i.
I first got glasses in high school when it was getting increasingly hard to see my friends across the courtyard and in the halls, and the chalkboards grew cloudy. I wouldn't wear them much at first, only in class. But soon enough it became clear that I needed them all the time. I begged contacts out of my parents and suddenly the world was clear.
A couple of years ago I decided I would save a buck or two by getting glasses that weren't made with the fancy thin-lens material. The optical guy laughed, and basically said I was nuts. My silence told him that I had no idea what he was talking about. He showed me a lens that would be my prescription strength without the fancy plastic. I was horrified at the thickness, the weight, the weird yellowy color. I went with the thin lenses.
At night if I get up to go to the bathroom I put on my glasses. The bathroom is only feet away.
If I take my glasses off now the keyboard would look fuzzy, the monitor a blurred mess.
ii.
When I moved into my house I could not stand the idea of white, colorless walls. Every room was instantly painted in a splash of deep color. I don't remember all of the names from the paint chips, but I know the greenish color in my bedroom is called "Bunch of Cloves." Something about it always makes me think of Casablanca. Like Humphrey Bogart's room would have been painted with this strange , cool green. My kitchen is a sunny yellow, as is my daughter's room. My son's room is purple and the living room a deep brown called "Common Ground." Like dirt. But it is vivid, and I love it next to the classic red in the dining room. We have no white walls. To me it would be like drinking luke-warm water to have to look at Cream or Antique White or Eggshell. I need a little ice, a slice of lemon, a spring of mint. Every wall is food for the eyes.
iii.
My house is filled with pictures. On the walls, the tables, the kids rooms. I have stacks of photo albums. I don't scrap book, but each album is carefully labeled with the events and dates of the pictures. I am obsessed with my photo albums. I regularly take them out and mull over the old friends, the big parties, the little moments. I so often want to dive into the scene, make it happen again, re-live that moment. I cannot look at my pictures enough. And I take new ones all the time. Even the digital ones are carefully uploaded and stored on-line. My photos have always been tremendously important to me, even if they aren't particularly exciting to anyone else.
iv.
My dreams are so vivid I can remember patterns from dresses, the color of someone's eyes, the position of the furniture. My dreams are literally like vivid color movies. The best ones are ones in which I am swimming or flying above water. The water in these dreams is so blue. So blue. I can see for miles either from the air or from the body of water in which I float or swim. The horizon is endless.
But I always wake up feeling for my glasses, disappointed that my daytime eyesight is never as clear as my nighttime visions.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
What It Is part 5
"Once upon a time I had a little rabbit. . . ."
Lynda Barry (What It Is page 87) says that you can start any type of story with this one line. A mystery, a romance, a a thriller, etc. could all potentially start with this simple beginning.
Though not very "meaty" I am going to tell you a real life tale of a little rabbit.
----------------------------------------------------
Once upon a time I had a little rabbit that had been found outside of my dorm. The big lop eared bunny was nibbling grass in the quad and my suite mate scooped up the furry friend. The idea was that we would care for the rabbit until we could find a proper home for him. I suppose I liked rabbits well enough, but I wasn't exactly thrilled to be living with one, even temporarily.
You see, I was the Practical One. I drove everyone home when they had too much to drink, and I was the one who held back long hair while a roommate leaned over the bowl the next day. I straightened the common room and set up study sessions. I kept my room clean, and called home just about daily.
So I guess you might say I was also the Good Girl.
In any case, there was a rabbit to deal with right in the middle of finals. A rabbit who crapped everywhere and hopped almost faster than it crapped. Of course, pets were not allowed in the dorms, so this little guy had to be carefully hidden if a resident assistant came by.
One bright afternoon, the housekeeping staff came to clean the common bathroom, and I had to hide the rabbit under my desk. I had no idea how much rabbits liked to chew, until I saw the cords to my little Mac Classic power chewed to bits.
Stupid bunny.
Lynda Barry (What It Is page 87) says that you can start any type of story with this one line. A mystery, a romance, a a thriller, etc. could all potentially start with this simple beginning.
Though not very "meaty" I am going to tell you a real life tale of a little rabbit.
----------------------------------------------------
Once upon a time I had a little rabbit that had been found outside of my dorm. The big lop eared bunny was nibbling grass in the quad and my suite mate scooped up the furry friend. The idea was that we would care for the rabbit until we could find a proper home for him. I suppose I liked rabbits well enough, but I wasn't exactly thrilled to be living with one, even temporarily.
You see, I was the Practical One. I drove everyone home when they had too much to drink, and I was the one who held back long hair while a roommate leaned over the bowl the next day. I straightened the common room and set up study sessions. I kept my room clean, and called home just about daily.
So I guess you might say I was also the Good Girl.
In any case, there was a rabbit to deal with right in the middle of finals. A rabbit who crapped everywhere and hopped almost faster than it crapped. Of course, pets were not allowed in the dorms, so this little guy had to be carefully hidden if a resident assistant came by.
One bright afternoon, the housekeeping staff came to clean the common bathroom, and I had to hide the rabbit under my desk. I had no idea how much rabbits liked to chew, until I saw the cords to my little Mac Classic power chewed to bits.
Stupid bunny.
Friday, June 19, 2009
What It Is Part 4
I've read more of What It Is by Lynda Barry, and it continues to be rich with color, texture, and image. As before, she asks the reader question after question in order to get their thoughts flowing and encourage them to think about their past, particularly the childhood years.
There are many, many questions put before the reader, but this week I would like to focus on one in particular:
"When did you first notice you were bad at something?" (page 74)
----------------------------------------
To be honest I can't recall the exact moment that I felt like I was truly bad at a particular task or skill, but I do recall the first time someone made me feel bad about myself, my abilities.
I was in second grade and we had been assigned a book report, and we could pick a book from the library about an animal. I was in my "I'm gonna be a marine biologist" stage and carefully chose a book about whales.
I worked tirelessly on my paper, and I felt proud to put it in a little blue report cover.
When the teacher handed back the graded papers to everyone I was shocked to find, "Next time don't copy!" scrawled in red across the back page.
It stung more than any other insult had up to that point in my seven years. There was no anger at the assumption or indignation at the accusation. I only felt sadness that I was presumed a liar. I hadn't copied anything. I simply was a good little writer and a good student with a clear understanding of the subject. My teacher, whom I loved, simply couldn't believe that I was capable of what I had achieved. And it hurt.
I had thought that paper was good. I thought it deserved recognition and praise. After that, though I continued to work hard, I never expected to be congratulated on anything I had written. Even through college my A's were always a surprise. When I left an exam confident, I soon became deflated and despondent believing that it was only a matter of time before I was called a fraud or a cheat. Compliments of any sort are hard for me to digest now, and though I may smile and politely thank a person for their kind words, I never truly, really believe them.
I am not blaming my adult lack of confidence completely on my second grade teacher, but her actions, her work of a moment in red ink, did leave a mark on my self esteem. To this day I guard my writing carefully, sharing it only with those who truly love me and will give constructive advice and loving suggestions. This blog was a step that was difficult to take. I am putting my writing out there in the world, and it has been interesting to see the different reactions I've had since creating it. Some friends read it and comment or talk about it with me. Others comment here or email me their thoughts. Most ignore it completely, which hurts more than it should.
---------------------------------------
Visit Rachel and give her some blog love, my friends.
There are many, many questions put before the reader, but this week I would like to focus on one in particular:
"When did you first notice you were bad at something?" (page 74)
----------------------------------------
To be honest I can't recall the exact moment that I felt like I was truly bad at a particular task or skill, but I do recall the first time someone made me feel bad about myself, my abilities.
I was in second grade and we had been assigned a book report, and we could pick a book from the library about an animal. I was in my "I'm gonna be a marine biologist" stage and carefully chose a book about whales.
I worked tirelessly on my paper, and I felt proud to put it in a little blue report cover.
When the teacher handed back the graded papers to everyone I was shocked to find, "Next time don't copy!" scrawled in red across the back page.
It stung more than any other insult had up to that point in my seven years. There was no anger at the assumption or indignation at the accusation. I only felt sadness that I was presumed a liar. I hadn't copied anything. I simply was a good little writer and a good student with a clear understanding of the subject. My teacher, whom I loved, simply couldn't believe that I was capable of what I had achieved. And it hurt.
I had thought that paper was good. I thought it deserved recognition and praise. After that, though I continued to work hard, I never expected to be congratulated on anything I had written. Even through college my A's were always a surprise. When I left an exam confident, I soon became deflated and despondent believing that it was only a matter of time before I was called a fraud or a cheat. Compliments of any sort are hard for me to digest now, and though I may smile and politely thank a person for their kind words, I never truly, really believe them.
I am not blaming my adult lack of confidence completely on my second grade teacher, but her actions, her work of a moment in red ink, did leave a mark on my self esteem. To this day I guard my writing carefully, sharing it only with those who truly love me and will give constructive advice and loving suggestions. This blog was a step that was difficult to take. I am putting my writing out there in the world, and it has been interesting to see the different reactions I've had since creating it. Some friends read it and comment or talk about it with me. Others comment here or email me their thoughts. Most ignore it completely, which hurts more than it should.
---------------------------------------
Visit Rachel and give her some blog love, my friends.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
What It Is Part 3
It is week three of my exploration of Lynda Barry's What It Is, and like the first part of the book, she asks the reader a multitude of questions interspersed with brief tales from her childhood. Her discussion of fairy tales, myths, toys, and play all inspired me not to write but to create something wholly different. Please forgive my digression, but this week's post is not in the form of words. . .
Go visit Rachel and read her post about What It Is.
Go visit Rachel and read her post about What It Is.
Friday, May 29, 2009
What It Is Part 2
"Is a dream autobiography or fiction?" (page 21)
This question starts the second part of Lynda Barry's What It Is. The questions come hard and fast after this. . .
"What is an experience?" (page 22)
"Where do we keep bad memories?" (page 23)
"Do memories have mass? Do they have motion?" (page 36)
In between these questions about image and memory she discusses her childhood which was a lonely place illuminated first only by the glowing television and later by fairy tales and books, and, of course, her blinking cat.
It is images like that of the cat, images of what never-was, that I want to explore further in this post along with "What is an imaginary friend? Are there imaginary enemies?" (page 29)
-------------------------------------------------------
When I was a little girl I had both an imaginary enemy as well as imaginary friends. My innocent, loving imaginary friends came into my life first. I cannot recall at what age I first started to play with Larry and the Two Kids, but I was very, very small, perhaps about three.
I can see him clearly. Larry wore a yellow shirt and at his sides were two small children--one boy, one girl. On there faces there was just a skein of flesh colored blankness, like a Little People doll with the features rubbed off. The picture seems disconcerting, but it really wasn't. As I picture them in my head the feeling that washes over me is that of peace, protection, love.
They traveled with me everywhere--in the car, to the store, to restaurants. They were my constant companions. My friends that never-were.
I do not remember when Larry and the Two Kids left my life, but their exit was painless, easy, natural. Not like the entrance of my imaginary enemy.
This man, this never-was dream phantom, was not faceless. Indeed his scarred, terrifying face loomed large in my childhood dreams. I was older, perhaps about ten, when he first came to me. Unlike Larry, he only visited in the night, in my dreams. He was a spiffy dresser, this haunting character. He usually wore light color clothes--tan, beige, cream colored, old fashioned suits with high collars and bow ties. He wore small, round spectacles and had gleaming, perfect white teeth. The skin on his face was a shiny, tight red as if he had been burned or slashed across the face and gruesome scars replaced true flesh.
I can see him now in a long ago dream (one of many): He is walking into an old fashioned school house. Alone in the countryside, the little school stands white among green meadows. The sky is steel gray and crowds of children push by him to enter the building. Books in hand and freshly washed, they are eager to start the school day. He stands tall and ominous above them. I know, just know that he will enter that school and hurt every child in there. No one will escape whatever evil he is about to do. He turns toward me and flashes a toothy grin as he shuts the door behind him.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Come back next week for more light hearted fun and frolic with the Blog of Seriousness and Doom when I'll be talking about the next section of What It Is. ( I promise not to scare you further with creepy nightmare men :-)
Check out Rachel's place, too, for her discussion of the second section of the book.
This question starts the second part of Lynda Barry's What It Is. The questions come hard and fast after this. . .
"What is an experience?" (page 22)
"Where do we keep bad memories?" (page 23)
"Do memories have mass? Do they have motion?" (page 36)
In between these questions about image and memory she discusses her childhood which was a lonely place illuminated first only by the glowing television and later by fairy tales and books, and, of course, her blinking cat.
It is images like that of the cat, images of what never-was, that I want to explore further in this post along with "What is an imaginary friend? Are there imaginary enemies?" (page 29)
-------------------------------------------------------
When I was a little girl I had both an imaginary enemy as well as imaginary friends. My innocent, loving imaginary friends came into my life first. I cannot recall at what age I first started to play with Larry and the Two Kids, but I was very, very small, perhaps about three.
I can see him clearly. Larry wore a yellow shirt and at his sides were two small children--one boy, one girl. On there faces there was just a skein of flesh colored blankness, like a Little People doll with the features rubbed off. The picture seems disconcerting, but it really wasn't. As I picture them in my head the feeling that washes over me is that of peace, protection, love.
They traveled with me everywhere--in the car, to the store, to restaurants. They were my constant companions. My friends that never-were.
I do not remember when Larry and the Two Kids left my life, but their exit was painless, easy, natural. Not like the entrance of my imaginary enemy.
This man, this never-was dream phantom, was not faceless. Indeed his scarred, terrifying face loomed large in my childhood dreams. I was older, perhaps about ten, when he first came to me. Unlike Larry, he only visited in the night, in my dreams. He was a spiffy dresser, this haunting character. He usually wore light color clothes--tan, beige, cream colored, old fashioned suits with high collars and bow ties. He wore small, round spectacles and had gleaming, perfect white teeth. The skin on his face was a shiny, tight red as if he had been burned or slashed across the face and gruesome scars replaced true flesh.
I can see him now in a long ago dream (one of many): He is walking into an old fashioned school house. Alone in the countryside, the little school stands white among green meadows. The sky is steel gray and crowds of children push by him to enter the building. Books in hand and freshly washed, they are eager to start the school day. He stands tall and ominous above them. I know, just know that he will enter that school and hurt every child in there. No one will escape whatever evil he is about to do. He turns toward me and flashes a toothy grin as he shuts the door behind him.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Come back next week for more light hearted fun and frolic with the Blog of Seriousness and Doom when I'll be talking about the next section of What It Is. ( I promise not to scare you further with creepy nightmare men :-)
Check out Rachel's place, too, for her discussion of the second section of the book.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
What It Is
What is an image? When is the past? What is memory?
These are all questions Lynda Barry asks the reader to explore in her book What It Is. The book is designed as a creative tool or workbook for anyone interested in writing or exploring their past. The text is a mix of handwriting and typeface on legal paper and is illustrated with collages, sketches, and photos. The pages are literally saturated with color and texture.
They are, it seems, alive; alive with pictures and words that grab you, haunt you, humor you, and push you to dive into your own mind and thoughts.
The first part of the book has to do with, as noted above, notions of memory, the past, and image. Right off the bat she delves into the connection between imagery and memory. She begins by telling us of a game she played with her dolls as a child. In the game she pretended to be as still and as silent as the toys and pictures in her room so as to be privy to their secret world. In this world they could move, talk, breathe. . . live. She clearly remembers seeing a picture of a kitten on her wall blinking its eyes as she watched.
"Why," she asks "would an image of something, which never happened, travel with me for all these years?" (page 12).
This leads into bigger questions about the nature of images themselves and how the images we live with in our minds are products of a past that may or may not have ever happened.
For me, dream and imagination have always worked together to create memory both real and exaggerated:
I remember driving though Napa valley one spring night chasing a brilliant moon.
Was the moon really full?
There was a face on my wall as a child. The face looked at me with a crooked, ragged smile and winked at me every night.
But wasn't that only a pattern of cracks in the plaster?
I held my father's hand as we walked to a carnival in downtown San Jose. I can see his white shirt and feel his hand in mine.
But wasn't that actually a dream I had once?
Was any of it real? Or, more importantly, does it matter?
To me these images are alive. They are as real to me as the keyboard I am typing on right now or the glasses perched on my nose. Only that crazy enemy of creativity, logic, makes me question their true, living nature as images that speak of and to my life.
They are "Alive in the way thinking is NOT, but EXPERIENCING IS, made of BOTH memory and IMAGINATION. . ." (page 14)
-----------------------------------------------------
Come back next week for further discussion of What It Is. And go over to Rachel's place and read her take on the first section of the book.
These are all questions Lynda Barry asks the reader to explore in her book What It Is. The book is designed as a creative tool or workbook for anyone interested in writing or exploring their past. The text is a mix of handwriting and typeface on legal paper and is illustrated with collages, sketches, and photos. The pages are literally saturated with color and texture.
They are, it seems, alive; alive with pictures and words that grab you, haunt you, humor you, and push you to dive into your own mind and thoughts.
The first part of the book has to do with, as noted above, notions of memory, the past, and image. Right off the bat she delves into the connection between imagery and memory. She begins by telling us of a game she played with her dolls as a child. In the game she pretended to be as still and as silent as the toys and pictures in her room so as to be privy to their secret world. In this world they could move, talk, breathe. . . live. She clearly remembers seeing a picture of a kitten on her wall blinking its eyes as she watched.
"Why," she asks "would an image of something, which never happened, travel with me for all these years?" (page 12).
This leads into bigger questions about the nature of images themselves and how the images we live with in our minds are products of a past that may or may not have ever happened.
For me, dream and imagination have always worked together to create memory both real and exaggerated:
I remember driving though Napa valley one spring night chasing a brilliant moon.
Was the moon really full?
There was a face on my wall as a child. The face looked at me with a crooked, ragged smile and winked at me every night.
But wasn't that only a pattern of cracks in the plaster?
I held my father's hand as we walked to a carnival in downtown San Jose. I can see his white shirt and feel his hand in mine.
But wasn't that actually a dream I had once?
Was any of it real? Or, more importantly, does it matter?
To me these images are alive. They are as real to me as the keyboard I am typing on right now or the glasses perched on my nose. Only that crazy enemy of creativity, logic, makes me question their true, living nature as images that speak of and to my life.
They are "Alive in the way thinking is NOT, but EXPERIENCING IS, made of BOTH memory and IMAGINATION. . ." (page 14)
-----------------------------------------------------
Come back next week for further discussion of What It Is. And go over to Rachel's place and read her take on the first section of the book.
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