Monthly Archives: July 2006

Things that keep my marriage alive…

An IM Post:

me: was gonna suggest McD’s but I hear you guys went at lunch…
me: so I guess… Jack in the Box?
him: Okay.
me: crispy chicken sandwich is calling my name
him: Hahaha
me: ?
him: It speaks English?
him: I thought all food that left JIB spoke Spanish.
me: subtitles… they come with subtitles

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Oh the things I find on the ‘web…

I found this way cool blog called CulturePulp: Writings and Comics by Mike Russell while surfing the ‘web. This link takes you to a very cool interview with Richard Linklater, the director of A Scanner Darkly. The interview is in comic strip format, so not only do you get to enjoy the banter, you get to see it visually.

Linklater makes an interesting point about Dick’s vision of the future: government and corporate control used to condition you and to alienate you from others and yourself. Sure, it sounds a tad bit paranoid, but when you really consider what is happening in our world presently, and who is controlling it, it makes perfect sense.

I purchased a book a while ago called In Praise of Slowness: How a Worldwide Movement is Challenging the Cult of Speed written by Carl Honoré. It’s in my ‘to read’ pile, which quite frankly is enormous at present time, because my book acquisitions occur at a much faster rate than my book consumption, yet it has great promise. I’ve half a mind to buy several of them and anonymously interoffice them to our key corporate people. Change happens one person at a time… at least that’s what most of the self-help books promise.

Another book in my reading queue is A Reasonable Life-Toward a Simpler, Secure, More Humane Existence by Ferenc Maté. That sounds good to me. This book touches on the same stuff… one of the chapters is entitled A Government of the $ by the $ for the $: The Business State.

I am always shocked at how much vacation time is allotted in Europe, and how much more the arts are appreciated. It must make for much healthier and productive individuals. I think I just might be living on the wrong continent. Merde!

The Muse Is In…

 

I found this way cool blog called “Message from the Muse” through another website. Very cool and inspiring stuff. I loved the “monkey mind” entry… I have one of those, too… here’s the corresponding Soul Collage card for it:

I am the one who is your greatest critic, paralyzing you into fear and stagnation by feeding your insecurities with my pointed remarks. My aim is to perfect you. I provide balance with my left-brained logic to your right-brained disposition.

Maybe it’s time I took him to the circus, too, and fed him polka-dot cotton candy and pickle flavored popcorn.

Moleskine sketch

I’ve been feeling in a rut lately; a sort of creative constipation. I feel the need to make something, but when I sit down to get to work, I balk. So last night I decided to simply sketch something out of a magazine. Nice and easy and without having to put too much thought into it. My creative self is gnawing away at my insides again, longing to be released in earnest, to be allowed full reign. My greatest desire is to find some way to integrate my creative abilities with making a good living. If only I could figure out how, where, what and when…

Some collected pieces

 

 


(Click to see enlarged view in separate window)

 

I’ve slowly been collecting pieces of artwork from some contemporary artists, and these are the few pieces that I have. From left to right: Amy (Hernandez) Hay: Woodcut print entitled “Proud Love”; Juliana Coles: Mixed Media piece entitled “In Harm’s Way”; Sandra McCall: Mixed Media piece entitled “Window to my Art”; Eileen Straiton: Mixed Media painting entitled “Refusal”.

"A Scanner Darkly" is rated R (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian). It has drug use, adult language and animated bare breasts.

“…animated bare breasts”—now that’s funny! (This is from the NY Times review I mention below)

Bonnie and I went to see A Scanner Darkly’s midnight showing last night at the Regal Theatres across from the UCI campus. The movie was great—not a warm fuzzy, this movie, or a tear-jerker, even, just an “oh shit that could’ve been me” kinda thing. And truthfully, which baby-boomer hasn’t tried at least some type of “recreational” drug? Although I’d read the usual blah-blah-blah on the performances of certain actors, there were quite a few good (and intelligently written) reviews on the film… NY Times’ can be read here. It grows tiresome to always read comments from the critics; refreshing when folks admit that the roles fit the actors to a T.

You know what else is funny? I got pulled over by a cop on my way home after the movie for a broken tail-light and an expired registration. He was nice and just told me to fix it… after inquiring where I was coming from and then commenting “that looks like a strange movie…” It would’ve been Freck’s worst nightmare come to life…

Airing it out…

It’s all about the laundry, you know.

My husband and I had a “spat” last night… yup, the good ‘ole grab-the-keys-and-stomp-out-of-the-room kind… and nope, I’m not the one who fled‑he did. It had to do with laundering clothes. He is in the habit of grabbing all of the washables, and by the armload, dumping them onto the patio (which is where our washer and dryer are situated). Then, as the clothes leisurely make their way through the wash, spin and rinse cycles, and the fluff and dry cycles, aided and abetted by said husband, days (usually at least a week) transpire. By this time, a number of my more choice clothing pieces have sustained weather damage. Who’d think that a bit of sun and wind will do anything? It’s not like it’s winter… or there’s torrential rain, and yet, a favorite corduroy top has become sun-bleached through this process, not to mention the many clothes that have become ripped in the overladen washing machine, or shrunk beyond recognition in the dryer. Ah yes… the struggle of laundry. And folks at work wonder why my “business appropriate” clothing is not quite up to snuff.

So… last night, as he was dragging the laundry hampers outside onto the patio, I stopped him. I asked him to sort out enough laundry for a load and to do a load at a time.

[A tangent here: why is it that the most intelligent people somehow manage to revert to the hamster-running-‘round-on-the-wheel instinct when they do some things? Why are we all so resistant to doing things in a way different from what we’ve become accustomed to, no matter how ‘outgrown’ the process, even if we may perhaps recognize the logic behind the newly introduced way? My parents taught me to do things in a certain way. It was of their opinion that they’d pretty much exhausted all possibilities and come up with the best way. More often than not (having tried the other alternatives), I’d have to say that they were right, and conceded to their greater wisdom, through trial and error. Why work hard when you can work smart?]

He told me to stuff it (or at least that’s what my son said he told me, because I was halfway down the hall, hauling back the hamper into the bathroom and must have missed that remark, or maybe I’ve become desensitized, who could tell?). Then he did the grab-the-keys thing and disappeared. At least a half hour must have elapsed before I decided to track him down. The cell phone went directly into voicemail, so I made my way down the stairs in search of his truck. He was in the garage, installing the bike hooks he’d purchased about three weeks ago and clearing up the garage area. I told him that the scene we just had was lame; he said something about everything always having to be done the way I want; I said something about him never listening to what I ask and then was at a loss for further words. This is the way our conversations go. They’ve gone this way for as long as I can remember, even in therapy. The therapist had said that we don’t listen to each other. No shit.

When we were first married, he humored me every Saturday by assisting me with the cleaning. I’d tell him what his part was, and then he’d do it. I’d go so far as to demonstrate and pick out which cleaning products were to be used. At first he protested that I was being too controlling, that if it wasn’t done my way, it wasn’t done right. So, I’d bite my lip and let him have at it, and then sometimes, discretely, tidy up behind him. After several months of this, he decided one Saturday morning to inform me that weekends were play time, and that this cleaning business was seriously cutting into his leisure time, and so, he wasn’t going to do it anymore. I was floored. What does one say to that? I pondered whether I was maybe a bit too much of a clean freak (which, incidentally, I was cured of, if that was ever the case). Apparently the concept of “cleanliness is next to Godliness” was never hammered into his psyche. Nor did he have a mother who followed him into his room with gloves to see if the dusting had been properly done.

Hmmm… so… married couples are supposed to have longer lifespans, eh? Perhaps the aggravation keeps the heart pumping, when aerobic exercise ceases to be an option.