I am going to change how I read the Bible. I was trained from a small child to read and consider it God's perfect, infallible, literal word to humankind. For the past few years I have not known what to think, except that it was mostly written and compiled by males for males, who deliberately excluded women in many ways. But this morning I realized I could read it for what it is: certain writers' understanding of the divine, a record of certain people's experiences, and one which was interpreted from the original languages by people (usually male) far removed from the cultures and times in which the original writers lived. I would read any other collection of religious or philosophical writing that way (Upanishads, Koran, Lotus Sutra, etc.). Why not the Bible? Only because of indoctrination, that's why.

I am not a Christian because of the Bible....

Current Mood: contemplative

Mr. Brown, lifelong resident of Whoville and local Dr. Seuss celebrity, was arrested early Monday morning on charges of sexual harassment.

A woman, who goes only by Lala, alerted authorities last week that she had been cat-called by Mr. Brown everyday for the past week as he was leaving his house around 6 o'clock in the morning.

The Whoville Times had the chance to question Mr. Brown on the accusations.

"I did nothing wrong," he explains. "I was merely mimicking the beautiful bird in Lala's rose bush."

Mr. Brown is being held in the Whoville County jail without bail tonight.

( You are about to view content that may not be appropriate for minors. )

Current Mood: busy

After reviewing my mammogram, pap smear, and blood work results, my doctor has given me an excellent bill of health!

The Teen does not appreciate me singing the theme to Thomas the Tank Engine.  That means I must learn the rest of the words and sing it.  Often.  And loudly.  :-)

Starting in September, I will be working part time as an assistant to a school photographer!

I guess you can say things are going swimmingly over in my corner of the Big Apple.

Current Mood: busy

On 11 July 2009, the Central Park Conservancy and Jazzmobile, Inc. put on a three-hour jazz program called "Great Jazz on the Great Hill". T and I took our cameras, lounge chairs, and snacks and made ourselves comfortable. It was a marvelous way to spend the afternoon.

The brass section of the Afro-Latin Jazz Orchestra.

Current Mood: busy

I was photographing my knitting when the peanut gallery (a.k.a. T) intervened.

12 July 2009

Current Mood: amused

I just finished reading Susan Sontag's "Reborn: Journals & Notebooks, 1947-1963". During that time in her life she was in transition: changing from someone who tried very hard to deny her same-sex-loving tendencies into someone who (somewhat) embraced them and explored her guilt surrounding her sexual orientation. I suppose that is where the title "Reborn" comes from.

The book surprises me...

Current Mood: contemplative

I thought the more you read, the more your own writing improved.

I was wrong.

While lurking on other writing forums, I find that those who read more than I could ever read have the worst grammar, the worst noses for stale phrases, and no gauge of whether a subject has been done, and done better.

So what is it? What makes someone a good--no, a better writer?

Perhaps writing is a lottery: you get sucked in without realizing that the odds are against you, winning a twenty here and there; oblivious that your losses far outnumber your wins.

If The Others^* would stop insisting I am "nothing" if I am not a superstar in everything I do, I would be far less stressed. But the fact that I recognize their accusation is ridiculous is cause for celebration!

Tonight I wrote in my paper journal, "Be inspired by others without comparing myself to them (and stressing or depressing myself). I do NOT NEED TO BE A SUPERSTAR TO BE VALID. I am building MY life for ME at MY OWN speed and in MY OWN way." I think I'll leave my journal open to that page, so I'll see it when I wake up in the morning.

^*The Others is my term for the hyper-critical messages I picked up from others over the course of my life.

Current Mood: frustrated

I cried for two hours this morning. Not simply because she died, but because she died two months ago and nobody bothered to tell me. She was my witty, cunning, and coy little darling, a gem of a child who cried sometimes, too, when her heart broke and she hadn’t yet learned how to build that wall; when a mother-figure cooed over her, bought her pretty trinkets, then left without saying goodbye. Now she’s the one who left me, suddenly, and I’m left with an empty spot in my heart where a little Indian girl used to fill it up.

Obsession is a kind of lingering illness. It flares and fades.
You have to catch it whenever it tries to escape. Catch it with glances and electric touches.
Catch it with dreams of lips open and waiting...
Waiting for someone else.
You have to keep it alive. It sends blood to the least useful of places.

I used to think that she was all I wanted in life.
I used to think I loved her.
I used to think she cared.
I was wrong.

I used to think she was the wrong gender.
I was right about that, at least.

“People are limited.”

We both watched her weep through the glass. It provided us with a barrier between their world and ours, as she kissed his cheek and forgot all about the bruises that travelled along her body. I remember the feeling of the bottle smashing against his face. For 3 minutes I was a hero.

“Makes you sick, doesn’t it?” We were watching them kiss.
“No,” I told him. “It’s just humanity.”

 A smile - I knew that his bloody lips were promising her broken heart change. Everything would be alright now, he’d learned his lesson.

“Humanity never changes.”

Shiva looks down upon us from the altar. His toned blue muscles relaxed, his right hand lifted.

Beside the altar is a slightly chilled plastic bottle of Pepsi, advertising the upcoming cricket "program" instead of "programme" which graces the bag of "American” sour-cream and onion Lay’s.

A collage of Shahrukh Khan pictures are beside the altar. It doesn’t phase me one bit, recalling the story of a little Pakistani boy who ran away from home last year to fall before Shahrukh’s feet. It was announced as a serious strain on Indo-Pakistani relations.

Shahrukh blessed him and then sent him away.

There are so many broken parts and pieces in me. All held up by invisible glue. I was hoping that over time the glue would make me invincible again over time. Sadly, it’s just held on by glue. Like everything in my life, I’ll crash and get broken over and over again. I could never be the same ever. There are missing parts that were scattered around when I broke. To be fully complete again is an impossible dream. Perhaps, someday, I will find something, someone who will complete me again. For now, I will live as a broken person.

The media loves to stir up drama where there is none. Case in point...

Screaming Headline: Michael Jackson memorial cost L.A. $1.4 million

Quiet Details: "Los Angeles officials say Tuesday's memorial service for Michael Jackson cost the city $1.4 million to cover security, traffic control, and other services, according to the Associated Press. The figure includes $1.1 million in overtime pay for the 4,173 police officers securing the Staples Center, Forest Lawn cemetery, and other areas that attracted fans and media, the Police Department said in a statement."

Current Mood: annoyed

Spiral Tube Socks, from Patons, Size 9/10
Yarn: Red Heart Ltd. Heart & Sole Spring Stripe (Super Fine), 70% wool, 30% nylon

This is my first time working with yarn so fine. It is also my first time knitting socks! I'm excited to see how these turn out.

I'm finally venturing forth out of the world of acrylic yarn and experimenting with other fibers. For example, I knit a washcloth last week out of 100% cotton. I'm so enjoying the sensation of working with something other than acrylic, I may be hard-pressed to go back.

Alas, the plastic bag I have been carrying this project in has seen better days. If I must carry my knitting with me, it may be time for me to invest in a proper cloth bag. I need it to be small enough to fit into my knapsack, though.

By the way, for all of you Ravelry fans out there, I am wlotus there, too.

Current Mood: busy

The Teen's voice is changing as he is getting taller. I am tickled.

Current Mood: pleased

Slick palms that refuse to stay dry and a stomach that won’t stop twisting. Dry clicks in my throat and eyes that jounce from my thunderbird ring to Dad's tightened hands to my whitened knuckles and finally back to the tensed crow's feet at the corner of his blue eyes that I didn’t get.

"Dad...."

He waits and shifts; the seat creaks and stiffens. My eyes are burning and a film coats my mouth but swallowing saliva and thus, these words, is impossible. Deep breaths. A handful of words should never be this hard to say.

“I think I’m gay.”

My mother forbad us to walk backwards. We disobeyed blindly, giggling, bumping into open drawers. That is how the dead walk, she would say. Where did she get this idea? Perhaps from a bad translation. She strolled the hallways in the evenings, pronouncing Italian aloud from books that were originally written in French. The dead, after all, do not walk backwards but they do walk behind us. They have no lungs and cannot call out but would love for us to turn around, a whip of hair in our beautiful fleshy faces. They are victims of love, many of them.