Sunrise, Sunset

Did you know the first man and woman were created out the arm pit of a giant and some wood? It's true. Just ask the Nordic Gods, or at least Neil Phillip's version of them:

"At the beginning of time, nothing was. To the north lay Niflheim of ice and south Muspell of fire and between, a gap, a waiting space. Where the two met, life began to stir and so was Ymir the giant born. Ymir slept. And as he slept he sweated. "

Anyway, I'll dispense with the big story teller voice and get to the punch. From the sweat comes more giants and the gods: Odin, Vili and Ve. They gang up on poor sweaty Ymir and from the bloody mess left behind when they've finished with him emerges terra firma as we know it. They then banish the rest of his giant friends to the ends of the earth where they will wait until the end of days to ultimately destroy the three brothers and send the world back to the chaos from which it emerged. After the bloodbath the brothers three apparently get bored walking along a beach and turn some driftwood into the first two members of the human race. Being rather uninventive they name them Ask and Embla from the Ash and Elm trees from which they originated.

From this I can only surmise one thing about the people who created this creation story. Nordic people are seriously bizarre. And that's only the beginning. Take Kvasir, made from the spittle of all the gods combined and so therefore possessed all their knowledge and wisdom. Jigga wha?! Or Loki whose children include an eight legged horse, a serpent and a wolf. There are also these guys called Berserkers who run around crazed and fight people as wells as Njord, a sort of neo Poseidon but with the added bonus of the most beautiful feet in the world. And don't forget Skadi the goddess of snow shoes who incidentally married Njord. Guess she wanted only the best for her shoes.

If you spend enough time with the myths you realize there's something weirdly fatalistic about Norse mythology. I mean, Loki one of the most major players ends up tied on a rock with a snake dropping poison in his eye. Yee-ouch. But more directly built into the mythology is an actual end to the world as we know it. An end that is inextricably linked to its own creation. A final chapter told in conjunction with the first. The last battle of the Gods, Ragnarok, has in fact already been decided, play for play, by the tellers of the heavenly tales. Battle by battle this story is laid out for anyone who wishes to hear of earth's demise. The telling of Ragnarok is not a particularly vivid one. Instead of glory and a score akin to something John Williams might come up with the reader is left instead with a systematic explanation of how each God is defeated, by whom and with what implement of destruction. In the end not even Odin the All Father with his throne in Asgard can escape the rage of Surt the fire giant, leader of this last revolt in effort to avenge the death of Ymir who set off the motion of the story in the first place. Just as surely as it was once created from blood, so must Surt waste the earth with fire to win the battle over the Gods. He must, it is told, "set the whole world ablaze".

It's a rather grim thought. But there is sometimes a silver lining to this dingy cloud, a light at the end of the tunnel that perhaps may be what it is all for.

Because in some versions of the story there's an epilogue to the whole drama. A coda that states a new sun and earth will be born from the ashes of the old world. That four lone Gods, two of Odin and two of Thor are left in the heavenly domain. They sit where Asgard once stood and remember. They weep for what they have lost. But eventually they look up from their weeping and realize that from this vantage point they can see a tree that has sheltered two tiny beings, one man and one woman, who have slept unharmed through Surt's terrible flames. These two tender mortals will soon wake horrified to find their world destroyed. They will be named Lif and Lifthrasir, Life and Eager for Life, and they will feed on morning dew. And together they will inherit the rubble and create a new greener earth.

Baby's First Mesh Tank Top

What possesses a person to leave a danish on top of an ATM?

Until about 24 hours ago this is a question I might well have never pondered. But there I was at work walking out of a stockroom when I passed by the ATM in the lobby only to find a danish nestling amongst the keys 6 though 9. That there was a garbage can only feet away in plain view only added insult to the standing injury. Because really, even if you didn't see a trash can in your immediate vicinity, why on earth would one ever leave a danish on a public money dispensing apparatus?

I've come to realize in the past couple days that a lot of people in the world are rude and stupid. Generally, they aren't the people near and dear to you but the people you randomly meet day to day that make the world a little more miserable. Because though your loved ones every once in a while get rude and stupid, you've got to admit so do you. In other words, if they're being rude and stupid towards you and not the world in general, there's probably more at work there. What I'm talking about is different. I'm talking about the people who for no seeming reason make the world suck a little more for you with minimal to no gain for themselves.

Take the Accordion Man. He plays his loathed instrument in front of my store on a biweekly basis and he is without a doubt one of the creepier people in the world. At first I passed him off as one of the older men who flirt shamelessly and inappropriately with me while I try to earn a meager living. This is general Italian Market fare and while I don't always love the unlwelcome attention, it's always dealable. But, Accordion Man has taken eww factor to a whole new level. A couple months ago I forgot my glasses and was forced to go to work without my normal eyewear. This prompted the gem, "Wow. When you wore your glasses you were a girl. But now, you are a woman." I made some noise that didn't even resemble a sensical word and walked away. The next day and from then on I've made sure to wear the protective lenses at all times.

Sadly, though boys may not agree, it appears overage men without real jobs will still make passes at girls who wear glasses. Last week I was in the back making cannolis. Specifically I was squeezing the filling into the little shells when he walked in the back. Trapped with the pastry bag mid squeeze I couldn't just walk out of the room so I tried to just go about my business of ignoring him. To no avail. "Hey you were a chemistry major right? Well... That's kind of like chemistry... Because you mix things. And then squeeze them. You have to do it the same every time. It's a science. Precise. Can't let anything get out of control. Like making love."

Holy cannoli shell Batman!

That was when I fully understood we've got a pervert on our hands. Not to mention that I would hope making love is the opposite of my cannolis. The same every time? Can't get out of control? Maybe when your partner is handcuffed and gagged against their will and you're afraid if you get to excited they might get loose and call the cops. What I really wonder is in what way, in what parallel universe would his advances work out for him? Even in the most extreme of all best of all possible worlds is it thinkable that his propositions elicit anything but not so quiet contempt? "Oh my gosh! I am a woman now. I never knew... Thank you for your kind words about sex and Italian pastry. Shall we try to see if your lovemaking skills are up to par with my ability to squirt ricotta filling from a bag?" I mean, come on.

Coincidentally that same day as I was walking home I was solicited by a man sitting on a stoop behind a fruit stand. I was on the phone at the time and he felt that repeating my conversation with sexual overtones was a good first step towards a long lasting relationship. Finally I turned to see him holding the hand of a small child, one he presumably didn't birth himself, who was wearing a teeny tiny mesh wife beater. The child who was about 4 or 5 grunted at me lewdly as well and turned around in a faux moon to reveal the inscription on his pants: Suck It! How cute.

Which brings me back to the danish man. Who would be so dumb? Danish man proves that stupidity is not limited specifically to sexual innuendo where at least you can recognize the driving force. It just shows there are stupid people doing stupid things all the time. They do so because they are singly track minded and the track playing over and over in their heads happens to be "Me. Me. Me. Me. Me." Which is why despite the tiny iota of effort it would take to restrain themselves, they ruin the world around them. They are bad, these people. The people who throw hissy fits over nothing in public places. The woman I saw yesterday who stepped on a guy's heel so that when he recoiled in pain her kid could dash past him to the head of a line. They guy taunting the homeless man in Rittenhouse Square. They do things like this all the time and have no one to hold them culpable. And why do they want to make my life harder by placing their baked goods in a place that will obviously do others harm. Why not just eat the pastry or even just set it on the ground?

Some mysteries were never meant to be solved. But know that I know you're out there. And I'm watching for you Danish Man. And I will find you if you ever try and place a danish on my ATM again.

And then, oh sweet revenge, and then, you'll pay.

I'm so pretty. Oh so pretty. I'm so pretty and witty and... a kite?

Few people that read this are from the Chicago area. Which means that few of you will understand how excited I was last night when I randomly remembered the commercial for Eagle Auto Insurance in which a man crashes a car, pleads to the Insurance Gods as to who might help him, hears a woman yell, "Look it's Eagleman!", and sees Eagleman fly in and lay an egg out of which pops low car insurance prices ("Oooh, look at those low rates!"). The inflection of the completely unable actors just won't be in your head the way it's in mine.

I save a soft spot in my heart for this and other commercials (Eight hundred, Five, eight, eight... two, three hundred, EMPIRE!) because they are so ridiculously bad they become good. It's the driving force behind several seasons of the real world (Miami thank you very much) and many of the reality shows it spawned afterwards. It's the reason Carrot Top and Pauly Shore ever got movies made and why Freddie and Jason are still allowed to spar. Because somewhere deep inside of you, though you know it's crap, you want it to be such crap that it implodes on itself comes out the other side of a dimension and re-appears as interesting.

For example, I once saw a high school musical that takes my prize for the "It's so bad it's SO good" category. It was West Side Story already a good start, and a kid playing Chino ran backstage from the wings to recite his one and only line. In the play this action occurs in the bridal shop and Chino is the unlucky sap left to tell Maria that her great love has just killed her brother. As such he is intended to come in and yell,

"Maria!! Tony killed your brother!"

in a firm and world shattering manner. I guess this kid was so excited about the fact that he had a line he forgot to ensure he actually said what was assigned. Or maybe he was confused about the plot. I'm not sure. In any event what really occurred when Chino grabbed Maria by the arms was something along the lines of,

"Maria!! Tony killed your parents!"

At which point everyone in the audience turned to their neighbor and said, "Wait... That's not right is it? No. No, it's not. He didn't kill her parents at all." This quiet buzz of conversation swept the auditorium with its gentle hush. The girl playing Maria (to a Tony who happened to be the only actual Puetro Rican in the production) also appeared to find the comment erroneous and stared at us, her waiting public, as if for help. She looked back at poor Chino who simply ran off the right side of the proscenium, ignoring entirely the convention of the door placed thoughtfully by a set designer up left. Maria looked back at the crowd and abandoning entirely any pretense of accent, which up to this point had in truth been more British anyway, sighed and said "Aye me. Poor Mama and Papa." and walked off the stage as well.

Like the paradoxical sexy-ugly phenomenon (Keith Richards anyone?) good-bad entertainment is a tricky mistress. There is a very fine line between something just sucking and being so laughably bad it's actually, well laughable. It's a gamble between forcing yourself to watch Alien Resurrection, the obvious choice for worst movie of all time, where if you're one of the lucky ones you'll have already fallen asleep by the time the evil Winona Ryder alien/human baby thing gets sucked out a tiny hold bit by bit into space and enjoying the insane head/chest/torso/legs/you name it she's done it body part ripping apart, hot chick on outside evil reptile being on the inside, crazy machine sex spectacle of Species 2 (or is it 3?). Because so bad it's good movies can be tough to spot from the outside. It is difficult to judge this proverbial book from its cover.

There are some simple guidelines. Obviously, if the trailers look terrible the movie will probably be bad, but if the movie takes itself too seriously, bills itself as epic or grand or sweeping it will probably just be bad-bad. If its come out on video has a fantastic cast and/or director and looks cool but you've never heard of it, it will be bad-bad. Unless you don't pay attention much. If it involves people dying you're on more of the right track, but if it does so in a manner that involves watching a lot of close ups on the about to be dead's face, in my book you can only go up. And also, musicals if you know they involve people who aren't singers can be great. But more often than not its just a guessing game, an open sesame of possible entertainment. Perhaps best to just keep trying to watch actually good movies and take recommendations for antitainment from friends.

Keeping Quiet

There is a war within most people over inner conflict. There are those of us who yell and scream, fight our way into what we want and those of us who sit and stew in it. And while we aren't entirely only one or the other usually we do lean in one direction. So each time we are dissatisfied, every encounter that doesn't pan out the way we might plan, we have to decide whether its worth the effort to duke it out or whether we'd rather just let things go by as per usual. I for one am a study in schizophrenia where this is concerned. There are places in my life where I am like a crazy drunken soccer hooligan, kicking and screaming at the drop of a hat. I have almost come to blows over stage directions in Streetcar Named Desire. With a significant other of two years. But there are lots of times, generally likelier to be present the more things, unlike stage directions in a Tennessee Williams play, actually count for something in life, when I clam up and hope for the unaided betterment of my life. Which as you might guess usually pans out terribly well for me.

I am now going to tell an embarrassing story which illustrates a point. So I'm asking you not to judge the more literal aspect of my past here and move to what it says metaphorically about my personality. Because, otherwise I'll just be mocked even more incessantly than I am for this.

So. Here's the thing. I grew a fungus on my body for over 4 years. Yes, a real live colony of tiny flesh eating bacteria grew upon my fair skin for the end of high school and most of my college years. How on earth, you may wonder, could anyone, would anyone do such a thing? The tendency to not want to deal with a problem is a strong one. The desire to check out of the situation if it doesn't prove itself life threatening has arms, abs, you name it of steel. And I am weak to their power.

The details are this: Some time during my early sophomore year of high school I noticed a small patch of skin roughly the size of two quarters on my chest where the two front halves of my rib cage meet that looked slightly discolored. It was a little redder than the rest of my skin and seemed to be drier. I didn't know what it was. It didn't hurt, it didn't seem to do anything other than get a little flaky once in a while but I'd dealt with way worse in my time and thought little of the thing. Let me note that I never went "Oh, this just popped up!" It was always just there. I had no memory of it not being there so I assumed it was a birthmark. For a year my assumption was left pretty much unchecked as the thing stayed the exact same size and shape. Then, at some point I tried moisturizing it to get the dryness away. And during my junior year I realized it was just slightly bigger.

Not a lot bigger, just a tiny tiny bit, some of the edges had filled out. Well, the spot did not show from under my clothes and seemed to do no harm so yes, I left it. I mean, what was it hurting me? And how could I explain my "birthmark" otherwise? So I took to telling people it was indeed something I was born with. I mean, for all I knew it could have been true, maybe the mark just grew as I did.

So I went to college, and the thing stayed roughly the same for my first couple years. Fast forward some relatively non-life shattering info on the rash front to end of my junior year. One day I'm in rehearsal for a show wearing a low cut costume and the assistant director looks at me and says, "Oh my God Adrienne! Your chest is on fire!" And I looked down to see that indeed it was. I noticed the rash for the first time in years, it was huge and covered much of my torso. Now, to say that I never saw this before is a little bit of a lie. Indeed, day after day I saw it get bigger but over time slowly I would get used to its growth, always noting that it never really bothered me as it spread in tiny incremental amounts.

So there I was with a flame on my chest. Turns out it had spread to my back as well, I just never saw it because it was, well, on my back. I went to the campus health center and had to sit through the humiliating questions regarding how I might have contracted the rash and the length of time I'd had it, when had I noticed it etc... I of coure lied and said several months to which the doctor remarked on the fungus/rash's "impressive" growth ability. Aka, you are full of it. In any event there is a cream that one topically applies to the skin which will get ride of it in about a week. After it was all said and done I kind of missed my red scratchy friends. They had after spent nearly a quarter of my life with me.

The point of this story? Other than to embarrass myself? Well, don't put off the things you know you need to do. It seems small now, maybe the rash hasn't encroached on any vital things yet, but it's just going to do so later right? Staying silent in the face of not so impending doom is easy which I think is why it's so bad for us at times. Talk to those who can help you when you're stuck or they'll never get better.

So fuck keeping quiet. Let 'er rip.

words words words

Every word or concept, clear as it may seem to be, has only a limited range of applicability.
- Werner Heisenberg, Physics and Philosophy


For those of us who may question the viability of a mate based on their propensity to over punctuate an email or cringe and mock when a text message comes up with a misspelling, the fallibility of language seems like a preposterous concept. I personally can spend an hour, two, maybe more writing and re-writing a simple email to make sure that the words I put forth express most exactly what I mean to say. I also refuse point blank to speak to people in a social setting over the phone until I have met them in person first. Email 'til the cow come home, Instant Message me if you must but trust that my phone's on vibrate until you and I have spoken face to face. Why? Because spoken word feels weaker than words on a page (or more realistically a screen). They aren't as solid, they can't be edited, and I can't go back and change what I've spoken aloud if it doesn't exactly convey my meaning. Add in the inability to gauge a person's face over the phone and I become a blubbering ball of babble. Which is why I just won't do it. And when I first meet someone my speech is guarded and careful. I will often compose sentences in my head before I speak them, and they may be reworked a bit before they actually come out. Essentially, before I trust you, I need to write my script in my head.

Even when I do finally find a comfort level with someone I talk too fast, too loud, circuitously. I talk the way I write: in rapid bursts of explosive output followed by bouts of contemplation and re-examination of the initial output. The luxury of the page being that the second phase can inform and shape the first. I can move whole paragraphs in front of others when I realize that the order will help the reader understand the argument. When I speak however, I get excited and just let thoughts tumble out of my brain in whatever order they strike me, sequitors optional. I find I have a problem where my brain will move faster than my mouth can keep up with which trips the tongue into saying words that are some combination of several, or nothing at all. This habit only adds to the confusion of the attempt at logical explanation. This then forces me into periods of quiet to sort out the jumble of word vomit that tends to lay before me. Because there are times even I don't know what I'm saying, I just know I needed to say it. It's a reinforcing cycle, not necessarily a negative one I suppose, but certainly frustrating to say the least.

My preference to write over speak has to do with control. It's the same reason why I like directing. The process of putting a play together feels a lot like taking the various malleable pieces of language, in this case language living in theatrical form, and editing and moving and expanding upon the various thoughts and ideas until they take a shape that I can recognize and relate to. Each sentence may be beautiful on its own but a director puts them together in a chain, hopefully a chain that strengthens each piece by giving it support on either side.

And more than anything words seem more absolute when written down. When I read an email there is no interruption, no stopping me before I make my point. The argument can be presented as I want it. But when I have a conversation, things that felt so clear or I knew so certainly moments ago get mixed up and confused and feelings that made me giggle or cry out in pain vanish under a withering glare or absentminded smile. And when I have to translate my definitive script through the language of myself it feels like something gets lost in the process. I don't have my map. So I just lose my course because apparently I can't keep the helm all alone.

So I prefer to send out my literary envoy to do my dirty work. I operate via a mode in which I can process before public viewing. It gives me time to re-evaluate what's going out into the ether. When writing a particularly emotional email or letter I will often explode on the keyboard, save my work and come back in an hour or a day and take a look at what's there. Many times I delete a lot of what was clearly an initial gut reaction that I'm glad I didn't communicate. Because that way I can go back and say what I really mean to say, or more accurately what the more composed and rational me means to say now that I've had a little distance. There's a buffer zone in writing that keeps my comfort level high. Ultimately there seems to be a perfect way to express myself and the luxury of writing is that I can have the time to get as close to it as possible. The right paragraph, sentence, word is out there waiting for me. I just have to find it. Writing lets me feel like I put my best foot forward, that I am my wittiest, my most adult, my most rational and logical self. The edited, distilled down, movie version of me. If only the live action Adrienne could deal with things the way her printed word alter ego could.

But.

There's always a but isn't there?

The alter ego. The perfectionistic tendency towards language. The monolith of absolute meaning. The idea that some how, some way I will convey exactly what I mean to say. Sure I'll get close to that when the audience is the imaginary one in my head. Those lovely little ideas of the people reading what I am saying are nothing more than shadows of the real people that I send them to. And while I'm not dissing the idea that taking time to be careful about how you express yourself can have its place in the world, Heisenberg reminds me that whether we're talking the scientific language of macroscopic worlds breaking down when applied to microscopic and quantum levels of examination, or our own inner thoughts and feelings applied to the thoughts and feelings of the inner worlds of those around us, absolutes are only their absolutest when they are applied to the range of data they were created from. In other words, what is clear to me will continue to be clear to me if I never apply it outside of my created realm. But while it may be that something is constant in my realm of existence, the only way to know if it is also true in another plane of reality is to test it.

And so, in honor of freeing myself from my self-created prison of language I won't leave you with an ending tie it together aphorism. Because really, "you" aren't anything but a construction of my own mind anyway.

So get out of my head you crazy freaks.

Beautimas

So remember that big fat storm I talked about last time we spoke? Turns out I may have been one of the few to come out on top... I was walking to work today from Mr. Za za zoo's house and I saw a giant Oak (at least I think it was an Oak, my tree classification skills aren't what they might be) felled in the middle of the park. Gosh, can we take a moment and remind ourselves how fantastic it is that we have words like "felled" to use in a sentence. Anyway, this felled tree was split in twain laterally leaving a giant woody mass cracked in half that must have crushed anything in its path on the way down.

How sad... Poor tree. As such random occurrences are want to do, this big sad and soon to be dead plant got me a thinkin'. Why do we plant trees anyway? A city is not exactly a tree's natural habitat. Someone must be hired to check up on that tree and when needed come in and fix the tree, or if not fixable, as is the case at the moment, cut the tree down and put another in its place. This takes someone a lot of time and money, especially for a thing that could possibly crush people under certain conditions. The tree is out to get us people! And after it fails we just put another would be assassin in its place! Are we crazy? Why do we bother with this herbage? Why not just place a squat bush, a moderate shrub, a inconspicuous brier instead?

Well, I guess they do provide shade and like all plants perform necessary carbon dioxide to oxygen conversions in the air. Some trees smell nice or host important wildlife, like um.. squirrels and uh, crows. Vital to the natural landscape of Philly. But come on, let's be honest here and call a decorative spade a decorative spade. We plant big trees in the middle of cities because they are pretty. It isn't supposed to be efficient it's an aesthetic pleasure we would not naturally be afforded. Which brings me to a theory I have: There are two schools of thought in life, two kinds of people, the ones who need to look in life for beautiful things and those who don't.

The group that seeks the beauty may at times choose outwardly inconvenient or seemingly superfluous modes of operation. Their lives may be filled with what many deem inessential. They often seek big experiences, live for the memories of their past deeds. They may surround themselves with beautiful baubles of no apparent use, collect things they do not appear to use, perform actions the long way every time.

Then there are the other kind of people. I think these are the people who are those among us who are efficient and simple. Simplicity in the sense of ease and comfort and not, let's be clear here, simple mindedness or naivete. Efficient people are every bit as deep or heavy as the beautiful people. They just think about the world a little differently, choose to use their time in another manner. They are the beings who make life most useful and choose not to waste time if they can help it. These are people infuriated by traffic jams and waiting lines. Here are people who put up with no muss or fuss. And there's a lot to admire in that kind of an attitude.

And few people are only one or the other. I think people on either extreme are probably annoying. Life is a series of choices in which you have to pick: ease or beauty. Anyone always going one way needs to get a reality check. But it's important to take stock of the fact that it is a choice we make. That we do make a call on what is more important at a given moment. At any given time we decide if we ought to head down the simple way or trek down that long road to get where we're going. And you lose something either way, in my opinion. So it just depends on what you'd prefer to lose. Example: no one thinks a strip mall is beautiful or an Olive Garden restaurant the epitome of culinary delight. But they're everywhere. Why? Because there are an awful lot of people who just don't want to make the effort to drive to 5 stores in 5 locations or make food at home. And it's a valid concern. Work is hard, life is hard and errand suck. Sometimes you just want simplicity.

But, today I'm here to make a plea on behalf of the trees of the world. They aren't really useful. They sometimes fall and might kill a person in so doing. But think about how ugly things would be without them. We'd have to keep our noses to the grindstones all the time, because who on earth would want to look up and see what was left? So I implore you to do something beautiful today, especially if it's something important. Find the road less easily traveled for once. Because to do something beautifully is usually not the quickest or easiest way to do it. But when the thing counts, seems best to me to do it big and loud and beautimas.

Weather - 10 millionbajillion, Adrienne - 1

Until about 24 hours ago my room was hee-ot. And I don't mean in that sexy kind of way. No, more in a 3 floor of an old row house, heat rising and trapping the breath in my sweaty lungs such that I feel as if at any moment I might pass out over the exertion just to stay alive kind of hot. Nordic people are not meant to be put into this kind of weather. My ancestors paddled near fjords and played in the Northern lights but we never, ever had to deal with 90 degrees and high humidity. In the cold I turn on, my body gets excited and braces against the adversity of the elements in readiness to accomplish all that it possibly can. In the heat, I wilt, melt, fall into a puddle of fleshy goo that can achieve no more than a quiet pant of, "Why is it so Fucking hot! Dear Lord of all that is Holy please just make me cooler!" and then whine unintelligibly for a while. As such I broke down yesterday and just bought an air conditioner. I felt weirdly like a traitor to nature, but it had to be done. Summer heat and me don't play nice.

But, there is one aspect of summer that winter rarely can compete with: the freak and total summer storm. Yes, those baby hurricanes that strike without much warning and consume the earth in a maelstrom of strange and bizarre weather related elements of wind, water and well... more water. The kind of freak occurrences that make you understand why early man invented gods of thunder and lightening. These storms are beautiful and I love them. I love their unpredictability, the way that they force everyone to stop whatever they happen to be doing and if only for a minute marvel out the window. They draw people together in close quarters, sometimes they even manage to knock out a power line or two. And two days ago, I conquered one.

I was walking home and had about a half an hour left on my journey from the center city area to my abode in South Philly. The sky had been flickering with summer lightning increasingly frequently all evening and I enjoyed the periodic flashes of light as I made my way across the city. Slowly, as I walked, I noticed the sky start to turn from the normal purple that one sees as the sun begins to set to a more green/gray color. The kind they talk about when tornados come. Which is not to say that I walked through a tornado. But, about 10 minutes after setting out the lightening flashes and the thunder that follows them began to come upon each other closer and closer together. The good little 8th grade science nerd in me remembered this was a sign of lightening nearing the area to which I was at present occupying. I walked quicker hoping to miss whatever rain might be coming my way when -SMACK- I felt a sound. And I didn't write that wrong. From the shaking ground I felt the vibrations of a deep cracking basso profundo lighting bolt. It left that vaguely electric smell in the air.

Immediately following, I felt a drip. And then a drop, a second, and a third. After the third drop the water ceased to come down in anything but sheet form. I quite literally went from completely dry to soaked to the very innermost layer of my being in under a minute and a half. I started to scream and run in classic totally useless fashion, as running would somehow unwet what was already clearly beyond simple drying repair. The water came not only from above in the torrents one only sees in movies but like some mad adventure park ride periodically shot me from the sides and somehow, though I still can't figure out how, from below. In my mad rush to hurry along I jumped and waded my way through suddenly materialized whirlpools of water in the streets, ankle and calf deep. I lost a flip flop at least three separate times along the way.Mr. Za za zoo has a rather hilarious message to the effect of, "Umm hey, it's Adrienne - AHH! - that was an awning - AHH! - can you, woah!, umm... AHH! are you there? If you - AH! get this could you - AHHH! maybe come pick me up. It's wet and... never mind..."

And about 10 minutes from home I was rushing my way through the downpour when some guy called to me from his house, "Hey! Lady! Are you ok?! Do you need to stop?" So I did. I just stopped. And I looked back at the guy, and then down and my sopping clothes, and then up at the rain, which didn't last too long because it fell in my eye and almost made me lose a contact. And finally I yelled back at the guy, "Thanks but no thanks! I'm just out for a walk." Which after that, I decided I was. I sauntered the rest of the way. And I enjoyed my water infested journey. I witnessed the worst of the storm right smack in the middle of it and came out the other side smiling.

When I got home I changed into drier things and put on the fan and I sat and read a book as the storm trailed away into nothingness. And I realized for the first time all week that someone had heard my pleas. Though maybe not answered in the way I might have expected, I got exactly what I had asked for. I had faced the weather and won, and now I was reaping my victory prize.

I was cool.

Hegelian Stallion

“Philosophy is its own time raised to the level of thought.”
-Georg Hegel, Elements of the Philosophy of Right


"Yo Adrienne."
-Sylvester Stallone as Rocky Balboa, Rocky

Is it ever really possible to be objective?

I watched Rocky recently. As you might guess, living in South Philly, mere blocks from the 9th street of unforgettable training montages and bearing the name of one of the most memorable characters, I am no stranger to the movie's most famous line. But I'd never seen it before and thought that I ought to at least once see first hand what all the fuss is about. So I netflixed the thing, heated up some Di Brunos pizza and settled in for some blood and boxing, South Philly style. And throughout the course of almost the entire movie I was filled with only one strong and persistent thought:

Why won't Stallone just stop freaking saying my name?

It really really bugged me and at first I couldn't put my finger on why. All I knew was that it's weird to hear my own name spoken over and over again in a movie. When I sat down and thought about it I realized that I've always reacted with vehemence, some might say violence towards people who shared that little thing I call myself. In college there was a girl named Adrienne who was also blonde and blue eyed who had a silly french last name. Every once in a while people would confuse us and I would become enraged. I took to calling her "the fake Adrienne" or "bizarro me" and I can't say I was terribly upset when she transferred schools. Though I maintain I had nothing to do with that decision.

I tried googling myself around the same time period only to realize that there was another Adrienne with the same last name. She was a sports writer for Arizona State and had a weekly column. At one point she sent an "amusing" email, "Hi you're me and I'm you." Scoff was the only reply she would receive. In fact I allow her to live only because I have several hits on google that come up before anything that relates to her. Watching Rocky just brought up another example of what I now realize is a persistent pattern of mine. Why am I so protective and possessive of my name?

I thought on the question a bit. In large part I figure it's as simple as this: growing up I never had to share it. I was the only Adrienne I knew. "Adrienne" in so far as I related to the concept, was defined as the entity I knew myself and only myself to be. "I" as I understood it = "Adrienne." And things stayed that way for a long long time. So unlike Traceys and Elizabeths who had to confront this condundrum at early and more pliable ages, my cognition and sense of world awareness with regards to Adrienne was never really questioned. So while eventually in intellectual theory I "understood" that it was possible that another person could equally validly bear that which was rightfully mine, my particular imprinting told me other Adriennes are phonies. That they are full of hooey and are not be trusted. Which I guess is why it still weirds me out to hear it in movies like Rocky and why I die a little each time someone starts a greeting with Yo.

It's interesting to me that I grew up with a particular bias towards this combination of 8 letters (3 syllables, 4 vowels, 4 consonants). I think it's amusing that I have a cultural conditioning towards my name. I'm not going to begin to guess at how it has affected my sense individuality, aka "I'm special!", in relation to the world, we'll leave that for another day. But, I'm more than a little intrigued by the idea that my sense of consciousness is slightly different than most people's because of the rarity of the name Adrienne. That I view the world "in my own time" based on this particular given I was born with. It's so funny that because of the relative rareness of a label my mom gave me, I am made uncomfortable watching a movie. What a strange phenomenon... One that only another person with a generally less-than-average-in-popularity name growing up in an atmosphere in which this name was not as a rule spoken in their presence who then moved to an area in which a movie popular several decades ago, containing a memorable line in reference to character bearing the same moniker, was filmed would understand. Because only then would such a person hear people reference this movie over and over again and feel alienated knowing someone had a connectedness to their namesake that did not include that person. A tiny chain of random events that creates a worldview that few but myself could ever really get.

Which brings me back to my original question about objectiveness. In reference to philosophy, Hegel doesn't seem to be totally one sided on the subject. I would love to think my mind is working on a higher plane. That I've learned to raise my judgements of the world around me "to the level of thought." Which I guess is why I like to generally identify myself as a rational, logical and objective person. But things like my name remind me how one's reactions are so often based on irrational phenomena, things like my particular non-self-related-name hearing childhood, that create my "own time" upon which to view the world. For a long while I explained away the other-Adrienne hating thing with "logical" reasonings. Because to me they seemed terribly logical, why should I want to share what's mine with someone else? What I didn't realize was that the frame of reference in which one's name is solely the possession of themselves was in itself a learned one. So, what are the limits of human consciousness, can we ever get out of our frames? Or will we simply step into larger ones, ones we might not notice until something else points them out to us? And so on and so on into infinity... Where's the plane of objectivity and what's the limit we approximate to get there?

In relation to Rocky, I will probably always initially have a very strong and negative reaction. I must work to figure out what thoughts I have in relation to this movie come from a more general critique of the film and which are "You stole my name bitch!" ones. I don't know if it's totally possible to take rationalism to the personal level. I don't think I believe you can "raise" your emotional reactions "to the level of thought." Because reactions and emotions aren't thoughts. And besides, I'm pretty sure it's not possible to totally logic one's life.

And why would you want to really? If philosophy can live in its own time, so can I.

incubate a tiny fiddle

I've been "cleaning the house" today which means running into lots of stuff you forgot you had, looking it over, ultimately putting it back in the pile you found it in and generally accomplishing nothing. I managed to write a couple emails. Anyway, in the spirit of examination of one's surroundings I've decided to make the theme of today's post:

Grading My Fridge's Magnetic Poetry

Enjoy.

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He sanctifies her winter feet

I almost didn't include this one. But on second glance I realized this work is more than skin deep. First off, one has to realize the capitalization of the "He." Given that most magnetic poetry does not include such proper punctuation we have to ask whether we're talking about a general he or the proper, formal reference to He who reigns supreme. If He is sanctifying her, why only the feet? And if not relating to a higher being how exactly does a random mortal sanctify something? Is holy water involved? Perhaps the sanctifying is sort of like an incumbant spring mikvah for battered and bruised ped-related body parts. In any event, this one got me thinking. A-

let's cook the lazy puppy!!!

Grotesque for sure. I want the reader to be aware that the three exclamation points are included in the original work. And while there is a certain morbid yet gleeful charm about this one, these kinds of phrases are only one step above the "let's make a dirty phrase out of the words!" giggle giggle, tee hee, plane of compostition. It's the poetic equivalent of a one liner. Points for the minimal effort but this barely passes. C+

full and watery like honey sweat

Someone really thought that putting random magnets together on the icebox meant you created actual poetry. No you loser, you are not in fact interesting. No one will ever read that and go, "Hey, who came up with that great piece of creative writing? You have the next Anne Sexton on your hands there!" Jewel wannabes are the lowest of the low. F

I am Idle

I don't know why Idle is capitalized. I can't really find any other non-proper nouns that have this feature. It's also in a larger font so I'm thinking maybe that piece comes from a different set. But accidental or no, this compositional feature sets the word off from the rest of the sentence which causes one to ponder it. Makes one think about "Idle." What is this conept of idleness? What does it mean and how do you feel when in its state of being? Plus, I start to get that feeling you have when you stare at a word too long and it stops making sense. All I see is Id-le. Id lay. Like a Hawaiin necklace for one's Freudian inner self. Hmm, is that all that I am? What is it all for anyway?! Wow... Deep. A

bitter wench: drunk & moaning

Simple yet evocative. I think the image conjured speaks for itself. B

question wild sausages

This one really calls to the inner political activist in me. However, like many simplistic slogans it simply puts forth questions, derailing previously detailed systems and institutions without posing any possible solutions. For me it's not enough to be disatisfied with the current ruling sausage regime. You have to be willing to posit positive changes. C-

I cry for you ugly kid

If only we could all be so understanding. This work displays both the writer's deep awareness of the pain and heartache that the outwardly image obsessed world will thrust upon this sad and hideous youngster as well as their own tortured inability to totally separate their own social reactions from the mores of that oppressive worldview. Until we acknowledge and confront our own inner disgust we will never be able to conquer our biases towards the outwardly unfortunate. Thank you magnetic poet, wherever you are. A+