yet, Salinger returned home and wrote, not about war but, about Holden Caulfield bumming around New York City. So, you can say that the stakes aren’t high in this novel, but as Salinger well knew, the cruel and phony world of adults doesn’t just treat people like Holden Caulfield poorly, it kills them.

I realize I am on the verge of rambling. I already admitted that rereadings in my middle-twenties haven't mesmerized me like my first few runs of the novel. But I have read it in English and Italian. The Catcher in the Rye doesn't quite translate so the literal title of the Italian version is The Young Holden, which I sort of like. It aligns with my notion that the book has the potential to hit its reader hardest when they are young themselves. Still, it left me with something that has lingered into maturity--the notion that I am not alone in being uncertain.

I started this entry with a quote. "Don't tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody." People take this quote a variety of ways. Some believe that it is Holden not wanting to get close to folks he hasn't yet acquainted himself yet. I take it as once you start reminiscing, you get lost in the longing for those you no longer see. I feel that. I have been a bit transient. I've moved three times in three years to different states. Once I start telling new associates of the dealings of my past lives, I miss the cohorts that occupied those past days.

I sort of miss Holden Caulfield. The one I first met when I was fourteen. I watched a documentary on Salinger once--one that came out shortly after he died. One devotee of his work managed to accost him in his isolation. That man said Salinger ranted to him that The Catcher in the Rye was "only a book!" And it is. Holden isn't real. He is forever suspended in the nebulous space of his adolescence. I wonder how he would change, if he was real. If I would have an instant bond with a twenty-something Holden expressed in ink on paper. But he's just a character. And it's just a book.