X-Files Submission #1

su·per·nat·u·ral  /ˌso͞opərˈnaCH(ə)rəl/

Adjective: (of a manifestation or event) Attributed to some force beyond scientific understanding or the laws of nature.

Noun: Manifestations or events considered to be of supernatural origin.

Synonyms: preternatural - unearthly - weird – miraculous

Those who have spent any amount of time with us are aware that this word sums up all- too- many experiences in my family. I just smile and appreciate that scientific understanding apparently hasn’t caught up with the laws of our particular nature. I don’t begin to understand how or why myself, but neither of those reasons seem to make any difference. It just “is.” I could go on and on (and on) with stories, but will just tell you one for now, as it popped into my mind today:

Back in college, I knew a guy named Jason (who was actually John’s fraternity brother, and one of the reasons I met John in the first place-but that’s not part of this story. At least I think it’s not.) Jason and I had a lot in common, sharing creative interests in theater and art. We also happened to work at the same park, in an after-school camp. One day, we were sitting around the office, joking about physically unique “oddities”, or something like that. I don’t really remember why, maybe there had been people with strange talents on Johnny Carson the night before.

I always had very even, tan skin, with not a freckle in sight (so, of course I wistfully wished for freckles my whole life) except for one spot on my left forearm. On this arm was a perfect square of four dark freckles, and three freckles vertically rising up from the corner and bending, that looked exactly like the Little Dipper. You could take a pen and connect the dots and see it, which of course I have done. (Side note: as I have happily sunned myself like a lizard on a rock over the years, eventually, um, “freckles”-go ahead, call them age spots. See what happens!-  have begun to fill in the open space around my Little Dipper. I like to think that it is the “mother ship” gradually re-claiming me, haha!)

So, that afternoon in the office, I was just about to share my strange anomaly of branding when the phone rang, completely interrupting our fun and requiring actual work to be done for the better part of five minutes. I stood there bookmarking our place in the conversation so we could return when he was done, and as soon as he hung up the phone, I started to speak. He stopped me and said, “Wait, I just want to show you one thing first. I have the Little Dipper on my left arm.” I paused for a second, embarrassed and sure he was making fun of me. “I already told you, didn’t I?” He didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. “Come on, Jason, you’re making fun of me!! I already told you.” Sure enough, he extended his left arm, and showed me a very similar pattern of freckles that, indeed, made up the Little Dipper. After I picked up my jaw off the desk, I showed him my Little Dipper on my left arm, and told him that was exactly what I was waiting to show him. (I'm sure we hummed the Twilight Zone music at that point.)

Coincidence? How the hell could it be?!? If there’s one thing I do know, it’s how very little we actually know. Beyond scientific understanding? Perhaps. Beyond the “laws” of nature? No way. Why, it’s so natural, you might even say it’s SUPERnatural.

Plagued

I have a question. What do you call the subtle feeling that what you thought you just thought up, has been thought up before? As my English teacher friends can surely attest to (um, wait, that’s not right… ended in a preposition.) To which my English teacher (ahem, NAZI!!) friends (friends who-whom?- are English teachers???) can attest (Crap, is it ok to START with a preposition??) Sigh.  I’m just going to complete the thought, and then you can edit, ok? (Why do you think there will always be jobs for English teachers?! You’re welcome!)

Let’s see, where was I? Oh yes, plagiarism (jeez, that’s a hard word to spell! I had to look it up! Good thing I didn’t have to leave this comfy chair to do so, at 3:30 in the morning.) Yawn. Plagiarism. Yes. That’s where I was.  SO…. English teacher friends agree, it’s one of the first things we are warned about when we are taught to write. Umm, you don’t really think YOU are the first person to have that brilliant idea, right?? Surely, you realize that someone came up with it before you did! Oh, and they researched it better, wrote it first, and YOU have to find them and give them credit in whatever it was you were just about to say, K? (Talk about stunted communication!!)

But seriously, with the information swirling and hurling faster and faster at us ‘til it all blurs together (like that silly “you are in a forest” game we used to play as kids), HOW are we sure we aren’t thinking of this because we just saw it somewhere? Even as I ask these questions, I am already wondering who has already asked them, written about them, published them first, claimed them, peed on them, whatever!

Remember how cute it was when they used to march us into the little school library, lining us up in front of that very important looking set of drawers? How they spent weeks teaching us to think of a subject and look it up in ABC order, thumbing through typed index cards (like typed -on –a- typewriter  typed!) that were held together by one giant metal rod, then we carefully used those nubby pencils to write down the number that would guide us to the aisle where we might or might not find the five books we wrote down? And, if someone had checked them out, we could see who, by the index card that showed their pencil signature and was kept in a box on the counter. I wonder what jobs those people got, when technology swooped in and laughed in the face of their time-honored record keeping system??

Anyways, my long-winded, grammatically incorrect point is that we now have so many rapid -fire exposures to information every day, how could we NOT plagiarize?? There are so many ideas thrust in our faces, and so many avenues to thrust our own ideas (or ARE they?! THAT is the question!!) in other people’s faces- Look! I am employing one of those avenues as we speak! The BLOG. The new and ubiquitous outlet for people’s thoughts, notions, absurdities, stream of consciousness, everywhere! “Extra, Extra, Read All About MY latest form of Crazy! You saw it here first, folks! Get it NOW! Fresh off the presses at any insomniac time of night, from every urban high-rise, suburban cul de sac, rural spread across the nation!” We’re all connected now, for better or worse, and our thoughts, which we learn are not likely our own, might never have belonged to only us in the first place.

They are the intellectual property of the collective consciousness which cycles through us all. And when you think about it, maybe we are thinking about this insanely intense firing squad of technology all wrong. Maybe technology has only just begun to mirror the interactiveness and efficiency our own cells and energy have possessed all along. Maybe I am not writing anything that didn’t already exist in your thoughts as well (or in someone else’s writing) for the very reason that our ideas were connected from the beginning. (Hey, Techie friends, you had better hurry up! You’re way behind! You’re welcome!)

Go ahead. Look it up. Surely, someone has thought of this before I did. In fact, the notions of our connectedness are amusingly ancient. I’m quite certain I am not the first one to think them up. As for me, I’m going back to bed. I’m just gonna credit the universe for this one. That should cover it.

Finding My Happy Place

Ah, Disneyland. The Happiest Place on Earth. Why is it that the older I am, the more dubious I get about your motto? There is something about a day at Disneyland that’s like a litmus test of my aging process.

I have hazy, happy memories of childhood trips- excitedly flying through the air with Peter Pan, singing “It’s a Small World”, eventually braving a bounce through Mr. Toad’s Wild Adventure. Getting a Mickey Mouse balloon and a princess souvenir to fall asleep clutching in the way-back of the station wagon.

Of course, I remember with great fondness the endless summer- type joy that accompanied our teenage years at the Magic Kingdom- considering it a success if you got there when it opened and managed to get on every ride (twice!) Seeing if there were any cute boys in line was almost as fun as going on the ride itself, especially if anyone asked you and your friends to sit with them! The junk food, the parades, the souvenirs, the fireworks! At one point, the 80’s dance club (who remembers that?!) with its high-tech tv screens showing close-ups of all the Aquanet- soaked hairdos and miniskirts. The regret and sorrow when, alas, the announcements came on telling us in oh-so-polite Disney fashion that it was time to kindly point our sugared selves towards the exit.

Then there was the milestone trip when you went to Disneyland with your significant other, smitten to have someone to sit next to on every ride. Sharing a slice of childhood you both experienced separately, but could now smoosh together like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Holding hands, stealing kisses on the Journey to the Center of the Earth (we all know there was NO other good reason to go on that ride!)

After the boys were born, there was a renaissance of enthusiasm as we thrilled in watching the wonder of the sights and sounds through their little eyes.  The characters, the parades, the silly songs, even the terror they felt for imagined villains was charmingly sweet, as they perceived the pretend to be real. 

We had the good fortune of meeting up with our dear friends this weekend, who were taking their five year old son to Disneyland for the first time. That was the best thing about the day! However, we ended up sharing the experience with about three million other “guests,” as Disney likes to call us. And for me, that resulted in a downward spiral of the kind of mental and physical angst I most certainly do NOT associate with the happiest anything!

We hit the pavement running around 8am and got into the half- hour long line to park. Somehow, even a few years ago, I don’t recall startling at the sticker shock of just how much cashola they cheerfully ring up for a family of four to enter the turnstyles. This only furthered my puzzlement about how very many people were crammed in line next to us for the same privilege. And, somehow, the obligation to try and get our money’s worth out of the outing hung over my head throughout the day like a lead Mickey balloon.

But, we made it through the gates of California Adventure pretty early and off we ran in an attempt to get on the new Cars ride everyone is so crazy about. When I saw the line wrapping around the buildings almost to the front gates, I knew it would be a long wait to get on. What I didn’t know was THAT was only the line to get a fast pass!! Holy hell!! Do you mean to tell me that I have to wait in an hour- long line to get a ticket that tells me when I can get back in line to actually get ON the ride?!?? This has got to be a joke, or at least a sadistic experiment! I looked around for the hidden cameras, recording the ridiculousness of our actions and found none. (In hindsight, of course there are hidden cameras all over Disneyland, they are watching all the time. I suspect after observing our desperately strange antics day in and day out, they probably aren’t laughing.)

Anyways, intent on making the most of our expensively crowded day, we pressed on and considered it a silver lining that the line for California Screaming was only 45 minutes long. The day continued in this fashion as we jogged from long line to long line- having fun, staving off hunger by getting whatever the emptiest kiosk was peddling, and enjoying the pervasive mayhem. And for a while, time stood still. This would have been magic indeed, except for one thing. I had been checking my watch (technically, my phone) since 10am. I didn’t want to feel that way about it, believe me. What wouldn’t I have given for the day to never end when I was 15?!??

When did I stop viewing the masses as comrade adventurers- excited to be sharing in their excitement- and start seeing the humanity, drifting and darting like atomic lemmings? So much energy it drained to be alert and pay attention to charging stroller wheels, couples stopping dead in their tracks to pull out a map, hacking children yanking free of the hands that held them (oh, the hacking. And the puking –a story for another day. I felt like we were in an overcrowded leper colony on carnival day.)

At the eleventh hour (not a euphemism, we had actually been there eleven hours) I kind of lost it. Hungry, exhausted, and frustrated at myself for feeling so frustrated, I decided that the best thing I could do for my family was to let them go on and enjoy what was left of their dwindling day. So I plunked myself down in a chair and gnawed on the worst breadstick I have ever had the misfortune to eat (how do you mess up a breadstick, really??) and tried to distract myself with thoughts other than Disneyland so I could survive the last and final leg of this never-ending day. (I do know how terribly wrong that sounds, I really do.)

Of course, my mind wandered right to all the circumstances people have survived that were legitimately terrible (and that they hadn’t actually PAID for the privilege of doing) such as surviving without water, food, air conditioning, medications, shelter after a natural disaster. Or being prodded onto cattle cars full of their fellow man, shuttled with no bathrooms, no oxygen to concentration camps. Or, being born into the kind of abject poverty where living is a fluke, a triumph in spite of your conditions and circumstances.

This led, strangely enough, back to the notion of happiness. The thought of the remarkable fortitude of humans throughout the span of time to seek out such a state, regardless of how legitimately they could lament their shortcomings. The thought of pioneers, who bravely forged ahead against resistance, against uncertainty and inconvenience, against famine and disease and paved the way for all who followed. Who manifested their senses into innovation and expression, into art and song and dance, to make the magic in which we seek solace, the magic that we turn to, in hopes of escaping the mundane, the sorrowful realities, the lacking we might otherwise succumb to. (Yes, I AM aware that I was a party of one on the spinning teacup of bizarre- Hey! Finally I found a place with no lines!)

As all stories eventually end, so did my strangely self-imposed funk of a day. My sweet hubby and kids came back to collect their decrepit mother from her stoop and we made it without incident back to the safe haven of my car, which drove us home to our pretty charmed reality. Maybe that’s the difference. The older I get, the more I comprehend that I’m fortunate enough to live in the real fairy tale. As I mature, my notion of what happy looks like has taken on a different significance. Surprisingly quieter, and with ever- so- slightly less bling. Contrary to the ad campaign that was quite effective on me for the better part of my life, perhaps Disneyland isn’t the Happiest Place on Earth anymore. But it certainly ain’t the worst.

Don't Fence Me In

First rule of blog, never, ever speak of blog. (Shhhhhh!!!! It might hear you!)

No, I have to speak of it. I started a blog. For writing. (deep breaths.) For a reason I hope to work through, my first instinct every time I commit to officially starting something that has no other purpose but to display my own thoughts, interests, talents- is to run. Then I go blank.

This is the artist’s, baker’s, writer’s (whatever) block I have vowed to look squarely in the jaw and beat to a bloody pulp. Wait, that sounds violent, and I am trying to achieve a peaceful co-existence with it. No hostile takeovers. No flight, but no fight either. Let me see…. The block I have vowed to stand up to, stare it in the beady eyes, and step around. (Use your words, Lauren.)

Unless it was for another person, I can’t think of a single project that I have intended to begin, just “because”, that I haven’t talked myself out of. It isn’t an active decision not to do it. More of the feeling you get when you put the wrong end of two magnets together and they leap back, and finally shove past each other. Like I somehow repel myself from the thing I want to achieve. Here is the nitty-gritty list of enthusiastic thoughts my brain lobs at the ideas:

What are you going to DO with it?? What is someone else going to do with it?? Why does this particular (fill in the blank) need to be made? Aren't you being selfish, just focusing on yourself? Who the hell do you think you are to have something worthy of expressing? (Sound familiar??)

I have made quilts (for babies) that can serve a dual purpose of keeping them warm. So I am not inflicting my aesthetic on people just as something they have to display.

I have painted chairs, benches, coffee tables, you name it, for people, or for my own house. Aesthetic enhancement, perhaps, but their primary function was being sat on, or having things sat on them.

While I truly appreciated and enjoyed (for the most part) the decade of making cakes, in my brain they were artistically a cop-out. I already knew who needed them and I had no time to think myself out of them. They had to be started at the bitter end and completed within hours of being appreciated, then cut apart. People used to say, “Ohhh, I can’t imagine cutting into it!” but I LOVED that part. Sadistically. In fact, hand me the knife. Because seriously, the novelty IS that it is made out of cake. It was made to be destroyed, and if it wasn’t, would you really want that lumpy, cartoonish knock-off princess sitting in your living room indefinitely, collecting dust? Let’s be real. If I had made it out of clay and you unwrapped it on your birthday, the look on your face would be entirely different. (OMG, WHERE am I going to put this? I better set an alarm to remind me to take it out when she’s coming over!!) Yikes!   

Here it is. If it has no use, other than sitting there and being the thing you look at, I feel naked. Exposed. Judged. Foolish. Trapped on canvas. Fenced in. Seen.That is the bare bones truth of the matter.

(Ross just came into the room and disturbed my “crazy train” of thought. There’s another factor. Unless I find my own Overlook Hotel to work in, I am going to have to learn how to keep going when derailed. After all, Jack was a dull boy, and quite murderous at that, and if the people weren’t interrupting him, the ghosts were…. I’m changing the subject, aren’t I?)

OK, back to the topic at hand. And speaking of kids, here’s a little trick having children has taught me. As you lecture them, listen once in a while. You often hear exactly what you need to learn tossed back at you. Here goes: Sometimes, you have to PRACTICE doing something you are not good at, to get better! You’re not automatically “the best” at it before you even begin. It takes work. It takes self-analysis. It takes dedication. And courage. And it sure as hell takes starting the damn thing to know whether or not it works. That is how you chip away at a goal and improve and make adjustments, and eventually achieve the outcome you want. Or, you move on. Try something different. But know that you gave it a fair shot before deciding.

I have a stack of blank canvases, paper, ink, and paint with my name on them. They will become something. It may be an exercise in doing without thinking for a while, but it will be done. No more avoidance. No more excuses. No more blank space.

Funny, forcing myself to think about this blog has created a second entry. For my BLOG. (There I said it twice!) The one I started. The one I’m squaring off and staring down, and am not running away from. The one in which I am exposing the good, the bad, the ugly of my naked truths. Please, be kind. I’m just learning to look.

Starting Point

Thank goodness for the backspace button on my keyboard. Without it, there’s no telling what you might be reading right now instead. Let me begin by saying (or rather, by writing) that I feel like an impostor. I’m not a writer. Writers have something specific to say and tell stories with definitive points of view, with beginnings and ends. What’s my story, and who the hell am I to think it’s worthy of telling?? On the other hand, if you asked me if I am a stay-at-home mom, I would have to say that I am. And if you asked me if I drive a mini-van, I would have to say that I do. But I don’t FEEL like a mini-van driving stay-at-home mom, either. (Does anyone??)

The more honest answer to the existential question is- I don’t know who the hell I am. Which version do you want? The one that other people see? The person I imagine myself to be in my mind? The person I would like to be? The person I am when… (insert a million contingencies here.) All of these versions of our “selves” are based on the premise that the tangible world around us exists as we perceive it. That we are driving on solid streets, counting down the hours in linear fashion until the next intersection of humanity, of activity occurs. Well, what the hell else are you going to base your understanding of life on?! -you might ask (already not so certain you want to be in the passenger seat with the crazy lady.) I don’t know. 

Sure, I could set my watch by the daily school bell ringing at 2:28, but then, which version of time are we talking about? I have had too many experiences of things happening in great arcing loops, some of them coming full circle quickly, some making their return years, decades, later, and yet others spiraling over and over again, passing by the same place and picking up momentum (and perhaps more passengers)to think that life stays in line.These are the musings that occur when you have 19 minutes between dropping off one kid and picking up the next, and there’s nothing good on the radio. String along enough of these snippets, and you can do a little damage in the lost- in- bizarre thought department. (And perhaps a little damage to the bumper, as I consider the hard edge of the curb next to me really more of a guideline.)

I am generally not a specific facts and figures kind of person, but if I was, I could tell you exactly the percentage of time I spend every day at one point or another along an approximate 5 mile loop of road. I would venture to say, it’s a very high percentage. And with that in mind, you’d think I’d have a better sense of what time it was and where I was going. But, alas, I don’t. It takes every alarm in my possession (and the employment of the snooze button) to keep my brain tethered to this functional routine. 

Likewise, I don’t really know where I’m going with this whole writing thing. Could be far, could be nowhere. But it would appear that I’m (somewhat reluctantly, admittedly curiously) getting into the ol’ van and turning the key, so I suppose I’ll find out. And if you’re brave enough to ride shotgun, you might want to fasten your seatbelt. Can’t promise you it won’t be a bumpy road, or that we won’t find ourselves hopelessly lost. I can promise you that even on the most mundane, well –traveled loops, some truly unusual events and epiphanies will cross our path. This, I do know.