New Blog

I've been looking for a good way to use my blog, and after reading these tips in the Sunday Post, have made a new blog that I will try to write on every day. (I don't strive for high readership, I just want inspiration to write every day.) It is called 5 things, and that is my goal, note 5 Things that catch my attention that day. This blog - the Bookshelf - will be where I write longer things, like continuing to transcribe my travel diary from Europe, or perhaps quote some of my college papers and other previous writing. Angry Crafts will be just that, still for photos of my creative ventures, and The Grey is where, someday I hope to pick up the saga of a bus full of travelers, heading for a burning Washington DC.

Hello little blog, how have you been?

I think the lady at the bakery deliberately gave me flattish blueberry muffin, but that is probably my guilt about eating said muffin talking.

Yet another downturn in the world of food. I make a little progress, then stop. I've been bouncing around the same two pound mark for months now. I hate thinking about food all the time. I don't really know why I want to lose weight. There are the old standard reasons, feel better, be attractive, buy clothes, but since the balance of my life is pretty good, these don't feel like pressing reasons. However, I cannot just give it up and buy into the fat, because it really doesn't feel good. So I stick at the "feel ok/feel bad" point and never linger in either camp very long.

incomplete

Am I a big bore?

I work, I knit, I watch TV. I visit with my friends, I cook, I shop.

Knitting is a repetitive activity. I use patterns, not yet able to make up things on my own. When something is done I give it away. Occasionally I make cards or paint a strange pictures. I have a stained glass project working, but haven't done anything on it in a while. I used to write, but haven't had many ideas in a long time.

I flit from thing to thing and don't concentrate long enough to really undersand and accomplish anything. I have so many books that are unread, unfinished. Piles of mail to be gone throught, bits and pieces of unfinished projects all around.

All these unfinished things and tiny projects would be fine if I understood why I was doing or not doing them?

What am I trying to do?

Things That Will Make Me Feel Better

Clean my car.
Clean my house, specifically, organzize the attic and my files.
Take yoga.

On My Mind

Familiarity breeds contempt.

Discuss.

Triumph Lessened due to Personal Weakness

One would think success breeds success, however Tuesday was a bust on the bus, and Wednesday did not fare much better. Tuesday I overslept, missed the early bus and the second one I thought would work, never came. I restorted to the age old tatic of calling my parents for a ride. My dad was quite willing and we had a nice talk on the way, but overall, a failure for handling my own business. In the afternoon I finally took the car for a new battery, and far from taking a long time it was remarkably quick, and I had enough money to pay for it. (That had been my main reason for putting it off.)

I do feel that it would be excellent for both character and environment to continue to use the bus system, perhaps two to three times a week, but again this morning slept too long. Ironic, since I was awake around 4. I should just get up instead of falling back asleep.

Triumph of Public Transportation

This morning, due to a dead battery in my car and because a friend is picking me up after work to head away for the weekend, I took the bus to work. I was dazzled with my success. This is a feeling I get when traveling in a foreign country. I feel so good that I am able to negotiate the system. It's silly really.
$1.25 and about an hour worth of time takes me from My house to my school. There is even time at the transfer point in Ballston to get a coffee. Victory is mine!

Confidential to a certain friend who walks to work:
If you were to walk down to Shirlington and catch the bus at 28th and Quincy (I think that is where the Texaco station is,) and take the 10B that would take you, zip you if you will, up the hill and you could get off at Walter Reed and Columbia Pike. It looks like it goes every 30 minutes starting at 5:34 in the morning. It is about a 6 minute trip, 30 I suppose when you add the walk to Shirlington.

Going Downtown: Tips -n- Goals

Went downtown yesterday to get myself a little culture. I had read about an exhibit of a crusades era castle under seige, depicted in minature. It was at National Geographic. I almost hedged at the last minute and didn't go, but I am glad I did. It was a fascinating display: a tie between the history and the actual execution in tiny figures with incredible detail fo the castle and market scenes.

Two things pushed me to go down there. First, Paul and I went to the Rousseau exhibit at the National Gallery a few weeks ago, and that was such a nice day. I felt as if I was in a dream. It sounds cliche, but it was like looking at the paintings was looking through windows at another time. I particularly liked that Rousseau was untrained. He painted in his spare time, and his unorthodox style eventually drew praise because of his flaunting of convention. He was, in short, an angrycraftsman.

That day reminded me that there are many wonderful things to see, for free, and I don't get out much really, and ought to do so.

Second: When I was younger, my parents would frequently haul us down to various galleries after church on Sunday. I particularly remember going to the Portrait Gallery. We would check out some art, have a little lunch, it sits in my memory as a nice time.

So the goal would be to go somewhere artsy or otherwise edifying on Sundays. Once a month, I think. My next attempt will be in October, and I think I would like to go see the World War II Memorial and go up the Washington Monument.

Tip: If you drive downtown on Tuesday at about 11:30 there is lots of parking on Independence because they have just reopened for parking because of the street cleaning.

The Windows

This is an exceptionally fine place in my house. The desk by the window. Today was cool enough to open the windows. I hate the overly cool feeling of air-conditioning, but I also dislike being hot, so a day like today, in the middle of August in normally hot and humid Arlington, Virginia, where the windows can be opened is to be relished. Paul suggested opening them last night, and I thought they might have to be closed today, but that is not so. So I am enjoying sitting here, with the nice breeze. I really like it when Kevin and Violet join me on this desk, as they have today.

I love to look out the window. There is so much to see, even if that so much is just hundreds of leaves on a tree. They rustle and twist in a fine manner. Now and then birds enter the picture.

The birds are particularly active in the tree that can be seen out of what I think of the back window of the house. I have made that room, that used to be the dining room into what I now call the library, with book shelves all around and a fine chair in which to sit. The people who live in the apartment below put out seed and there is a large community of birds and squirrels that take advantage of this. There are doves, cardinals, sparrows, and recently a bright yellow feathered fellow who looks like a finch.

There is a good feeling by these windows, and I like it when I come to them feeling clean and dry inside, a feeling I think I have referenced before, as if I have had a good cry, and am husked out, empty and ready for something new.

Quick Trip: Seeing the Mendoza Line in Philly

I’d like to open, by apologizing for the first article I ever wrote about the Mendoza Line, which fortunately is lost in the wilds of the internet, which was a “review” of the first Mendoza Line show I ever saw. Good Lord, I had no idea what I was talking about. I made several gross errors, most notably, I credited several of Pete’s songs to Tim, and said that Tim was suffering from some sort of terrible throat malady, when it turns out, he just sounds that way.

Two years have passed since then, and I am older and wiser, and I am at least somewhat familiar with the ML catalog. I know everyone’s names, and I know some of the personal foilbles of the group, my favorite of which, is that they just wander off and reappear without warning during the waiting period before the show. Also, Deppler will eat anything put before him, except in the 2 hours before the show, when only gum and beer is allowed. I also have been exposed to more music in general, to make up for a stunted growth in this area in my adolescence. I still don’t know much, but I do know what I like.

I like the Mendoza Line. Now I know what you are saying, I have a personal stake here, I am friends with these nutcakes, why wouldn’t I like them? I am also a noted suck-up, and will pretend to like most anything to please others. But really I do like the music. So yesterday, I took a 12 hour junket to see them in Philadelphia. If we expand the timeline to 24 hours, it looks like this:

8:00am – Classroom, Arlington VA
12:00pm- Lunchroom, Arlington VA
4:00pm – Apartment, Arlington VA
8:00pm – I-95 just outside Philadelphia, PA
12:00am- The Mendoza Line Show at The Fire, Philadelphia PA
4:00am – Walking into Apartment, Arlington VA
8:00am – Walking into classroom, Arlington VA

(I like the whole chronology because the times of 8, 12, and 4 really were significant points in the action. Except for perhaps the lunch, but hey, you’ve gotta eat, right?)

Point the first: Why do rock shows have to be so damn late? I mean, is there anyone who really goes, “Oh, that show starts at 7:00, no WAY am I going to show up at 7:00 to see a band. Seriously, I know I sound like a senior citizen looking for the early bird special at the Sizzler, but come on! Midnight on a school night! Sheesh.

But I am willing to suffer for my art. I also like a spontaneous adventure. And the next day was Friday, so I can tough that out and have a little sleep in on Sat.

Point the second. People should be happy in their work. Now I am not entirely sure that each member of the ML is happy as a clam all the time the show is going on. Humans are complicated creatures, and I know some of the fellows on stage stretch the word complicated to a great extreme, but they look like they are having a good time, and I know that I and possibly the guy next to me (I noticed he was doing some festive foot shuffling, and singing along like I was) would be digging the work, so here’s hoping that it is as fun as it looks to perform.

This is the 7th Mendoza Line show I have seen. Easily the best yet. I must admit initially I was a little alarmed. Tim was doing a bit more screaming (he sort of goes “AAAARRRGH at various moments) than usual and Adam was looking very serious and intense on the drums, but it turned out that this really worked, and the set really rocked along.

Point the third and last. Travel is a little victory. Successful journey, even though I got lost twice, and drove the wrong way down a one way street...in front of a cop.

So that's all for now, friends. Just a quick story about a quick trip.

Europe Journal Part II: E-mail from Munich Germany

7-9-2003

Gruß Gott! ( ilove the waythis german keyboard has all the symbols, however
the z is where the y should be and the ä is where the ´ normally is, so
pardon my typos)


I am in an internet cafe across from the Munich train station. In an hour or so, I will go and get my luggage out of the locker I parked it in, and catch the train to Rome. I get to have a schlaffzimmer(sleeping room) which is something I have always wanted to do. Anne has been told she WILL get out of bed early and come and fetch me at the train station. She is grumbling about it, but will come through, I know. Right Anne?


Germany was great! I forgot how beautiful it was.I had a great time taking long walks in and around the little town Katherine and Jim live in. Of course Jim was greatly missed, but Katherine hears from him often from Iraq. Please keep both of them in your prayers!


I drove on the auto bahn in katherine´s car yesterday, and no one died,so I feel this is a plus. I only edged up on 90 miles an hour once when I was passing someone. The germans do have the greatest road signs ever, as long as you know where you are going,but after some detours I made it to Nürnburg, and had a nice time seeing the old city and beautiful churches.
I have done the same today here in Munich.


I hope everyone is well, I miss you!


ps - Yes, I am watching out for the wierd men. Where exactly might I find them?

A Story

I heard an interesting story the other day.

There was a woman seen by others to be a nice person, likeable, etc. She was no looker, and had a pretty big ass, and no dating history to speak of, except for some long drawn out crushes that always ended badly, or just ended.

This person began to think that she was afraid of the sweaty mens. If asked about it, I am sure she would say that this is true, yet at the same time express her attraction to and interest in same. It's like mountain climbing. Looks like fun but those heights are scary as hell.

Observe if you will her reaction to a recent approach by a man. After wandering in a bookstore for some time, she made her purchases and exited the premises. In the parking lot a man called out to her. She turned, and he stammered a bit - could he ask her something, and she replied yes, thinking perhaps, directions, but already feeling her heart rev up a few steps, and he said that he had been watching her in the store, and could he have her number. With all systems immediately flipped to "flee," she said that she was sorry, she was on her way to meet her date (a lie of course, though she was on her way to pick up someone dear to her)and he pressed the issue, saying he hadn't seen a ring on her finger, but she was moving now, and thanked him for the compliment and flung herself in her car.

Then she cried.

She cried because she was afraid. She cried because perhaps his interest was genuine and she had said no after he had gotten his courage up. She cried because she though perhaps his interest wasn't genuine and the bookstore was perhaps known to those looking for sex or money as target rich environment for fat lonely women, needy enough to say yes. She cried because he was a stranger and they hadn't been properly introduced. She cried because she was afraid she was prejudiced. She cried because the men she had wanted in her life had never wanted her. She cried because she was afraid those men had been deliberate choices so that she would never have to love. She cried because she was afraid sex was never to be experienced or understood. She cried because she could not understand her fear.

She doesn't know what to do. How do you change a pattern of life that is so established? How do you force yourself to diet, hoping that is the key, when you are angry that it is they key, and that the rest of you, the core of who you are, is really just the window dressing? How do you face the fear that dieting is not the key, and what pushes people away is something you haven't even though of? How do you live knowing the few times you have gotten what you thought you wanted; romantic sexual attention from men, you have run away?

I think she will wait, and watch, and cry from time to time. Because how do you change when you don't know what is wrong?

Downpour

I rearranged the living room after the new carpet was installed, and I moved the desk by the front window. On a sunny day it is very nice. It is particularly nice right now to sit here by the window, because it is sunny, but pouring down rain. The water is collecting and beading off the tree leaves, and the slate tiles on the covering over the front door are steaming at the water runs down.

It is past five on Sunday afternoon, and this is the second day I have accomplished very little. I do not feel like I am resting in anticipation of something as I sometimes do, or enjoying a quiet moment in between busy weeks. No, this feels like shirking. Deliberating shutting down to avoid heavy thinking.

Maybe this rain will cleanse away the malaise.

It is really very beautiful, this sun and rain.

Travels: Part 4: Alone in the Dark

Part I
Part II
Part III

And now...
Feelings of fear overcome our traveler, while she listens to the cacophonous opening acts.

Now I am not generally one to fear being alone, and indeed have found myself to be a brave traveler. But this moment in my sojourn did cost me some several moments of anxiety. I shall describe it briskly, not in my usual florid style, but in the manner of one who is remembering for some purpose, as if being investigated by the law.

It was a large white hall, an art gallery of sorts. People were clustered in groups drinking beer. College students. There were odd pieces of art on the wall. Some large, modern installations like a road sign with pudding boxes taped to it, things like that. I felt very exposed, being there alone, even though it was dark, and tried to sit in such a way as to not draw attention to myself, that is, very still. As more people came in my buffer zone of chairs was encroached upon, and I pulled to the side and away. During all this time, every time the door opened, this was before the bands started or in between, I would look back and see if it was the band arriving. I began to wonder if they would come at all. Were they lost? Or did they just decide to skip this gig. I didn't know their touring habits well enough to know.

I was very excited to see them, and wondered if they would be pleased to see me. Would my friend hug me? I wanted him to, but he is not a physically affectionate fellow, indeed upon his leaving for this tour we had stood awkwardly in the coffee shop parking lot and he had seemed to me to deliberately step away when the time of hugging presented itself, and no hug was had.

What if they never arrived? I blushed at the thought that I would always have to keep my surprise visit a secret. Surely it would be best if no one ever knew. I would not be embarrassed that they found out I had come. They would not be embarrassed being found out not to have come. All would be quiet and secret.

These were the various thoughts that wandered through my head on this endless wait. Soon enough however, The opening act began.

It was a local group. Fractured music, very loud with no discernable melody. I began to think that my ears might actually be bleeding. It decreased my thoughts of anxiety somewhat, as I could not think, the noise was so great. The reinforcement of the randomness of the tune came when after the first song, there was a continuing of the music, softer, and more tuneful, as if there was a line of music running underneath, but it turned out that the sound guy had neglected to turn off the background music he had been playing before the show.

And so this went on. Pain began to build in my forehead. My ears began to ring. More miserable I could not have been, and I began to consider the possibility of escape.

Oh then dear friends, finally was my longing answered, I heard a stirring at the back of the hall. From the darkness of my corner I turned and looked and was greeted with the sweetest sight. The band had arrived. My relief was great, but far from leaping up and running to them, I held my place in the dark, taking a moment to settle and observe their entry and disposition in order to assess their mood and my next action.

Europe Journal Part I: Walk Out of the Rain

7-1-2003: On runway, London Stansted Airport
Well there is a fair bit of walking in this journey. Hither and yon @ Heathrow then all over this airport. It is a good thing though, as all the sandwiches seem to have bacon in them.

Alison gave me envelopes for each phase of the trip. The first was a book mark which I will use for this journal. I keep wanting to say to people around me “Isn’t this great?!” because it is!

I need to jump into new things now, or I end up a the end of the month still sitting in the smoking compartment with a guy that looks like the uncle from the sound of music. Oh well, I am soaking up all the smells and sights this way! By the way I am pretty smelly @ this point.

7-1-2003: Katherine’s House Kirchenthumbach, Germany
24 hours from when I started and I am tucked into bed… After she picked me up we went and met her friends who play cards every week at a stamtisch.

7-2-2003: Conditeri, Kirchenthumbach
Katherine lives in a little farm town and I just walked to a bakery. I have a ham and cheese croissant and ordered coffee. I have no idea what I am getting. I looked up the words for cappuccino and espresso in the dictionary and found none! OK, just got my coffee. The words for all those things – is coffee.

This afternoon I took Verdi and walked the opposite way (from the morning)through the fields to the tiny chapel. There is a statue there to commemorate the fallen of WWI. It was so beautiful. Imagine a perfect day with a beautiful sky and the birds and rustling of the hay in the fields. Even when it starts to rain it doesn’t matter, because you can see where the rain ends and know that you just have to walk out of it.

Gwen and Cami, (to of K’s friends) came over and we grilled and made cherry preserves. There is a huge cherry tree in Katherine and Jim’s backyard. I went and picked a whole bowlful for a snack today.

7-3-2003: Kirchenthumbach – late
We made it to the Rittersport factory 10 minutes before closing! At Patch we asked a guy and he said it was in Wald der Stadt. In Wald der Stadt we asked a guy and he said “No, no, it is in ______. When we got there we asked a woman and she said “No, no, it is in Waldenbuch.” And indeed when we looked on the label of the candy bar that we had had in the car the WHOLE TIME, it said Waldenbuch. We made it and ran madly through the store tossing chocolate in our baskets.

-

Every time you think, "I can't go on," not only do you immediately recant, and think that you am being overdramatic, but also, you do go on. You don't die, it doesn't snow, there is no disasater to temporarily or permanently change the course of life. Life keeps movng, and most depressingly, accepts your tired mediocrity, with nary a ripple. No one cares to notice your weaknessess, perhaps because they are busy looking at their own, but more likely because it doesn't matter. Somehow, your failures play into some plan, or just don't matter at all.

Wishes

I want very much to be a better person. Kinder, less selfish, smarter, more faithful. Many other things, better with money, cleaner, healthier, more useful. I feel that all these things are in my grasp, very close, I can hear them. But I also hear a disaffected voice, wondering why? To what end to be better?

Another

This one makes me sad.

Good Men and True

I just returned from a retirement party for three staff members at the school at which I used to work. It was a great event. The room was not huge, but warm, with a low ceiling, and some quiet moments early on were broken by some of us begining to call out in the familiar heckling way we used to do at staff meetings. Soon it was like a staff meeting again; people gathered for a common mission, and enjoying each others quirks and company.

The three of them represent 90 years in education and I felt very strongly that my own work in education must either begin to match theirs in dedication, or it must end. They seem to have a love and energy that I wish for, but do not, at this moment, posses.

I was brought back so strongly tonight to the love I have for this school, but the way it was is ending. New management (I will not call it leadership, for it is nothing like leadership) has taken the life out of the collaborative environment that was so rewarding. All of us who were there tonight mourn that loss. This was a last great moment for that era, as one of these men was the last of the original staff members to leave. The staff that remain are top class. Though they are not supported as they used to be, the students never know. They continue to give excellent education to their students, in spite of trying circumstances, and thus demonstrate their kindness, professionalism and focus on the true job at hand, one that these three men always remembered: It is about the kids.

I was so glad to see my old friends tonight, and to have it brought home to me what it really means to be a teacher, and consider if that path is mine.

At one point the three retirees and the two former principals stood together for a picture. Everyone applauded and I thought: These are good men. Good men and true. Giants of their age.

One of them recited the following Dylan song at the end of his speech. I think under the right circumstances with the right people, one could feel forever young.

May God bless and keep you always, May your wishes all come true, May you always do for others, And let others do for you. May you build a ladder to the stars, And climb on every rung, May you stay forever young, Forever young, forever young, May you stay forever young.

May you grow up to be righteous, May you grow up to be true, May you always know the truth, And see the lights surrounding you. May you always be courageous, Stand upright and be strong, May you stay forever young, Forever young, forever young, May you stay forever young.

May your hands always be busy, May your feet always be swift, May you have a strong foundation, When the winds of changes shift. May your heart always be joyful, May your song always be sung, May you stay forever young, Forever young, forever young, May you stay forever young.

Poetry Appreciation Hour

I really like the poems of Pablo Neruda. I read this one in a book called "To Hell With Love." I also like this, but to publish them here seems so weak and girly romantic, so you can go read those on your own, but for sharing time here, tonight, is this morsel:


Fleas interest me so much
that I let them bite me for hours.
They are perfect, ancient, Sanskrit,
machines that admit of no appeal.
They do not bite to eat,
they bite only to jump;
they are the dancers of the celestial sphere,
delicate acrobats
in the softest and most profound circus;
let them gallop on my skin,
divulge their emotions,
amuse themselves with my blood,
but someone should introduce them to me.
I want to know them closely,
I want to know what to rely on.

Pablo Neruda

Amendment of Life

I worked on Travels, but didn't finish. I ended up drinking too much at a party and then drinking more at home and that was a total wreck and I embarrassed myself in front of my roommate, who seemed to be ignoring me, but I am sure couldn't help but notice me staggering around, etc. In spite of only a mild hangover, I think changes must be made. My physical life is out of control. I've gained back a lot of weight, I used to drink very little, now when I drink, I drink a lot, and exercise is no where is sight nor has it been for a long time.

So today, I attempt to amend said life. I have purchased healthy frozen lunches and installed the in the school fridge, along with some snack yogurts. Breakfast is a small latte and a lowfat blueberry muffin. When I lost 50 lbs, this was my staple breakfast, and the downfall of my success in that arena, thought it is not the complete reason, can be tracked by the growing excesses of size and additives to my coffee drinks. In addition to these actions, I have taken a vitamin, and listened to NPR on the way to work, always a health injection measure, I believe.

While I don't know how this will succeed, I feel it is the first postive step I have taken in a long time, and that feels good in and of itself.

Grand Announcement

Tomorrow I shall return to one of my two great works, and attempt to complete and post the next segment of Travels. This section is called: Alone in the Dark. Here our traveler begins to doubt the sense of her journey as she listens to the opening acts.

We shall see if stating a goal brings it to pass. If so, I think it bodes well for the completion of my magnum opus : The Grey.

A Thought Before Bedtime

On NPR tonight, it was said that the framers' genius was that the Constitution worked because of our flaws, not in spite of them. I find revelation in this. Perhaps many important things should be this way, designed so our weakness allows us to excel. I wish I could think of an example; marriage came to mind at the time, as a place this idea could be very influential.

I am sure there is some flaw in my thinking, for I didn't think about it very long, but it was one of those flashing confident moments, where I felt a very important operating principle had been revealed to me. These moments are often lost, as I think this one seems now to have been, but I think for that moment, I knew something very important.

Fred

Fred was my mystery. I would have loved Fred, did love Fred. I applied to him all qualities of good, even though I knew little about him.

Every class was another clue:

Nick is 71 years old, and stops playing when he gets frustrated, or tells the rest of us we aren't keeping good time when we go to fast for him. He is my duet partner. We were to meet at 6:30, but I was in a practice room, and he in the waiting room and he didn't find me until 7. His voice was annoyed on the phone message. I had looked for him, but not to hard, thinking he would look in the practice rooms, but not really caring;

Fred's color was better yesterday. He had gone to the gym, his young friend Nak said. Nak is Asian (Hawaiian? I thought Fred was Asian too) The teacher commented that Fred seemed to be looking thinner and having an easier time getting up and down from the piano;

The teacher has a son with a suspended license;

Louis has jumped ahead in the book to one of the harder pieces. His midterm solo will be a full page;

For the midterm, all the men have chosen the longest piece we have played so far;

I think mine is more complicated, but it is only two lines;

Lauren chose a shorter piece. She is very pretty.

The night of the recital, our teacher says that our first performer is dressing, and then Fred entered wearing a bowtie. He walked immediately to the piano and began picking notes. The class was used to this, because Fred usually sounded a few notes as he lowered his arthritic self to the bench. This time he really seemed to be launching into his piece, Ode to Joy. Wrong hand position Fred, called the teacher from the back. She shuffled forward to orient his hands correctly.

There was cake afterward. There was a group picture. Fred and his bowtie are in the middle.

The Story Between the Stairs

There is a yellowing wood where all thoughts lie.

Song with No Tune #2

Suddenly destroyed by nothing in particular
I cross the less traveled path
into the center and out again
All the lefts and rights fall away

I am happiest when I cry
and he is angriest when he sleeps

Dear and sweetheart the waiter says
A pursuit more genuine
It is 1000 pieces of broken glass
it is all collected ephemera

He is angry when he sleeps
He is angriest when he sleeps

Hard and brassy in the park there is some huge turning
I pay too much money and leave before he returns
Perhaps the wicked pursuit I should abandon
is of you
my dear

But I am happiest when I cry
And he is angriest when he sleeps.

Maybe it's a Song?

Board me up, the store is closed
Dusty lessons and broken souls
Make the rust run off my nose
Board me up, the store is closed

Dime a dozen paper goods
Broken class and warping wood
Only dirt where my heart once stood
Board me up the store is closed

Just a phase of my younger days
Lines of books out the door
Life was filled but the ring of the till
was totalled to less not more

Sweep my hat and wax the floor
I will study war no more
It is hollow at the core
Board it up, the store is closed

Travels: Part 3: Again the Road

A more perfect day could not have been, with crisp fall air, and the foliage of the sylvan hills just beginning to break. Easy was the ride and the wearisome troubles of home and work slid away with each passing mile. I made my stop at an inn on the turnpike to refresh myself with a veggie burger, such an item that I had not known normally to be offered at these waysides, and change into a blouse more suitable for passing oneself off as a hipster in music land, rather than my usual garb more suited to daytime activities.

I confess I was eager to see them play. It had been my habit of late to listen to the album as I drove to and from work, and I found more and more pleasure in the endevour. Indeed I was eager with questions. Who are the Talmadge sisters and where is this marble hall? How can the bass have such a lively sound, when so often it is an instrument relegated to the background? The day previous I had given the album to a friend, who was quite desirous of hearing it. I contented myself with tuneful humming, and felt this was a good measure, not to have the album ringing in my ears before the show commenced.

The sun set, the scenery rolled past, and I began to fear I would be late. Indeed all manner of disconcerting thoughts entered my head. What if the show had been cancelled? What if there was no pleasure in my presence? Should I skulk quietly in the background, or dramatically announce myself. Would the band play well and be pleased, or adopt their traditional gloomy assessment of their performance? But I resolved that such thinking was in vain. I had no way to influence these matters, and I preferred the light and happy heart and countenance that had accompanied me thus far, so I adopted this manner with resolve.

My fear was also soothed by the signs I saw along the way, and by this I do not mean the road signs, but rather portents of what was to come and assents from the fates that I was going the right way. For who, when crossing over the “St. Paul River” or passing the “Evergreen Café, or “Hoffman Carpets” would not look at these like the wise soothsayer looks at entrails and see that fate had already ordained what was about to play out.

Over and over referencing my compass and charts I found the venue. Truly it was not in the best spot of town, but one of those areas reclaimed from a time of dim economy. In past years, thought I, I might be fearsome of these streets, but they were a few pleasant folk about, and even the man on the corner, who seemed to be primarily in converse with himself, gave me no pause.

I entered the hall. A man at the sound board took my money, and when I enquired about the whereabouts of the band, he rolled his eyes and said, "they should have been here hours ago."

I stifled my concern, and took a seat in the stark white hall.

Listen

Now my stomach hurts, as it has for days. This is the ice cream. I walk out of the house. muggy, I hear the teenagers sitting in the dark talking. They took their bench away, wanting to push them away, but in the hot summer they have returned. I walk up the small rise, startling a man with a dog. The dog scares me. The ice cream place is crowded. A woman in a tank top has ordered five milkshakes. The employees look tired. A woman in a short skirt and on the phone cuts in front of me. A man whispers his order, discussing the amount of hot fudge that is left. I order carmel instead of hot fudge. I apologize to the woman who rings me up. "Sorry for coming so late." It is almost closing. I dislike the two women in their tank tops and flirty skirts. I cross back to the neighborhood. I hear the teenagers again, as I pass in the dark. I am afraid they wil laugh at me. A fat woman alone with her ice cream.
It is the first night in months I have been in the house alone.

On Selfishness

Incident:
Said I didn't know when asked what I wanted for my birthday. Realized that this makes me more, not less, selfish and greedy. That knowing that I do like presents, I want people to demonstrate their knowledge and care of me by knowing what special extravagancess I would like, or to demonstrate that time has been spent thinking about me.

Incident:
There is a terrible intersection near our house. A large main road, with an access road running parallel. An exit from the shopping center crosses the access and main roads. If you are attempting to cross the main road from the access lane, you have the opportunity to jump in front of the traffic exiting the shopping center, and if you do not jump in front, you often miss the light completely. Recently a sign was put up mandating that the access road traffic must yield to the shopping center traffic, but to do this, often means you will wait through one or more light cycles, as traffic builds up behind you. A week ago, I obeyed the sign, and waited at the stop sign. The light turned green, the shopping center traffic began to move, and the woman behind me began to honk, because I was not moving. I pointed to the sign. She waved her arms and her face and mouth moved with anger. We missed the light, and she pulled out around me, though the light was red, and positioned herself to be in the lead spot. As she pulled around me, she pointed at me and the light, still telling me all about it, though I could not hear. Today I came to the same intersection and this time, pulled out further, so as to be able to cross, before the shopping center traffic. Suddenly to my left a woman with a double stroller appeared, crossed in front of my car, and lifted her stroller onto the sidewalk. Her lips were firmly pressed together. She looked at the stroller, looked at my car, then at me, her disapproval apparent. I was not only in the crosswalk, I was blocking the curb cut. I raised my hands and mouthed "I'm sorry." She stared at me, then looked away.

Incident:
I handed over items to a shy teenage visitor, and my quiet roommate waited in the other room the whole time she was there. I felt that both of them disliked me and disliked myself in the course of affecting a jovial manner to each of them.

Incident:
I stepped to the counter and tried to say hello to Will, who barely raised his head, and after my second hello, it became clear to me that he was unhappy, so I hushed. The young lady taking orders told him there was a medium iced chai, and then I asked for a large iced chai. When the drinks were ready the girl held them both up and called "large and medium iced chai." The woman next to me, and I said, at the same time: "Mine was the large." We looked at each other and looked at the drinks, and at the girl. The girl looked perplexed and held the two drinks out in front of her. "I'll take the medium," I said, as the other woman said, "I paid for a large." The girl still look perplexed, and I saw Will glance over, and could tell by his expression he was not going to get involved. "It's OK," I said, "I'll take the medium." The girl handed me the medium, and handed the other woman the large. The woman said to me: "That was very nice of you." I became annoyed with her as I walked away. I had paid for a large too. I did not like her thanking me.

Incident:
A great expression of my selfishness is in that I have never had a great desire to have children. Wonder, if like many things, I would like it if it was thrust upon me. Have felt lately, that pregnacy is a unique experience, and wonder I am less of a woman for not having the expreience. Think perhaps I have been neglectful of the sexual and reproductive abilities that I possess.

Incident:
Got a wedding invitation from a high school friend, and never opened it. She called for a photographer reference, and I didn't return the call and after 30 days the message with her number was erased from the answering service. I thought about finding her number, which would have been relatively easy, but didn't. My mother and father are attending the wedding, as are several other friends. My mother saw the girl and her sisters and made excuses for me. They said I was welcome to come. The wedding is today. I had to go to the church to help with the weekly set up, and worked quickly, so I could leave before she or any of the others I knew, arrived. In my head I am penning a letter, which I may or may not send, to apologize.

Travels: Part 2: Musicology

I shall now take the time to tell you a little about music, what I know of it.

I am a woman of simple tastes, not given to deep study of anything, though I have illusions of being such a person who will know much, I actually know very little. I eat what is put in front of me, and I listen to what is offered to me. In this way have I suffered much music with fleeting passion. It is mine for a time, then it or I move on, and I do not miss it. Do I sing in the shower? Sometimes, an odd assortment of tunes, but usually I am silent.

I catalog ever so briefly, the genre of music, its place in my history:

I. Showtunes
The formative music of my family and youth.

II. Classical:
Also formative, and my instrumental training .

III. Pop
A. Junior High School
i. Stairway to Heaven: Searching for a dance partner during this endless,wretched song.
ii. Freebird: The only song worse than stairway to heaven.
B. High School
i. Living in Europe I am only exposed to one hour of pop music on the radio at odd intervals. I buy a Culture Club album, and am loaned Thriller, and a Barry Manilow album. I find Barry tuneful, and for this I am ashamed.
C. College tunes
i. I return to American and wallow in the music I have missed, and the early years of MTV. I continue to flounder with no discerible musical direction.

IV. Jazz
A. My like/hate realtionship
i. Like: Classic, verse, verse, bridge, verse jazz, with the occasional trading of fours
ii. Hate: Modern, endless, etc...

V. Big Band
Noisy! Strong marching band like rythmn section! Swell to dance to!

VI. The Blues:
Relationships flounder and I sing along.

VII. Country: See Blues but more transparent.

VIII. Rap: The Sugar Hill Gang, then years later the music of my students.

The sum of the above, is what I stated previous. Acceptable to my ears upon offering, but left easily. and indeed looked back at later, with apathy and in some cases revulsion. And so to now. What I hear now strikes me different, though perhaps as years pass there will be the same leaving, but for now, my ears and mind actually long for tunes of the following nature:

IX. Indy Rock: A late entry, and I realize, the great undiscovered country

X. The Record Collection: Bob Dylan enters my life, and I realize what I have been looking for.

Next: We return to our traveler on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

Follow Up

I set out to create some angry crafts. The results are here.

Farewell Squishy Cat.

Kevin gives Squishy a thorough cleaning.

So long, sweet, smelly kitten.

Travels

Call me Eleanor.

For in so much as from time to time I grow melancholy in my thoughts and find myself pressed with labours not of my own choosing, but by others demanded of me, I seek an escape from these troubles and venture afield. I do not seek the boat, or the mountain top, but rather a drive. Others may throw themselves on the harpoon of coarse adventure, but a more peaceful flight is mine. Through rustic hills I wander, with some small goal, but the larger quest in search of a mental peace, which lo, now these many years has eluded me.

So it came to pass that not long ago, I sought the comforts of friendship and musing that would be found on a drive though Pennsylvania, and at its terminus, Pittsburgh. For there one would find, the beleaguered and weary Mendoza Line. Who, after touring the country, would now finish their journey and return each member to their home port, where they might refresh themselves. For travel, though enriching in many respects, does take its toll on the health and mental fortitude of the traveler. Mindful of the pleasure of hearing their music, and eager for the company, I proposed to myself that I should travel to see them. Finding no quarrel within myself on this matter, I resolved that it should be so.

It is as always my habit to confer with friends about the seemliness of my journey, though I find more often that not I expand on my weary state with this, as I am often upbraided for traveling unaccompanied or in the dark, as if instead of being a score and more than half again as much in years, I was just from the womb, and as if I was traveling in the nether reaches of civilization, rather than up a turnpike, so well traveled they collect fees for its upkeep. But such was my habit, and my friends, though in the past critical of my plans to go see this group on the road, agreed all round, that this might be a fine remedy for the foul mood that had been my bedfellow these many weeks.

So I set out on my journey, eager for whatever adventure might unfold.

Next: Musicology. A study of that particular obsession and profession.

Kevin and Squishy

It is 6:00am and I am on the break between feedings of the cats, Kevin and Squishy. Back when it was Kevin and I, I just threw down some food, and ol' Kev was a happy boy. I would sometimes put it out at night, so I didn't have to get up early. Then came Squishy. I remember very clearly the night my roommate asked if we might bring Squishy to live with us. We were at his former residence, where he was looking after said Squishy for the weekend. I walked into this one, like you would not believe. "I want to see Squishy!" I said.

Squishy lived in the basement, I was told, because he clawed things, but I understand now, also because he throws up on things. Squishy performed admirably, letting himself be petted, showing off his jutting ribs, because of the illness that I was told, would be his end "any day now," and lying in between my roommate and I on the sofa on a screened in porch. He purred, we drank, the wind moved softly through the trees, and I was quite content. So when Paul asked what I thought about Squishy coming to live with us, I quickly said yes. Even when he pointed out some of Squishy's poor habits like the clawing, and how would Squishy get along with Kevin, I offered a host of remedies, and said I wasn't worried.

What a setup.

Paul was away for several weeks, and my life became an endless cycle of feeding and cleaning. Even now that he is back there is a constant parade to the kitchen, or to the vacuum. Squishy and Kevin have to be watched while they eat, or they will eat each other's food. Kevin, a portly fellow, eats dry diet food. Squishy, a little black ghost of a cat eats wet "extra fat food." Now you tell me; in a house where one cat needs to lose weight and another to gain, what do you think is going to happen? That's right. Old "half way though death's door" Squishy is actually putting some meat on his bones....and so is Kevin. Kevin is begining to resemble a small yellow ottoman.

Every few days Squishy will barf on the carpet. Sometimes,. just for varieties sake, he'll do it before I come home from school. That's my favorite. Nothing like a long day at an unsatisfying job and then a little cat puke clean up. Gotta tell the truth. I let it sit one day, and it turned out, it was easier to clean up after it dried. So there you go. Your cleaning tip for the day, as long as you don't mind looking at it for a few hours.

And what is Kevin doing during all this you ask? Well, when he is not chowing down on the food, or, God help us taking an investigative nibble of the barf, he is alternately sleeping on his fat ass or attacking Squishy. He really wanted to be friends with the Squish at first, but this idea was rejected by the world weary Squishy, so now, either Kevin is totally bitter, or they have reached some sort of smack ridden compromise.

I do love them. They make me feel needed. I feel like a benevolent white capped nurse as I get a rag and clean the dried food off of Squishy's nose, or a benevolent space heater as he and Kevin sit on top of me on cold mornings. So the fact that this sitting occurs at 4:00 am? Hardly painful at all.

Hardly.

Angry Crafts

I feel there is an uptapped segment of the craft market. Angry Crafts.

There are those who would use crafts to uplift their mood, but I find when I am grumpy this is unappealing to me. I do not want to stamp cards with cheerful sayings or create scrapbook pages of happy times, but I would like to do something creative. Hence the need for angry crafts.

Tearing up strips of cloth and dumping them in a bucket.
Decoupaging the word "hate" in many fonts onto a plywood square.
Sewing crooked lines in felt, or scribbling with black crayon on a old chair covered in white primer.

Welcome to the world of angry crafts.

1984

I was not cool in high school. I was slightly cooler in the second high school I went to (My family moved to Germany between my sophomore and junior years) but I was never in the "In" Crowd. I ran with the band geeks and nebishy characters in the "Concepts in Advanced Lit" class, and even there I was a bit on the outs, because I was pretty clueless about what was going on most of the time. But cool or not, I was fairly happy with my set, and there was a moment, where I believe we created a delicate dance between prankishness and literature, that, if the story were remembered beyond just myself, I am sure would be much talked of.

Background: I graduated from high school in 1984. Remember that.

There was a particularly crotchety member of the faculty, and English and Humanities teacher, who was one of those teachers that is remembered with great reverence, but at the time you were in his class, caused nothing but humiliation. He had a gift for pouncing on your mistakes, and generally seemed to not care a whit about your self esteem. He knew his stuff however, and the majority of what I really understand about literature and humanities came from him. Mr. Minnette.

Minnette had a podium that he clung to as he preached, and this podium had been hijacked every fall as some sort of senior prank. It had been painted, placed on top of the waterfall in the schools garden, or just went missing. I don't know when I began to have a vision for the destiny of the podium for my senior year, but I knew the moment that I must take matters into my own hands and activate the plan. Minnette, much to everyone's shock, had gotten married the preceding spring, and his wife was expecting a baby - another shock. I heard some of "THE" seniors talking about a plan to remove said podium and paint it pink and blue. I was appalled. How could a class graduating in 1984, who had studied that same book with that teacher, who had seen him pound on that podium and heard him cry out "2+2=5 because I SAY it does, Numbskull and I can fail you so might makes right!" how could we do anything other than a 1984 theme. Please!

There were about seven of us who agreed to take on the challenge and a pre-emptive strike was deemed necessary. Within days my mother was enlisted as driver, and early the next Friday morning she drove myself and Martin, who lived in our neighborhood to the school. Martin was a key player because he was fluent in German, and it was thought that conversation might be needed to convince one of the German Putz-frau's (custodians) to unlock the classroom door. Indeed this was the case, and Martin prevailed. We scooted in, grabbed the podium, hustled it up the stairs to where the getaway station wagon was waiting (tailgate up.) We slid it in, covered it with a blanket, slammed the tailgate down, banged on the back just like in the movies, and she roared off. (Roared might be putting it a bit strongly. It was a military base and a school zone, so the speed limit was 25 miles a hour, but it was a cold morning, so there was a satisfying blast of white exhaust as she trundled away.

We masked our smiles throughout the day, though no pretense was necessary. We were too lame to be under suspicion. Minnette blustered and sulked as was appropriate. A rally time of noon the next day was set as the hour of action.

We met at my house. In the garage the painting was done. In the dining room stencils and photos were prepared. We thought our selves very clever, and frankly, we were. Oh that there was a way that I could be paid to be clever! I'd be so happy.

This is what it looked like:
The podium was painted a darkish blue. The front was white and we attached to it a giant head shot of Mr. Minnette. Underneath the picture it said "Big Brother is Watching You." On one side of the podium we stencilled black letters saying "2+2=5," on the other "Might Makes Right." The crowning touch was the part that would face him every morning. White with black letters: "Ignorance is Strength."

It kills me that I don't have a picture of it, and also that I didn't get to see his reaction, though it was reported that he thought it was the best thing ever done. None ever took credit for it that I know of, though our picture is in the yearbook where we are all standing around the dining room table holding black strips of paper over our eyes, so as to remain anonymous of course. The fact that the yearbook committee printed our names under the picture was a very minor setback.

It is a moment that I reflect upon with great pride.

Thank you.

Headache

This is what is on my desk:

3 hole punch, tape in dispenser, flashlight, napkin, 3 wet erase markers, nylon book cover, post-it flags, apple, water, lime diet coke, cd labeled "pics from laptop (damn, I was looking for that earlier) portable disk drive, desk lamp (every one says how nice my office looks, it's because of the lamps) files in a stand (there is a picture of a black cat on a paper bag stuck to the stand) aspirin bottle, (it hurts it hurts my head hurts) black mug that says "You're Fired", huge Oklahoma Sooners drinking jug 3/4ths full of water (I need to drink more water) ID badge and keys, folder with school information printed on it, another wet erase marker (I have places for all this stuff why isn't it put away) headphones, 3 more cds, laptop computer (I need to buy a computer for my home, I don't want to haul this one back and forth but that is what it is for)note with students names I need addresses for, promotional clothing catalog, cd holder (put stuff away!) stack of papers that need going through, palm pilot, e-mail print out, small spiral notebook open to a page with the cryptic notes: "p10009411, p1010017, 01fix - begin, 99 - possible - mid rules, rap - end;" black moleskine notebook with "school" label that I made, stack of memos that are now out of date, plastic spoon.

This is what is in my head:

Presentation fix, love, ache, hungry cat, would be pleasant to clean, to be clean, shoulders ache, no more yard work, too quiet home, too noisy work, bar, schedule, arms hurt, show not started, sleep good, sleeping pills, new bra, clip claws, watch time, list, computer, meeting, am I in charge of picnic, fool's game, bum's rush, give lollipop, no credit, finesse egos, headache, heartache, confusion, hope, despair, asterisk, the story between the stairs is the real story.

Living Room Dance

When I lived in a house full of girls, and in the college dorm, we would sometimes have what we called "a living room dance." Everyone would get out their favorite songs, and we would, quite unabashedly, dance around the room. One memorable time, I was able to lead a very smoothly choreographed group of back-up singers in Neil Sedaka's "Breaking Up is Hard to Do." It is still spoken of with reverence. I also once pulled off a perfectly timed leap from chair to floor with a downward guitar strum on the Tina Turner/Bryan Adams tune "It's only Love." Applause echoed through the dorm hallways.
The beauty of the Living Room Dance, is that you don't bother with any songs that you don't like, and your really belt out the ones you do. It is also acceptable to put on the same song several times. Restarting a song because you have thought of a good move or more importantly wish to change the imaginary audience, is also acceptable. The Living Room dance can also be done alone, in fact, I think its origins are there. It comes from the great desire to dance and sing and imagine yourself the center of attention. It is a good sign when you want to do a living room dance. It speaks of a surplus of energy and excitement.
I'm off to do a living room dance right now.
Thank goodness.

The Beach

The beach is clean and quiet. I sit and watch the surf. I lie down and read my book. I watch the clouds above me. There is quiet. It makes me sleepy and awake, all at once. I want to think beautiful and deep thoughts. How many people have wanted that? To use that loud crashing noise of the surf to find some great truth. I am hypnotized into thinking that I have something great to say, because everything seems important when I think it against a great canvas of noise and nothing. The air is balmy. I am lulled to sleep and my deep thoughts are buried in the sand.

Visiting

Visiting people. Calling people. Don't like it. Put it off as long as possible.

These aren't strangers either. Relatives. Dear friends. People who will welcome me, and love me, and I will enjoy myself, and wonder why I didn't call or visit sooner.

But now, this moment, this summer; home is where I want to be. Want to have a routine of waking, reading, writing, cleaning, and being with familiar friends, who know my story, so I don't have to explain.

Want to come to ground in my familiar spot. Afraid of being bored and uncomfortable with people I love.

I'll have a good time though. I know I will.

So I should shut up already.

They Stalk Us

They stalk us.
My cat.
His cat.
Wanting what we are eating.
Whenever we are eating.

Mine is yellow and fat.
His is black and skinny.
Black is sick and hungry all the time and never gets enough to eat.
The food does him little good.
Yellow always gets enough, and always wants more.

We eat in silence.
He looks at the bookshelf.
I look at the food.
And him.

He is skinny,
I am fat.
He eats a ton.
I linger over my smaller portion, and like when I was a child
am left alone to finish, because I am slow.

They are like submarines.
In the water of the floor.
Surfacing at couch level.

Yellow runs right up and shoves his nose in your bowl
To be pushed away.
Black watches.
Waits at a distance.
If food is placed before him he will eat. Maybe.
Yet at cat feeding times he yowls and cries
While yellow sits silent and watches.
Big eyes.
He tried to imitate black one time.
A whisper of a meow.

We eat.
The four of us.
Statements of will
and want
stalking about.

The Midnight Hour

Staying up late came naturally to him, but not so much to her. He had habits of the night; late snacks, quiet, cool darkness in a quiet courtyard. She was the day; morning conversations over coffee, the trash that had to go out early, sunlight on a clean pillow.

He drew her in. She began to stay up later and later and sleep later and later. It was never enough. She was given to bouts of sleepiness. Her regular job had recently ended and she felt lost during the day with nothing to do. Sometimes she fell asleep in the big chair, a thing she had done when she lived alone. Sometimes she stayed awake because she was too shy to say goodnight.

The cat, who during the winter would stretch out against her and snuggle his head under her chin making her loathe to get up, adopted a summer habit of leaping onto her chest on his way to the window sill where he would watch the birds. She would look at the clock: 6am. She would try to sleep longer, but it was broken sleep; daydream and idle speculation about once she got up, how long she must remain awake.

Damn, But this Coffee is Tasty

Morning comes, and I am sluggish, even though I have slept until 11, except for a brief awakening to feed the cats. A shower doesn't revive me, the Midol is of no help, and I stagger downstairs to consider a trip to the local Starbucks. (More on Starbucks in a tribute the the Evil Empire later.) My roommate suggests that his Folger's brew is available. I demure, since there is no milk. I must have milk. I must have sugar. And for the love of God, I must have espresso, not drip coffee. But desperate times call for desperate measures. In the depth of my cortex, the effort of walking across the street, in the deep summer humidity is valued as not worth the struggle. So a bit of the brew is poured, sugar is added, and a sip is had. At first I have no words to describe it. Tasteless, yet bitter? Harsh yet crappy? No. Nothing. But the factor that starts to chance the balance, that begins to tempt me, is the blood that seems to run afresh through me. Heavens! What is this feeling? Oh caffeine, how I long for thee! I will come to you, no matter what your flavor! Slowly the bitter becomes sweet, as I fall in love, all over again.

I Want to Be the Sign Guy at the Convention

Is there any greater unsung hero that the guy who is in charge of the signs at the Democratic National Convention? Not only are there signs with the name of each speaker, but during the speech different slogan signs pop up. I must meet the guy who oversees this. Better yet I want to BE him! Running around the control room with my headset, ordering my army of volunteers about. "Ok, I want the "Kerry" signs up, the "The Time is Now" signs on deck, and make with the hats as soon as the speech is done!" Even greater than the logistics of passing the signs out is the getting people to hold them up at designated times, and then put the down later. They must have TV monitors showing instructions.

At the end of Kerry's speech tonight, he reached out and took a handmade sign that said "The Sunshine Boys" on it, and handed it to Al Sharpton. Sharpton, unfortunately held it the wrong way, so right after Kerry's comments about a positive campaign, there was a sign that said "Boot Bush" right behind his head. Someone clued Sharpton in, and he turned the sign around, but I bet the sign guy was absolutely apoplectic!

My Living Room Walls are Yellow

Two summers ago I painted my living room.  The color is butter.  There is a wide selection of colors at the paint store with food names.  I might do the whole house in foods.  Salsa in the kitchen.  Latte in the bedroom perhaps.  In the morning the yellow is pale, but in the afternoon the light makes the color much brighter, and it is like living in a cartoon.  I like the color of my living room, but from time to time I remember how the guy I was in love with at the time said that no man likes yellow walls.  This I did not know.  There is a color wheel for men?  What other colors don't they approve of?  And is it only walls, or does this apply to furniture and clothing as well?  Logically I know that it doesn't matter what he thought, and certainly his issues were legion, fear of wall color only one amoung them.  But when it gets cartoon bright in here, I wonder if he was right.