Life of Wry

What’s that saying?  Desperate times call for desperate measures?

Here’s desperate: I’m considering taking up swimming.

You’ll not find a person more swim-averse than me.. and yet.. I find myself this close to diving in. I don’t want to make too much of this, because there is pretty much nothing that even remotely hints that I will take to lap swimming… but I’m going to give it a shot. Mostly because I can’t really walk or run or hike or play tennis or do any of the aerobic stuff I’m actually good at. AND, in the last few months, as my legs seem to be getting nothing but worse, I’ve done nothing but gain weight. I’ve become a doddering (and fat) old lady.

Which is a great time to buy a new bathing suit,  let me just say. That was a rewarding experience today.

Add in that nice, new, blue bathing cap and, baby!  I hope I never see anyone I know at that pool. I’ll try to just do my back and forths in some way outside lane. Thankfully, one is naturally incognito in a bathing cap and goggles. And under water.

I just really, really need to find something that works for exercise, or I’m in big trouble.  So… willing to try even swimming.

Nothing is for sure, however. The coach at Davis Aquatic Masters, Stu, says I have to be able to swim four laps, breathing to the side, as they do, without stopping.  I have absolutely no idea if I can do it. I can guarantee you, the last time I attempted something like that was…… never. Never have I officially swam (swum?  god, I don’t even know how to conjugate the verb) more than a lap or two. Ever. He needs to see that I have some potential, and I guess I’m pretty nervous. On the other hand, it’s a win-win (or a lose-lose): either I can do it and therefore get to keep doing it, or I can’t do it and don’t have to keep doing it.

We’ll see tomorrow.

If it works, and I like it, it could be a brilliant move. Swimming’s like the perfect exercise: low impact, great aerobic, full body workout. And the pool’s right across the street–literally a 60-second walk. Would that it was the ocean, instead, and I could go across the street for an hour of nightly body surfing.. now that would be cool. But this could be okay, too.

I’m just not holding my breath.

And a lovely Tuesday morning to you.

The calendar says it’s the first day after Labor Day … the symbolic movement into a newish time of year.  Today isn’t that much different than yesterday: temperature’s the same (summery hot); kids are in their third, not first, week of school; it’s not the equinox yet–the formal segue from summer to fall.  But it’s the first day after Labor Day, and that always signifies a transition.

I’m totally a passage person.. love the freshness of beginnings.  Haven’t figured out what’s starting today, but something.

This is what happens when good subjects happen to bad photographers.

Or to earnest photographers with inadequate equipment.

This is a huge spider in our front yard (though not as huge as this picture would have you believe).  While it is a little hard to tell, she is sitting contentedly in her web munching on a bug (the small grey mass). All had gone exactly according to her plan: she had spun an immense web (maybe she worked on it all night?); patiently waited for a bug to come along and unwittingly entangle itself in the stickiness (which happened); and was now happily eating a quiet, early morning breakfast in the warm sunlight.

Until I came along and wanted to take a picture of her with my phone. Which I thrust right into her face.  Which apparently made her feel shy..or maybe annoyed.

She began to fidget.

I wasn’t able to get much of a shot–as you can see–so I went into the house to get a better camera, and by the time I returned–not 48 seconds later–she’d gathered up her bug and was scurrying off to eat it in the privacy of her hideout leaf.   She was still there, last time I checked.

I took the picture anyway.  My better camera picked up the web’s fantastic architecture, the sun glistening off its delicate strands, dew droplets here and there, some bug remnants… but, alas, no spider.  It was a nice enough picture, but was missing its main subject.  So, I opted for this one, instead, as my picture-of-the-day.

…however, to appreciate it, you have to use a little imagination: 1) she IS sitting in the center of a very well-designed, intact web; 2) she IS eating a bug; 3) she’s only about three and a half inches from my Blackberry (which is why she looks so humongous and like she could single handedly eliminate the entire population of downtown Manhattan); 4) that rock in the background is about two feet in diameter and is about four feet away.. just for perspective.

It’s a cool photo, too..  just missing a few details.

Decided to start a list of my favorite twenty five things of all time.  Because :  1) twenty five’s a good number; 2) you never know when you might need this kind of list; 3) making a list like this helps one appreciate the little things; 4) I couldn’t think of something better to write about tonight; and 5) I’m a lister (see?).

Start, because I’m guessing that just sitting here right now, I won’t be able to think of the absolute top twenty five.. so I’ll come up with some, but I reserve the right to replace some of these with others that I might think up as time goes on (I do love making my own rules for these things.. the beauty of having one’s very own blog).

Consider the following, then, a work in progress.

I thought of some of these tonight while walking home in a wine fog on a hot summer night..  Wouldn’t you know, wine, walking and hot nights all made the list in some way.

So… my list, in no order, because, you know, it’s just a first pass:

1. A glass of wine, while sitting on a shady patio on a warm night (this warm night), waiting for dinner to come out.  And that buzz.

2. Lying in a warm sleeping bag, on a cold night, looking at a starry sky, and falling asleep when you’re really tired.

3. Folk music, especially in the morning.

4. Watching Peter play baseball–a game, a weekend tournament, a practice, a lesson.  Watching baseball, scorekeeping, eating sunflower seeds.. any of it, all of it.

5. Going out to breakfast.

6. Mishka’s poppyseed muffin as the first bite of food for the day, along with piping hot cafe au lait, especially after a long walk.

7. A crunchy chocolate necco wafer.

8. Stretching all over. Hanging from a pull-up bar. Twisting my spine.  Sprawling out.

9. Going to the movies, eating popcorn and candy.

10. A massage on a heated massage table.

11. Sun through trees…this one’s setting (tonight). I’m a sucker for these shots.

12. Sharp cheese on a sour dough baguette.

13. Stacks and stacks and stacks of books to read.  Big chair, pillows, tea, and reading.

14. Settling in a for a long night of bridge, with bridge mix.

15. Getting up really early, walking in the quiet, with long shadows on sunlit grass.

16. Loud rock and roll, open car windows, driving fast on country roads, alone.

17. Being in the Sierra, on a hike, far away, granite forever, the smell of sun-warmed pine, the dryness of the air, the crunch of the dirt, sticks, rocks. The expansiveness of the view from the top of a peak. Sitting and looking at it for a long time.

18. A hot tub on a cold night by the ocean or in the mountains.  Lying on the edge to cool off, with a glass of wine, looking at the stars and listening.

19. Writing with a sharp pencil.

20. A new crossword puzzle.  Hard, requiring clever thinking, but ultimately doable.

21. Sneezing.

22. A perfect backhand.

23. The liberating feel of a skirt that swings.

24. Being on a trip, almost any trip, far from home in every way.

25. That Dillon Beach cottage.. all of it: the views, the salty air, the fireplace, cooking, the beach, movies, reading, scrabble.

You know how sometimes it’s the little things?  I just purchased this globe so I’ll always have a map of the world right on my desk.

That makes me really happy.

officially in a mood.

you know you’re over some edge when you cry at a chipotle commercial. yes, i did.  it’s the one about sustainable food production, about “going back to the start,” the cold play song, “the scientist,” sung by willie nelson.  watch it here.  a commercial.

heavy hearted because a friend’s young child was diagnosed yesterday with a life changing disease. not a close friend, but a horrible condition. takes me to questions of injustice, uncertainty, impermanence, fate, powerlessness.  anything can happen to anyone.

defeated because i already need shoring up, here in week TWO, in the challenge to help peter organize and stay on top of school, already hitting the wall of frustration and hurt that is his ceaseless rolling eyes, rejection of support lovingly offered, relentless negotiating for new rules, when the agreed upon rules, just two weeks old, are fine.  his tendency to set his bar ever lower because it’s easier.  my job: to stay the course, be the mom.

pissed because obama’s letting this pipeline go through, backing off of some clean air regulations, presumably all in the interest of deal making? which won’t happen because the other guys will never play fair.  so all the caving’s for naught.  and he took a high road and changed the date of his jobs speech after reps whined it’d interfere with one of dozens of republican debates, but now tea party dudes aren’t planning to show up anyway, which is so disrespectful it makes me want to scratch somebody’s eyes out.  i hate bullies and people who cheat.

aching because one person i know was terribly, unconscionably mean to another.  can’t effing BELIEVE it, and can’t name names, because somebody might read about it and challenge me, or defend themselves, and i don’t need it.  they were out of line.  end of story.  man up.

frustrated because my intents have been misconstrued.  my efforts not appreciated.

for some unreasonable reason, feel overwhelmed.  could cheerlead myself out of this, know my many ways, but i’m not.  fact is, i’m not overwhelmed at all, i’m just allowing myself to sink, to remain stubbornly and lugubriously in overwhelm.  that’s stupid, but what it is.

does this add up to something to write about?  it could, i imagine.  it’s a garden variety sad and pissy mood, but it ought to touch a nerve, parlay itself into a creative spark somewhere.  first, i wanted to let go to see if anything real could pour forth (you can tell it did because there’s not a capital letter in sight… see? an emotional dump.).  but seems a writer then takes that and organizes it into something other than a list.  maybe captures the sentiment in the form of a poem or a short story, or a character description.

what would a writer do?

picking an expansive picture from my archive.. something to suggest taking a bigger view, looking beyond uptight boundaries.

(it’s everest)

Ok, here’s the thing.  I’ve been conscientiously and dutifully writing here at the Life of Wry since January 1.  I’d set this goal for myself to write daily, and I have.  Every. Single. Day.  There was purpose in the madness: As it says over there in the right margin, daily blogging was intended to provide a platform for experimentation.  Committing to a daily practice was supposed to help me develop some kind of writer’s muscle memory, or discipline, or focus.. really, all of that.  Of course it would.  I mean, obviously.

So, with the exception of the time back in April, when I was deep in the remote mountains of the Himalayas, I have not missed a day.  And those 24 missing April days? I’m backfilling them; they comprise my Nepal trip blog.  Day by day, as time allows, I’m writing these very long and detailed accounts of one of the more spectacular three weeks of my life.  So, yeah, it’s taking a little while, but it is coming along.

The point is, I’m doing what I’ve been wanting to do for a long, long time… I’m writing. And by the end of the year, I’ll have accomplished the goal I set out to accomplish: blog every day for a year.

But here’s the problem.  As of today, I’ve been at it for eight months.. two thirds of the year… and I have to say, I’m not that pleased with the result.  It was supposed to be a creative process, but hasn’t become that.  Because I’ve chosen to post a daily photo, and to use that as a writing prompt, my writing’s become more commentary-like.  I end up writing about how I spend my days, which, you know, is really just a glorified journal. **

Writing daily is training.  But it’s also easy and pretty unchallenging the way I’m doing it.   I wanted my blog to be a creative canvas.  But… not to diss myself.. it’s not that creative.

Another issue:  my audience.  It’s small (if you can believe the stats, it’s no more than a few dozen a day, if that) and varied.  I think I have a good handle on who reads it, and it’s quite a mix–people from very different parts of my life, some close, some not. Certainly a mixed political bag.  So… I filter.  I censor myself.  I dumb myself down or smart myself up, depending.   I find myself staying in my tactful place, careful, making an effort not to offend.

All of that is so dumb I can’t bear it.  It’s like the person who goes to a therapist and doesn’t open up because they don’t want to look bad.

I wanted to find my voice, but instead, I’m keeping it safe, not taking any risks.

Jim asks, who are you writing it for?  

I say for me.  But if it were just for me, I’d be swearing like a sailor and be far less concerned about what others think.  In real life, I do swear like a sailor, but I am also concerned about what others think.  I’m not sure I want people to know how foul a mouth I have, or how intolerant I am of stupid people.  I can be very judgmental. And angry.  Oh, and unwise.

And see?… just copping to that has me teetering over the delete key.    (Yeah, like you don’t already know that about me, right?)  To the extent I’m working to improve my human skills in real life (right? good?), so goes my writing down a boring path.  It’s been declawed.

It’s not entirely a fear of revealing my authentic self (as they say in this modern world full of bloggers ready to let it rip).. I can be convinced that it’s ok to be real.  After all, didn’t I recently say, somewhere, how much I love this Dr. Seuss quote?

Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.   

But, I’m also not challenging myself, and instead just doing what comes easily.  I think part of that is time.  It takes time to write. It’s easy to do what I’m doing here… but harder to find the time to really dig deep and craft something.  My world is pretty simple these days, intentionally so, with real time allocated to write, but there are many other things, equally important (or, you know, more important), that take up time.  I wrote about that here.

I want to, I want to work it out, no matter how ugly, risky, or hard.  I mean, if you want to be a writer, what else matters?

Anyway.

It’s ok.  I’ll pat myself on the back for sticking with it this long.. 240 days so far.  Maybe I do rock!   And maybe this is part of the lesson…perhaps this is what daily writing teaches–that it’s not enough to write.  You have to WRITE.

Sooo…   for the last third of the year, I’ll probably continue to do more of the same, but maybe commit to cranking it up on at least a few occasions.

We’ll see.

**  I chose a picture that doesn’t lend itself to a little daily ramble of my activities.  It’s a bench.  That’s it.

Here is Desmond.  He’s in a bad way, but managed to get out of trouble here and did pretty damn well on the front nine.  I bailed out at the turn on account of stiffness, so wasn’t around to hear if he was able to duplicate his front-nine 44.  That’d make for a very nice score.

I, on the other hand, shot something like a 55 on the front nine, with four triple bogeys, two doubles and three plain old boges.  I like it when a triple is the worst I do on the day.. nothing terrible, no mulligans, no lost balls.  And I did most of it with a 9-iron. Yes, a nine.  Right off the tee.  On the last couple holes, as I got braver, I used a 7-iron.  For me, after not playing for five thousand years, I’m happy with that, it was totally my speed.. I was more concerned with hitting the ball cleanly, which I actually managed a few times.

I did play last January, also with Desmond, and did worse, so I’m trending in the right direction, at least.

Anyway, just nice to be out there.

Thing is, it was very crowded, and, how can I put this kindly …. I didn’t think there were that many old guys in the entire city of Davis.  Seems every last one of them was at Muni this morning, cruising around in carts, backed up at each hole.  Many, many old guys.  I felt like this youngster or something, rather out of place.  The two guys we were paired with included a 90-year-old.  I’m not kidding.  And he was really good, too.  Here he is: Wayne, 90, on left, and his friend from Indiana, David, a few decades younger:

Wayne has macular degeneration (which I wrote about last month, here) and is blind in one eye.  Most of the time, his buddy had to tell him where the ball went.  Then he’d have to tell him where to aim, since he couldn’t see the pin, either.

He still outscored me.

I’m a little beat (no, extremely beat, struggling mightily to stay awake here) and expect to be relatively immobile tomorrow, but it was worth it.  And it was lovely out there. I’ve always liked the course, off Road 29, in the middle of farmland.  Dodged a lot of wildlife, too. Look at the size of this bunny rabbit:

May be the biggest rabbit I’ve ever seen.  Honestly, looked like a small deer.  No exaggeration.

If I keep this golf thing up, I may have to update my equipment.  For starters, I played in running shoes.  I also used hand-me-down clubs that were generously passed along to me when my beloved clubs were stolen in 1994 (definitely remember that date, since the thieves also got my car, which is where I stored my clubs).  My new, old, clubs seem vintage 1950s–no high tech materials, just some kind of heavy, silver-colored metal–with very slippery old leather grips.  Then there’s my golf bag– anti-ergonomically designed, unwieldy, filthy, stained and torn.  I’m kind of an embarrassment out there.  Hard for a gear snob.

Anyway.  Golf today, in spite of high scores and funky equipment, was a thrill.

* you non-golfers know that’s golf spelled backwards, right?

Maybe you heard a vaguely erotic, moanful cry from somewhere along A Street just now?

Sweet Jesus.. whatta peach.

Whatta morning.

Been sitting in a lot of waiting rooms lately.  Three today.  Nothing serious, just taking care of business, trying to get to the bottom of stubborn, resolute tendons.  Complicated things by stepping on a nail.. that kind of thing.

So, my idea for this picture, since I have nothing I really want to say about all this, was to paste a poem in this spot, something about waiting.  Turns out, if you google waiting and poem, you get a sh*tload of poems.. all about waiting, written by people you know, like Robert Frost and Lawrence Ferlinghetti.  There’s even a site called In the Waiting Room that solicits poems about, well, being in a waiting room.

That was way too easy.

I’m not really sure how we even lived without the internet.