True Love

Inspirational song: Sympathy for the Devil (The Rolling Stones)

I was a very serious student of the humanities, and I spent an awful lot of my time contemplating the concept of the villain as hero in literature and performing arts. In fact, one of my most favorite classes was dedicated to that very subject. And while I had a little trouble that semester finding the pathos in Gary Gilmore (as we read Norman Mailer's The Executioner's Song), I have always enjoyed exploring the deeper motivations of the antagonists of my stories. It seems far too childish and two-dimensional to view villains as purely evil, black-hearted for no discernible reason. People are complex creatures. Divining the motives of the villains, understanding why they do what they do to move stories along, this is what makes reading and watching movies fun for me. Since I was a little girl, more intrigued with the portrayal of Judas in Jesus Christ Superstar than in the rest of the characters, I have always wanted my stories to be a bit more complicated. I got a little older, and was taken by the romance genre. I required, at the very least, a reformed rake. Even better were those starring a deeply broken hero in need of redemption. As a melodramatic teenager, I recall swearing definitively that physical perfection was impossible without a few scars to make it seem human and attainable. I applied this to real life as much as I could. I recognized without judging that a few of my friends really were assholes. But I loved them anyway, and forgave them as I hoped they would forgive me my faults.

My girlfriend and I went to see Maleficent this afternoon. It was not a perfect film, but it was entirely enjoyable, and it was the impetus for me wandering through this mental exercise. I loved the retelling, turning the entire story of Sleeping Beauty on its head, rounding out the character of the villain. It gave her a full three dimensions, a heart, and a justifiable reason for her anger and revenge. Better yet, it cracked the armor of her hatred after it sealed her in, and gave her the opportunity for sympathy and healing. In that respect, it was perfect after all. Perfect for me, and that's what mattered as far as I am concerned.

There has been a recent trend in movies aimed at young people to redefine the concept of true love. For centuries, the hero and heroine were assumed to fall in love at first sight, and at the magical moment of true love's first kiss, they won the story, and would live happily ever after. Very rarely did this not solve everything (such as the original Hans Christian Anderson telling of the Little Mermaid, where she does not win the prince, but rather dissolves into sea foam). Finally we have stopped trying to sell this pantload to children, that love is instant and simple, that it doesn't require work or sacrifice. Even better, they have stopped limiting the subject of true love to innocent romantic first love. The movie Frozen not only focused more on the love of sisters, it ridiculed the notion of marrying someone you have just met, expecting a happily ever after ending. Maleficent travels this path, asking the viewer to expand the definition of love and to reconsider what its power really is. And while William Goldman rightly said, "True love is the greatest thing in the world, next to cough drops," I am so happy that writers are finally recognizing what a complex and difficult thing true love actually is. And I am even happier that they are waking up to the possibility of our villains being capable of feeling it.

Annual Event

Inspirational song: Dangerous (The Who)

We have been living in the Low Country for a few years now, but this was the first time I have gotten near downtown when the Piccolo Spoleto festivities are going on. It's an art festival to offer an American counter to the performing arts festival in Spoleto, Italy, and it has been held here since the 1970s. Last year I was too wrapped up in my own little universe to think about attending an art fest, and the year before that, I honestly had no idea what it was. The mah jongg master suggested we sneak downtown to the craft fair that was set up on the grounds of one of the historic churches in the Holy City, and I was all too happy to join her. My hope was that I would find a new bead to hang off the bracelet I have worn every day since I pressed my man to win it for me in our charity auction last year, since the one that came with the bracelet vanished a couple weeks ago. As we drove into town, a large thunderstorm cell blew over the area, and drove off most of the crowd from the craft fair, and apparently it chased off the one vendor of beads. Just my luck. There were plenty of people selling jewelry, but I couldn't even find a single pendant or earring set I was willing to buy and pull apart to put on my bracelet, knowing that it needed to withstand serious daily wear and tear. I did see lots of beautiful pottery, textiles, jewelry, and sweetgrass baskets. And there were a few artists who did metal sculpture, including one I really wanted to get a good photo of, but I thought the artist might object. The man who did the work was sitting on a bench, that was apparently supposed to be some sort of dragon or sea monster. It had a strange, buggy sort of head, a bus stop bench sort of body, and a long, cable-like tail arcing behind the bench, with a metal stinger on the end. It was fabulous. The whole thing was in a deep, glossy, cranberry red. I didn't even let myself look at the price. I knew it was way out of my price range for the day. But I will dream of having it in my Park. I took the artist's business card, and someday, I will have the funds to get that bench.

The rain may have dampened the enthusiasm of the arts and crafts patrons, but it didn't dampen my enthusiasm to create once I left the craft fair. I came home and worked on preparing the surface for my next painting project. I have a leftover hunk of plywood, and I sanded it smooth, primed it with clear coat (it's what I had handy), and started a base coat for the background with leftover sample paint from my powder room, in a deep Cheeto orange. I haven't quite figured out how I'm going to complement it with vivid fuschia, but that is next. I hope this comes out looking vaguely like I want it to. It might be one of my most ambitious paintings to date.

I have been watching the calendar, and I went digging through my old posts from last year to confirm this. If Athena was indeed three weeks old when I started fostering her, then today is her first birthday. We haven't done anything special to celebrate, but I did grant her very enthusiastic vocal request for a trip outside to play when she asked. A squirrel had fallen from the roof into the holly bush while she was watching through the window, and she immediately turned around and asked whether she could go out and kill it. I wasn't interested in letting her do that last part, but I couldn't deny the sweet request to go play. While everyone was outside, I even brought the Cave Troll out from Cricketstan, so that she could get some fresh air too. I don't know if all that counts as a birthday party, but it was the best I could do for today. (For the record, when I checked that old post, where I dropped hints that I was trying again to foster a kitten, after the first bottle-fed babies died and crushed my spirit, it was on a day when I was starting another painting project. I guess it's a regular thing with me in the summer, wanting to create art. There are worse habits to have. http://scenesfromsmithpark.blogspot.com/2013/06/persistence.html -- if you want to see the original.)

Spotty Record

Inspirational song: Bingo Was His Name-O (Traditional Children's Song)

After six months of waiting, I finally have dropped off my car for "re-evaluation." I waited my whole life to finally have a brand new car, and I hadn't had my first one ever for nine months before it started acting up, like the transmission just wasn't hacking it. It shuddered at idle, it shifted roughly at the wrong RPMs, and it made a guttural rattle on acceleration that was not appropriate for a new car to make. I felt unsafe driving it for long distances, and so I opted to stay home rather than driving all of five hours to spend any of the big holidays with my father. The dealer said it needed a new clutch assembly for the autostick, and back in November I was placed on a backorder waiting list. I called periodically for updates, and a few times just dropped in and asked about it. All I was ever told was, "still on backorder." Amazingly, once I made a cranky phone call to the regional corporate customer service line, suddenly they wanted to look at it again and tell me all about how they have redesigned that part. I still don't have an answer on whether I was stuck waiting on a part that was never being made again. I've asked the question, but they talk in circles around it. This is a crying shame, really. I absolutely love my little car, but I don't feel like the service department has done right by me yet. I'll update that in a day or a week or whenever I get my car back. I have the same model as a rental, but it's not nearly as loaded as my little blue bullet (what my SUV-driving friend called my car). I want my own car back already.

Still no decision on the doggie door. I suspect I will be leaving the dogs inside during the summer, and stockpiling enzyme cleaner for the carpet. It's not only the heat that makes me reluctant to leave them outside during the days, but also the mosquitoes, stinging insects, and endless barking. Worse, my dogs are diggers, and there are giant holes all over the yard. It's cute when Athena hides in them, thinking she's being sneaky, but it's less cute when I lose television coverage for days because they dug and shredded a cable. Or when they undermine the deck, and bury my plants in the process. While they have been good so far about staying in the yard, they have dug some at the edges, and I don't need another round of dogs who tunnel themselves out of the yard like they're starring in a WWII POW camp movie. Fifteen years ago, we lost a very sweet dog who panicked in a thunderstorm and dug out, running into the street. I don't need to relive that.

I wasn't very lucky tonight. It was the end-of-the-year bingo for our club, and I got close several times to winning, but I couldn't seal the deal. There were excellent prizes this time around. It was all gift cards, all night. It was a nice switch from the traditional silver and crystal prizes that ladies clubs used for years. I have a few pieces of lovely crystal around the house that don't see a whole lot of use. But tonight, they handed out gift cards for restaurants, coffee places, the local aquarium, and others. There were well over 20 cards handed out. But my bad luck with bingo held true. I don't think in all these years I have ever won a round. Even so, every round, I get so excited, with every pounce of the dauber. I'm eternally hopeful. I guess I never learn from the past.

Portal

Inspirational song: No Spill Blood (Oingo Boingo)

When we bought this house, I swore that the first change I was going to make was installing a dog door. I am okay with being a dog parent, but being bound by the schedule of someone else's bladder was getting very tiring. We had been stuck in an apartment with two very energetic and easily bored dogs for the first four months we were here, and all I could think of was getting them a door of their own, so they could set their own schedules without consulting me. Unfortunately, I fell in love with my Park, which doesn't have an easy spot to install a dog door. The man and I disagreed about how to install one, whether it was worth punching a hole in the wall instead of altering the French doors, and we had to wait until the fence was built. Until the perimeter was secure, we had to assure ourselves that the old man cat couldn't get outside unsupervised. At least five times since we arrived here, the half blind and three quarters deaf cat has taken off through the neighborhood, going as far and fast as he can. We weren't sure we could trust the electronic pet doors, that supposedly only open to the animals who wear a transponder on their collars. The old man is wily enough, he would just sneak out under the dogs' bellies, like Odysseus and his men escaping Polyphemus the Cyclops by riding underneath his giant sheep. So again, we delayed installation of a dog door. We procrastinated so long that it was too late, and the man left for his job far away, and it remains undone.

Now I am re-evaluating my days, and looking at being gone long hours at a stretch. It's too hot to leave them outside all day. Leaving them inside all that time is preferable, but it's a dicy prospect. For a few days I can get some friends to check on them once a day, but that's not a good long-term plan. Do I dare punch a hole in my living room wall, like I suggested years ago? Will a radio-activated door control really work?

All the cats in the Pride have proven themselves fairly trustworthy when it comes to staying in the Park on out days, but they aren't very good at keeping the Park out of the house. This spring, my happy little nature preserve has become a bloody killing field. When I first started letting them out, I made a point of saying very clearly to my big huntress, "Do not kill baby birds. Or mommy birds. Or daddy birds. Just don't kill birds." When I tried to go back and tell her not to kill lizards, she wouldn't let me change the rules. My omission was her open door. If I have a pet door into the Park, she will find a way to get out and hunt. And she isn't the only one. Athena kept having the anole lizards clamp their jaws onto her paws, so she ended up with them dangling like a wristlet purse. Twice last week, I had to rescue small creatures from the big kitty boy's jaws--first an unfortunate fledgling bird who died in my hands as soon as I picked her up to move her to safety, and more recently a skink with half a tail who ran straight up a sycamore as soon as I grabbed the boy cat. 

So I am stuck exactly where I have been for the last few years. To cut a hole in the wall or not to cut a hole in the wall. That is the question. And there is no easy answer.

A Different Perspective

Inspirational song: The Wood and the Wire (Fairport Convention)

I rarely spend time in the shade garden. It's woodsy and overgrown, and the poison ivy outnumbers me on an epic scale. I'm always looking at the ground, wondering when I will finally see my first snake, and I have confidence that it will be back there. While it's always cool back there, even on hot days, I avoid it because it's usually full of mosquitoes. The thicket borders it, and I don't even try to tame the thicket. It might as well be part of the swampy woods across the street. I walked in the shade garden a little today, just to check on it, in case there's anything I need to address right away. The bad vines are getting large, and I'm trying to find the inspiration to spend a couple hours under a mosquito cloud to clear them out. The canopy is filling in nicely, but the fig tree is showing no signs of fruit so far. And I need to figure out why all the sedum looks like it has been a dog bed for a month or more.

Today may have been my last chance to see Bones for a while. This prescription is over, but if my doctor approves I may get to keep going. This doc has had his own miraculous improvement at Bones' hands, so I have a good chance at his seeing the value in continued visits, enough to get me from 50% improved to 90+%. While I couldn't get needled today (since there would be no guaranteed follow up in a few days), we did talk about the bigger picture, how differently we could be approaching my treatment for heel pain, oddly, by needling the low back. He wanted to talk about my history with my back, and it turned everything I thought I knew on its head. Suddenly a lot more things make sense to me. I am considering sweet talking my primary care doc, telling him everything that has ever bothered me about my back since I was six years old, to see whether I could see Bones for that too. It would be a dream come true, and I won't know unless I ask.

I talked to someone today who might be in a position to teach me a new art medium. It's not a sure thing yet, but I am hoping to get a crack at this. I have never met a medium I didn't like, so I expect to like this one too. Any new chance to be creative is always welcome. I'm afraid to say more, for fear of jinxing it. I've done that to myself before. But if it happens, I will have to dramatically adjust my schedule, and make myself available much earlier in the morning. That is going to be difficult, but I think it could be worth it.

The Second Time Around

Inspirational song: Fire (v. The Pointer Sisters)

I woke this morning with just a teensy hangover, and a fridge packed with leftovers. This was not an ideal situation. I live alone, don't want to eat that much, and most of this food is inappropriate for dogs or cats to share with me. It was a little overwhelming, the volume of leftovers we had from yesterday. The clock is ticking on all of them, and I just don't know how I'm going to get through all of this. I'm not good with leftovers to begin with. Once I've eaten a food for one meal, generally, I'm done with it for a long time. Nearly every styrofoam box I've taken out of restaurants for the last ten or fifteen years has been summarily handed over to the man. It doesn't matter how good a dish was. I give the second helping of it away. Freezing isn't an option, either. I dislike the texture of foods once they have been frozen. There was only one remedy for it. I invited myself over to the Bonfire leader's house, promising to deliver dinner in exchange for a chance to cool off in the immersion drinking tank (the pool). We still had more chicken, artichokes, and hummus than I knew what to do with, so I packed a picnic basket to take with me. But I had a secret weapon to make sure dinner was a hit. When I shopped yesterday, ahead of the party, I noticed a tri-tip hiding out among the more common cuts of meat. Tri-tip has only recently started showing up in supermarkets outside of California, and most people still have no idea how to cook it. We learned of this lovely little cut about thirteen years ago, the first time we went to Cali, and lived along the Central Coast in Santa Barbara county. Every Saturday, if you drove down any of the main streets in places like Santa Maria or Lompoc, every civic group in town was set up in parking lots, with giant smokers full of ribs and tri-tip, selling plates of smoky goodness to raise funds. You could smell it even when the car windows were rolled up, and it was impossible to resist. But why would you want to? It was best to go fairly early, before all the best meats were sold out. We fell in love with this odd-end cut of meat, that most places outside of California have always ground up into hamburger. What a waste.

I had been reluctant to smoke meat at home for years, because it always set off my migraines, but this weekend, I knew I had to bring back that old favorite. There has been a bag of whiskey barrel wood chips in the garage for a couple years, waiting for the day I was ready to try again to have the smoke around. I followed the instructions I found online for using them on the gas grill, but I don't know that I was getting the full effect. It never got very smoky, which might explain why I don't have a headache now. It did impart just enough flavor that by the time I got it over to my buddies, and we finished it off on the grill over there, it was perfect. The meat was very rare, just how we like it, and as tender and flavorful as the best steak from Husk. None of the group had ever heard of the tri-tip cut, but I have made three converts tonight. By the time we were done, the cowboy in the group mumbled in ecstasy, "I'm glad that cow had to die." I promised I would provide my friends with the photo I took of the spices that went into the rub (not pictured: salt and brown sugar; the small grinder in the front contains whole coriander seeds). If you want it like we had it, smoke it on the cool side of the grill until the internal temperature is a scant 130 degrees. Bloody cow heaven.

The Park was so lovely this morning, with all the bright colors and candles still spread around the deck, and the early summer flowers starting to bloom. I love how the flowers bloom like color-changing LED bulbs, first the whites, then soft pinks and purples, then deep rose pinks. Now I have corals all over, in the varieties of azaleas blooming now, and the canna lilies starting to burst into showy spires. Reds are coming soon, along with the magenta crepe myrtles that will be exploding in the sky over the next few weeks. I sat outside most of the morning and early afternoon, watching the flowers and birds, and the little boy cat tromping toward the shade garden with an unfortunate skink hanging from his mouth. I listened to music and made a preliminary sketch for the next painting I hope to start soon, of the Dance of Shiva. I'm so excited about the color for this one, where I'm planning on making a vivid background of bright fuchsia and flame orange, with the blue-skinned god dancing in the center. It's a symbol of destruction and creation, a perfect accessory for the cyclical nature of a garden. He will fit in perfectly at the Park.

Open Doors

Inspirational song: Our House (Crosby, Stills, and Nash)

In the immortal words of Hannibal Smith, I love it when a plan comes together.

My friends arrived exactly on time, seconds after I pulled into the garage with a carload of food for today. I was running extremely late, but I managed to get the house and Park as clean and organized as I wanted it before I went grocery shopping. There had to be a tradeoff somewhere. My girlfriends assured me (several times, because I am needy), that they weren't upset that we had to spend the first couple hours prepping and cooking. Once we all got to eat, dinner was amazing. If I knew how to make the little music notes symbols appear in text, I would insert those here, because I definitely sang the word "amazing" in my head when I typed it. One of my friends marinated chicken for two days before we grilled it, and another brought rib eyes with the best marinade of all time. The bonfire leader was tasked with bringing artichokes to prepare on the grill, and none of us--even I, the only one of us with experience cooking them, had any idea how much effort would go into trimming them, prying out the chokes, parboiling, and then grilling them. But they were a highlight of the meal, nonetheless. Everything was delicious. Not a single disappointment in the bunch.

I have spent days (and enough of the man's money that I expect a talking-to) setting up the deck and the yard. It was the dreamy space I have always wanted, and then some tonight. It felt private and cozy, with enough room for all of us to move about comfortably. I made up for my feelings of inadequacy facing the permanent Bonfire ring by bringing home a fire pit from Lowe's, and my darling man-friends ("boyfriends" sounds wrong in this application) set it up for me while I was still panicking over food. They even gathered a few dropped limbs and scrap wood to burn, helping me out a little with the Park. I had lanterns ringing the deck, and I am making progress burning through a large packing box of candles that has followed us through the last couple moves. The man has instructed me that I am not to buy any new candles until that box has been emptied (but you know I can't resist a few of them here and there.) I'm tired and more than a little inebriated, but I desperately wanted to stay outside after everyone went home, watching the dancing flames and catching gentle scents of eucalyptus or gardenia waft across the deck as a breeze blew past each candle. I feel like I have arrived. My home is perfect for me, and my favorite people in town joined me in celebrating its perfection.

My animals made me proud. At first, I had the dogs locked up in my bedroom, for fear that the little red-headed dog would not behave himself, and would be aggressive when faced with the first wave of multiple male visitors since his papa went back overseas after his vacation last winter. For almost four hours, he barked through my bedroom door. But once we were done eating and he was set free for his own dinner, he was a doll. The professional eater was as loving with everyone as I knew she would be, but the red-headed dog fell all over one of my man friends, singling him out as a clear favorite. This friend scratched him so thoroughly, nearly an entire extra dog's worth of fur undercoat blew out. One of the men ended up raking it off the deck to clear it out. The old man cat never left us alone, until the moment he had to join the dogs in bedroom prison, so that we could eat in peace. That old man has never experienced a shy moment in sixteen years. He must have thought this was his birthday party (right date), for all that he was trying to be the center of attention. My big bear of a huntress was loving up on everyone, and everyone appreciated what a hussy she was. We couldn't get enough of her. The big surprise of the evening was my big boy cat, who made an appearance an hour after dinner, and wandered around the kitchen, deck, and Park until full dark. I thought he would hide all night like Athena did. He's braver than I gave him credit for being.

I hope my friends know well how much I love them. Being able to open my doors to them was everything I hoped it would be and more. Truly it was their gift to me, coming to my house and letting me share everything I've worked on, my physical representation of my self, with them. This is not just my house. It is me, and I love them for accepting it and enjoying it.

In Remembrance Of

Inspirational song: The Last Supper (Jesus Christ Superstar)

The older I get, the more seriously I take Memorial Day. Yes, I've been getting very excited about my barbecue tomorrow, but I have more than enough reasons to take time to away from partying this weekend to be very somber and appreciative. I am acutely aware of the sacrifices made by my family, friends, and people I will never know, who served their country in the best way they knew how. So many members of my family have served some amount of time in the military, that I have taken to referring to it as the "family business." It has provided income and education to many men and women I know and love, and I respect and thank them for taking the associated risks for all our sakes. Most of my loved ones have completed their time in the service with no major injuries, and as far as I know, none have died in combat, going back at least two generations.

My man traditionally planted red, white, and blue (purple) petunias around the Fourth of July, as part of our holiday decorations. Since he has been gone the last two growing seasons, I have switched up his habit, and made my red, white, and blue flower plantings for Memorial Day instead. Last year I used bright red celosia, white Shasta daisies, and blue delphinium (and of the three, only the daisies came back). This year, I went for a frothier concoction of carmine red calibrachoa, tall white angelonia, and a low, spreading, blue dwarf morning glory. As I planted each flower, all around the barrel, I made a point of thinking of those people dear to me, who took the risks for me. I grabbed a handful of potting soil to pack between the angelonia and morning glories, and thought, this is for my father, who was on active duty when I was a young child, and who stayed in the guard long enough to retire from the military. Another handful, and I thought of my stepfather, who was in ROTC with my dad, and who used his GI bill to study art, bringing color and beauty into my life. Next pot of morning glories, and I thought of my cousins, who were in ROTC at the college in my hometown when I was in high school, and of their ROTC classmate there who was my first boyfriend. I spun the barrel around again, and thought of the young man at CU I knew, who came out to me, knowing how that could have threatened his standing in the air force ROTC program if his sexual orientation had been revealed back in those days. Another plant, and I thought of another young man I knew at CU, who was destined for a career in the navy, who went with me to see an on-campus showing of the movie Hair. He was a little anxious at the scenes of Berger getting sent to die in Vietnam, but in a giant crowd scene at the very end, the frame froze and his eyes zeroed in on a couple people stretching a large American flag between them. It moved him, that in a film showing the serious costs of his chosen profession, it ended on a symbol of exactly why he was taking on the risks, to serve the country he loved. I've never forgotten his reaction, even though I was barely 18 at the time.

I want everyone to enjoy the long weekend, to kick off the summer with style. It is a time to be with our families and friends, and to celebrate. I hope you all join me in keeping a place in your heart to send out some love to all the men and women who sign up to serve, not knowing how great their sacrifices could be, but willing to take the chance nonetheless. They have already shown us how much they love us by doing what they do.