Begets

The "begets" in the bible are those pages we skip somewhere in the old Testament that lists verse after verse, chapter after chapter and page after page who was the father of whom on and on and on and on as if it were a 9000 verse version of "The Circle of Life."

We often talk about events happening in a circular way, and usually it isn't particularly good news. "What goes around, comes around" is tossed around a lot, as are several sayings referring to Karma not playing nice with others. The idea of "just desserts" or something "coming back to haunt you" can be a pretty satisfying thought, as long as you aren't on the receiving end. Who knows? Maybe it hearkens back to childhood with the old idea that "he knows when you've been bad or good, so be good, for goodness' sake!" It keeps us in line, keeps the balance in check, rewards the good and punishes the bad, in a very tidy scales of justice Even-Steven sort of way.

But increasingly I've learned that rewarding the good and punishing the bad doesn't always happen as neatly as we fool ourselves into thinking it does. Shit happens, sometimes the bad get away with being bad, the good are left holding the bag, and our friend Karma is doing the bump and grind on our sense of balance and fairness.

The good news -- and believe me, this is very good news -- is that "going around and coming around" doesn't always refer to good versus bad. In fact, whether we recognize it or not, "what goes around, comes around" is as true for goodness that begets goodness, kindness that follows kindness, and love that grows into even more love. True enough, punishment may follow misdeed, and revenge may indeed be a delicious dish when served cold. But as satisfying as that can be (and let's be honest here, sometimes it is VERY SATISFYING, Thank You) how much better would it be if we focused on forgiveness, reconciliation and our own healing instead of settling the score and getting revenge. There's more than enough bad in the world right now.  We don't need to add to its score.

If we start responding to all our victories and battles with goodness, kindness and love, we may start a chain reaction and beget even more of the same.  We may not see justice the way we'd like to, and fairness might be out of the question.  But through the actions we choose to take, we will be stronger. And who knows? Maybe someday "just desserts" will be something with chocolate sauce, whipped cream and a cherry. Enough for everybody to share.

A Present for a Friend

A Present for a Friend

Aurora Vocalis

Tonight after nearly ten hours of nearly straight singing, I'm done for the day. I'm afraid any offerings on this page will amount to little more than literary drooling. So today I leave you with one of the many pieces I sang today. It reminds me of a vocal depiction of the Northern Lights -- one part traditional four-part chorale with ancient texts, one part sonorous and shimmery with shifting tonalities that occasionally meet with the first part to form a perfectly traditional chord, only to shift and shimmer away once more.

Aurora Vocalis

Tonight after nearly ten hours of nearly straight singing, I'm done for the day. I'm afraid any offerings on this page will amount to little more than literary drooling. So today I leave you with one of the many pieces I sang today. It reminds me of a vocal depiction of the Northern Lights -- one part traditional four-part chorale with ancient texts, one part sonorous and shimmery with shifting tonalities that occasionally meet with the first part to form a perfectly traditional chord, only to shift and shimmer away once more.

On Being Very, Very Quiet

It's quiet (again), it's late (again) and I'm sitting in front of the computer already a little bit sleepy but ready to write. The way things are going, I wouldn't be at all surprised if Bill Murray was ready to run into my room shouting "Groundhog Day!" It amazes me that in the midst of full-to-near-frantic days, the nights (once home) are so much the same.

There is a comfort in this routine that I don't mind at all. I am enjoying the still of the night, and finding it more and more important as an antidote to the pace of an over-stimulated day. Tranquility is not offered as a benefit in any job that I have, formal or otherwise, so I must create my own whenever I can.

I used to hate quiet. For some tasks it still doesn't work for me at all. The thought of meditating was completely foreign to me, not to mention a little scary.  I'm still not ready to go sit in the lotus position for an hour listening to my breathing and contemplating my navel, but I think that in my daily routine I'm moving closer to the quiet every single day.

Part of that simply has to do with being tired of being told what to do, all day, every day. Since my employers (like most, I would imagine) are demanding, and my teenager has a doctorate in the subject, the last thing I want to do when I come home is to have the television tell me when to laugh, when to cry, what to watch, and what to buy. I'm good at figuring out jokes, I'll cry when I want to, I'm far pickier than any television executive in the history of EVER, and finally, I hate pushy salespeople to the point that I've been know to mutter on the loudish side, "dial it down Poindexter" when the hard sell crosses my very limited line of tolerance.

They say "silence is golden" and if it's not, then it is at the very a valuable commodity worth cherishing and hoarding. It allows me to have my own thoughts and opinions. It allows me to process the day nearly completed and ponder the days ahead, all without someone pestering me to buy a new computer, holiday sweaters or cellphone plans.

At Christmas we always sing "Silent Night" and it comes at the end of the service, when all the gathered are truly silent. Lights are dimmed and individual candles are lit in such a way that it looks like a scene out of a picture book. But that night in Bethlehem, was it really silent? There was confusion at the inn and there was no room. Did Mary and Joseph sit there silently? I think not. There had to have been discussions and bargaining, begging and pleading until they agreed upon the manger. And once in the manger, was that silent? How could it be? All sorts of animals were sheltered there. Despite the freeze-framed picture we carry around in our heads of a silent tableaux of adoring farm animals and a tiny baby in a bed of straw, there had to have been noise. Giving birth? Shepherds showing up talking about angels?  There had to have been some commotion. I can only imagine that when the wise men finally arrived, Mary might have been praying for them to bring her a couple hours of peace and quiet.

There can be loneliness in silence, but there is also contentment and strength as well.  It can be a big step to turn off, shut down or otherwise ignore those external forces that like to dictate the who, what, where, why and how of our everyday existence.  I'm open to suggestions, but on my terms only.  There are a lot of things that I am learning I do not need, but silence and the opportunity to be alone with my thoughts is quickly becoming a non-negotiable.

Forget the myrrh.  Please just bring a muzzle.

On Being Very, Very Quiet

It's quiet (again), it's late (again) and I'm sitting in front of the computer already a little bit sleepy but ready to write. The way things are going, I wouldn't be at all surprised if Bill Murray was ready to run into my room shouting "Groundhog Day!" It amazes me that in the midst of full-to-near-frantic days, the nights (once home) are so much the same.

There is a comfort in this routine that I don't mind at all. I am enjoying the still of the night, and finding it more and more important as an antidote to the pace of an over-stimulated day. Tranquility is not offered as a benefit in any job that I have, formal or otherwise, so I must create my own whenever I can.

I used to hate quiet. For some tasks it still doesn't work for me at all. The thought of meditating was completely foreign to me, not to mention a little scary.  I'm still not ready to go sit in the lotus position for an hour listening to my breathing and contemplating my navel, but I think that in my daily routine I'm moving closer to the quiet every single day.

Part of that simply has to do with being tired of being told what to do, all day, every day. Since my employers (like most, I would imagine) are demanding, and my teenager has a doctorate in the subject, the last thing I want to do when I come home is to have the television tell me when to laugh, when to cry, what to watch, and what to buy. I'm good at figuring out jokes, I'll cry when I want to, I'm far pickier than any television executive in the history of EVER, and finally, I hate pushy salespeople to the point that I've been know to mutter on the loudish side, "dial it down Poindexter" when the hard sell crosses my very limited line of tolerance.

They say "silence is golden" and if it's not, then it is at the very a valuable commodity worth cherishing and hoarding. It allows me to have my own thoughts and opinions. It allows me to process the day nearly completed and ponder the days ahead, all without someone pestering me to buy a new computer, holiday sweaters or cellphone plans.

At Christmas we always sing "Silent Night" and it comes at the end of the service, when all the gathered are truly silent. Lights are dimmed and individual candles are lit in such a way that it looks like a scene out of a picture book. But that night in Bethlehem, was it really silent? There was confusion at the inn and there was no room. Did Mary and Joseph sit there silently? I think not. There had to have been discussions and bargaining, begging and pleading until they agreed upon the manger. And once in the manger, was that silent? How could it be? All sorts of animals were sheltered there. Despite the freeze-framed picture we carry around in our heads of a silent tableaux of adoring farm animals and a tiny baby in a bed of straw, there had to have been noise. Giving birth? Shepherds showing up talking about angels?  There had to have been some commotion. I can only imagine that when the wise men finally arrived, Mary might have been praying for them to bring her a couple hours of peace and quiet.

There can be loneliness in silence, but there is also contentment and strength as well.  It can be a big step to turn off, shut down or otherwise ignore those external forces that like to dictate the who, what, where, why and how of our everyday existence.  I'm open to suggestions, but on my terms only.  There are a lot of things that I am learning I do not need, but silence and the opportunity to be alone with my thoughts is quickly becoming a non-negotiable.

Forget the myrrh.  Please just bring a muzzle.

Meanwhile

It's the holiday season and according to the calendar I have 14 days until the big guy (or the baby Jee, depending on if you prefer to focus on the secular or the sacred) drops by for a visit. It should come as no surprise to you that I'm just not ready.

December is a busy season for musicians. There are concerts and gigs here there and everywhere. And being good (and poor) musicians, we do everything in our power not to turn anything down, because a performance is a performance, because we are (hopefully) getting paid, and a paycheck is a paycheck, and because we can always catch up on our sleep in January.

Meanwhile, as I look over the most recent status updates of my Facebook friends, I sometimes wonder if it shouldn't be called "Guiltbook" instead. Holy Moly. I have friends who have gone sledding with their children, gushed about ruddy cheeks, frozen snowpants and hot dogs.   I have friends who have romped outside in the icy cold, who have had successful hunting trips and who have caught snowflakes on their tongue. I have friends who have marveled at the wintry weather from inside the comforts of their own home. That particular scenario is usually accompanied by soft music and mulled apple cider. I have friends who have wrapped gifts, baked cookies, gone caroling with family and friends, and generally whooped my butt in the annual holiday activities to-do list.

It's not that I'm particularly upset about this. I know what my schedule is this time of year, and I know I'll get to the essentials when the time comes. There will most likely be no wintry romping and there may not be as many cookies, but I'll do what I can with the time that I have and I'll remember that a red and white holly berry and mistletoe-infused three-ringed circus is not required to mark, remember and celebrate the Christmas Season.

And while I'm busy doing the best I can with what I've got, I'm keenly aware that the entire holiday season is just another layer of life that is added on -- ready or not. It doesn't replace the mundane routine, the difficult decisions, or the emotional and physical hardships we face every day of our lives. When added to the mix, Christmas is often as much about surviving as it is about celebrating, which, when you think about it, could also be said about life.

So while I begin to gear up for the "really big shoe" on December 25th, I'm going to be mindful of those who are busy focusing on other layers of life.  It's important that in the frenzy of shopping and eating and general merry-making to remember "the rest of the story."  I imagine that while riding on a donkey for hours on end, a very-pregnant Mary must have thought that angels and annunciations were a pretty inconvenient layer to heap upon her already complicated life at that very moment.  And yet we know that in the midst of extreme physical and emotional hardships (not to mention serious political unrest), a tiny baby was born, bringing a message of peace and love.  Some may been (rightly) focused on surviving and might not have recognized the celebration that had been interwoven in their lives.  But it was there all the same.  Just like today.

Hope in the midst of hardship.  This is the real message of the holiday season.

Meanwhile

It's the holiday season and according to the calendar I have 14 days until the big guy (or the baby Jee, depending on if you prefer to focus on the secular or the sacred) drops by for a visit. It should come as no surprise to you that I'm just not ready.

December is a busy season for musicians. There are concerts and gigs here there and everywhere. And being good (and poor) musicians, we do everything in our power not to turn anything down, because a performance is a performance, because we are (hopefully) getting paid, and a paycheck is a paycheck, and because we can always catch up on our sleep in January.

Meanwhile, as I look over the most recent status updates of my Facebook friends, I sometimes wonder if it shouldn't be called "Guiltbook" instead. Holy Moly. I have friends who have gone sledding with their children, gushed about ruddy cheeks, frozen snowpants and hot dogs.   I have friends who have romped outside in the icy cold, who have had successful hunting trips and who have caught snowflakes on their tongue. I have friends who have marveled at the wintry weather from inside the comforts of their own home. That particular scenario is usually accompanied by soft music and mulled apple cider. I have friends who have wrapped gifts, baked cookies, gone caroling with family and friends, and generally whooped my butt in the annual holiday activities to-do list.

It's not that I'm particularly upset about this. I know what my schedule is this time of year, and I know I'll get to the essentials when the time comes. There will most likely be no wintry romping and there may not be as many cookies, but I'll do what I can with the time that I have and I'll remember that a red and white holly berry and mistletoe-infused three-ringed circus is not required to mark, remember and celebrate the Christmas Season.

And while I'm busy doing the best I can with what I've got, I'm keenly aware that the entire holiday season is just another layer of life that is added on -- ready or not. It doesn't replace the mundane routine, the difficult decisions, or the emotional and physical hardships we face every day of our lives. When added to the mix, Christmas is often as much about surviving as it is about celebrating, which, when you think about it, could also be said about life.

So while I begin to gear up for the "really big shoe" on December 25th, I'm going to be mindful of those who are busy focusing on other layers of life.  It's important that in the frenzy of shopping and eating and general merry-making to remember "the rest of the story."  I imagine that while riding on a donkey for hours on end, a very-pregnant Mary must have thought that angels and annunciations were a pretty inconvenient layer to heap upon her already complicated life at that very moment.  And yet we know that in the midst of extreme physical and emotional hardships (not to mention serious political unrest), a tiny baby was born, bringing a message of peace and love.  Some may been (rightly) focused on surviving and might not have recognized the celebration that had been interwoven in their lives.  But it was there all the same.  Just like today.

Hope in the midst of hardship.  This is the real message of the holiday season.

Winter Haiku for Grownups

Falling snow. Peaceful,

Silent. Winter's white mantle.

Not this sideways shit.

Some winter journeys

Begin with a single fall.

Human Zambonis.

He who dashes through

snow is not wearing snowpants,

and has to pee bad.

Latest winter craze:

Fleece blanket with sleeves. For those

otherwise confused?!

It's time to hunker

in my bed bunker. Two cat-

comforter pileup.

Holiday Schedule.

Forget the egg nog and grog.

Need No-Doze and Jolt.

The poem says it's

"miles to go before I sleep."

Here "sleep" equals "post"

Tiny icicles

shimmer and dance. I need to

blow my nose. Badly.

Winter Haiku for Grownups

Falling snow. Peaceful,

Silent. Winter's white mantle.

Not this sideways shit.

Some winter journeys

Begin with a single fall.

Human Zambonis.

He who dashes through

snow is not wearing snowpants,

and has to pee bad.

Latest winter craze:

Fleece blanket with sleeves. For those

otherwise confused?!

It's time to hunker

in my bed bunker. Two cat-

comforter pileup.

Holiday Schedule.

Forget the egg nog and grog.

Need No-Doze and Jolt.

The poem says it's

"miles to go before I sleep."

Here "sleep" equals "post"

Tiny icicles

shimmer and dance. I need to

blow my nose. Badly.

That One

It seems as if I'm always looking for "that one" something I can never find.

That one sock... That one form... That one article I read online... That one pen I just had a minute ago... The list is endless. The worst though, is trying to find "that one" piece of music. The reason? My house, my car, my office and my studio are overflowing with pieces of music. Putting my hands on "that one" is maddening at best, frustrating, time-consuming and occasionally futile at worst.

It's very much like trying to find that one needle in that one haystack.

This is an especially lousy time to be hunting down that one piece of music, because it's the holiday gig season (not to mention the end of the semester for my voice students) and there are piles of music EVERYWHERE. Equally maddening is the fact that I am absolutely positive that that one piece of music is around somewhere. Where? I don't know. But since I know that I don't throw them out (blessing, meet curse) it's simply a matter of guessing in which pile of printed paper and which archeological layer it might be found.

I need a "that one" divining rod. Or a GPS signaling device. Or a Cabana Boy that knows how to sort and file. Something to keep my music under control. And once I figure it out, I can move on to my next project: finding that one shoe under my bed.

That One

It seems as if I'm always looking for "that one" something I can never find.

That one sock... That one form... That one article I read online... That one pen I just had a minute ago... The list is endless. The worst though, is trying to find "that one" piece of music. The reason? My house, my car, my office and my studio are overflowing with pieces of music. Putting my hands on "that one" is maddening at best, frustrating, time-consuming and occasionally futile at worst.

It's very much like trying to find that one needle in that one haystack.

This is an especially lousy time to be hunting down that one piece of music, because it's the holiday gig season (not to mention the end of the semester for my voice students) and there are piles of music EVERYWHERE. Equally maddening is the fact that I am absolutely positive that that one piece of music is around somewhere. Where? I don't know. But since I know that I don't throw them out (blessing, meet curse) it's simply a matter of guessing in which pile of printed paper and which archeological layer it might be found.

I need a "that one" divining rod. Or a GPS signaling device. Or a Cabana Boy that knows how to sort and file. Something to keep my music under control. And once I figure it out, I can move on to my next project: finding that one shoe under my bed.

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind

And so, the season of snow has begun.

Considering we are over a week into December this should hardly be news for someone who lives in the Mitten State. But news it is, and if you ever read all the EMERGENCY E-MAILS I get these days about all sorts of EMERGENCY things like Swine Flu (it's here) and Slim Fast (it's gone), going all Chicken Little on snowflakes in December is the next logical step.

I'm not sure when we all became a nation of collective whiners, cry-babies and scaredy cats. But we are, and then some. And the news cycles eat up the distrust and panic and then regurgitate it to the general public as if we were baby birds screaming for our next meal. Part of the blame has to lie with the 24/7 news cycle. It's got to be hard to fill up all that broadcast time with "real" (bad or sensational) news, or even "entertainment" (bad or sensational) news or "filler" (stuff you don't care about, so the time is generally spent channel surfing, checking email or peeing) stories. It seems an obvious choice to turn to the weather which is bad or sensational all the time. Doesn't matter if it's hot, cold, sunny, windy, rainy, snowy or humid. If there is a weatherman clinging to a tree, a roof blowing off a gas station or a fool paddling down the street in a rowboat, we are hooked and horrified. How awful! How scary! Glad it's not me!

EMERGENCY EMAILS pander to the panic-stricken. My EMERGENCY EMAILS dealing with the weather told me on several different occasions today that it was going to SNOW, which, once again, is hardly remarkable in the month of December. Of course, how much it is going to snow varies with your location. At my house the predicted amount tonight is ... two inches. That paltry amount hardly seems to warrant an EMERGENCY email, and I must have received 10-15 of these EMERGENCY emails already today. Now the EMERGENCY EMAILS include helpful survival tips, such as telling people not to drive, and reminding those who don't listen to bring a blanket, flashlight, extra food, flares, cellphones and a list of your next of kin. Seriously people, I'm just driving around in town, or going to work or to the store.  I can't see Russia from my house and I'm not stocking up for the Iditarod.

Now, if I lived in Florida or Hawaii and a massive snow storm was about to dump 8-14" in one evening, it would probably warrant an email or two, complete with a stern warning and instructions. But in Michigan, where snow storms and construction cones are is as common as Great Lakes and mosquitoes, a simple note saying "It's going to snow. You know the drill" would be plenty enough. I'm both resourceful and filled with a respectable amount of common sense. Email or not, I think I can figure out snow in winter.

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind

And so, the season of snow has begun.

Considering we are over a week into December this should hardly be news for someone who lives in the Mitten State. But news it is, and if you ever read all the EMERGENCY E-MAILS I get these days about all sorts of EMERGENCY things like Swine Flu (it's here) and Slim Fast (it's gone), going all Chicken Little on snowflakes in December is the next logical step.

I'm not sure when we all became a nation of collective whiners, cry-babies and scaredy cats. But we are, and then some. And the news cycles eat up the distrust and panic and then regurgitate it to the general public as if we were baby birds screaming for our next meal. Part of the blame has to lie with the 24/7 news cycle. It's got to be hard to fill up all that broadcast time with "real" (bad or sensational) news, or even "entertainment" (bad or sensational) news or "filler" (stuff you don't care about, so the time is generally spent channel surfing, checking email or peeing) stories. It seems an obvious choice to turn to the weather which is bad or sensational all the time. Doesn't matter if it's hot, cold, sunny, windy, rainy, snowy or humid. If there is a weatherman clinging to a tree, a roof blowing off a gas station or a fool paddling down the street in a rowboat, we are hooked and horrified. How awful! How scary! Glad it's not me!

EMERGENCY EMAILS pander to the panic-stricken. My EMERGENCY EMAILS dealing with the weather told me on several different occasions today that it was going to SNOW, which, once again, is hardly remarkable in the month of December. Of course, how much it is going to snow varies with your location. At my house the predicted amount tonight is ... two inches. That paltry amount hardly seems to warrant an EMERGENCY email, and I must have received 10-15 of these EMERGENCY emails already today. Now the EMERGENCY EMAILS include helpful survival tips, such as telling people not to drive, and reminding those who don't listen to bring a blanket, flashlight, extra food, flares, cellphones and a list of your next of kin. Seriously people, I'm just driving around in town, or going to work or to the store.  I can't see Russia from my house and I'm not stocking up for the Iditarod.

Now, if I lived in Florida or Hawaii and a massive snow storm was about to dump 8-14" in one evening, it would probably warrant an email or two, complete with a stern warning and instructions. But in Michigan, where snow storms and construction cones are is as common as Great Lakes and mosquitoes, a simple note saying "It's going to snow. You know the drill" would be plenty enough. I'm both resourceful and filled with a respectable amount of common sense. Email or not, I think I can figure out snow in winter.

I Really Wanna Know

Well, who are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
I really wanna know (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
Tell me, who are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
'Cause I really wanna know (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)  

Hello Again, Holidailies.

This marks my sixth year as a participant in the Holidailies December writing project. For those of you who might be new the news filled with little green fishes, it would probably be a good idea if I answered the question, "Who am I?" I say "probably" because the answer isn't as easy as you might think. But I'll try anyway, so here goes.

Q. Who am I?
A. It depends on who you ask

To my daughter, I am mom. Because she is a teenager, I am now both more and less important than I have been in the past. I am the gatekeeper of permission, which is a blessing and a burden for both of us. I am the chauffeur and the wallet. I am stricter than some parents, but not all, and I require (yes, REQUIRE) certain behavior day in and day out, namely respect and politeness. Most days it goes quite well. The rest of the time I attribute it to Satan. I am her sounding board and her confidant; a role I cherish and take very seriously. I am her biggest champion and support system. If she has a performance, I'm there. If she has a problem, I'll listen. If parenting is hard and decisions are difficult, I'll share that with her. I'm still her anchor, although over the years I've continued to let her roam a little bit farther on her own. It's wonderful, maddening and scary.

To my friends I am funny, smart, complicated and too busy for my own good.  I don't go out any play anywhere near as often as I should, but we all do our best to make up for lost time when we (finally) get the chance.

My cats see me only as a mooch-target and a warm bed at night. Any and all attention paid is on their terms only.

According to the nature and location of my employment (job #1), I work in a library. In the strictest sense, I cannot call myself a librarian due to the lack of a piece of graduate-level paper.  Title notwithstanding, I am a person who knows a great deal about my field of expertise: music and computers.  I know how to find scraps of information that don't want t be found, and organize things so that they will be found that much easier.  Other than that, I really don't fit the usual librarian stereotype.  I do not have super-strength SHUSHing power, I do not wear orthopedic shoes, have my glasses slung around my neck on a silver chain, or put my hair in a bun.  I work in a cubicle, but I even refuse to let that define who I am.  My tiny space includes three giant stuffed Peeps, 3 wooden monkeys, a VERY dead plant, a couple of demotivators posters and a 45 rpm record I found in the stacks one day with my favorite song title of all time:  You didn't like it because you didn't think of it.  If that doesn't say office cubicle I don't know what does.  My earphones are on every second I'm at work, and I'm just as apt to be listening to Gregorian Chant as I am to be listening to Eddie Izzard, The Steve Miller Band, Ella Fitzgerald, Mozart, or last week's episode of Survivor. 

My resume says I am a professional Soprano.  I have lots of cred to back that up, including all requisite high notes, glittery performance wear, breadth and depth of knowledge of composers, genres, languages and styles, and an unending love of singing.  What I don't have is the insanity, the explosive temper-tantrumesque personality or the mile-wide ego that is so rampant (and face it, sometimes necessary) in this business.  However, let it be known that I refuse to consider this to be a failing on my part.

To my students (job #2) I am many things.  Primarily a voice teacher.  Possibly a drive-by therapist.  Hopefully someone who pushes, inspires and opens up worlds of musical and vocal possibilities.  I am supportive and kind until taken advantage of, at which point sorrow and pain come a-calling.  Woe and Woah.  I praise liberally and criticize fairly, but never without cause on either account.


According to my Spam folder, I have a tiny penis, a high school graduating class of approximately 30,000 students all currently trying to find me, a desperate need for Canadian pharmaceuticals, a bumper harvest of Acai Berries and relatives in Nigeria that would like me to send them my banking information.  It may surprise you when I say without the Internet I would have been unaware of each and every one of these factoids.  I guess I haven't been paying enough attention.

According to the Wii fit (or "the insult box" as I have heard it called) I am a orange uniformed bean type person who more often than not is slumped over looking sad or stunned, or pounding my fists into the ground in the agony of defeat while the slow, sad "loser" music twinkles my demise.  In Farmtown (on Facebook) I have short brown well-styled hair and an ever-neat and tidy pair of bluejean overalls.  I'm not sure which "me" would win in a cage match; the Wii me isn't very skilled (OK, the insult box calls me unbalanced) but the Farmtown me constantly freezes up, needs to be rebooted or has run out of gas.  I suppose it would be a draw.

Judging by the appearance of my sixteen year old car, it is as plain as the rust all over the driveway that I am not defined by my mode of transportation.

If you looked at my living room, you would know I do not have a maid, If you looked at my basement you would think I was stockpiling for the rapture, and if you compared the inside of my refrigerator at 6:30 and 7:30pm this evening, you would wonder if my greatest skills were that of an exorcist or a chemist.  I'm not sure what the answer is, but whatever was in those mystery Tupperware bowls was either demonic or the cure for cancer.


An examination of the stacks of "stuff" here there and everywhere would tell you that music, reading, fiber arts, crossword puzzles and cooking are among my many hobbies.  The dust on several of these piles would tell you I have little time to do any of it to the degree I'd like.  A quick scan of my iPod is a clear demonstration of my severe multiple personality disorder.  My twelve other personalities tell me it's not their fault.

Who am I?  It's hard to say. Or maybe it's really easy to say because if there is one thing that I AM, it is diverse.  I do all sorts of things and like all sorts of things.  I wear many hats every single day, but I refuse to anybody or anything define who I am.  After all, the fun in life is finding out for yourself, and I try to do that with as much humor, thought and grace as I can muster.  I will admit that some days are more successful than others.  But in the meantime, I sort out my days right here in my own little corner of the Internet.  I'm glad you stopped by, and I hope you'll visit again tomorrow.  And if you see those Nigerian relatives, tell them I said hi.

I Really Wanna Know

Well, who are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
I really wanna know (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
Tell me, who are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
'Cause I really wanna know (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)  

Hello Again, Holidailies.

This marks my sixth year as a participant in the Holidailies December writing project. For those of you who might be new the news filled with little green fishes, it would probably be a good idea if I answered the question, "Who am I?" I say "probably" because the answer isn't as easy as you might think. But I'll try anyway, so here goes.

Q. Who am I?
A. It depends on who you ask

To my daughter, I am mom. Because she is a teenager, I am now both more and less important than I have been in the past. I am the gatekeeper of permission, which is a blessing and a burden for both of us. I am the chauffeur and the wallet. I am stricter than some parents, but not all, and I require (yes, REQUIRE) certain behavior day in and day out, namely respect and politeness. Most days it goes quite well. The rest of the time I attribute it to Satan. I am her sounding board and her confidant; a role I cherish and take very seriously. I am her biggest champion and support system. If she has a performance, I'm there. If she has a problem, I'll listen. If parenting is hard and decisions are difficult, I'll share that with her. I'm still her anchor, although over the years I've continued to let her roam a little bit farther on her own. It's wonderful, maddening and scary.

To my friends I am funny, smart, complicated and too busy for my own good.  I don't go out any play anywhere near as often as I should, but we all do our best to make up for lost time when we (finally) get the chance.

My cats see me only as a mooch-target and a warm bed at night. Any and all attention paid is on their terms only.

According to the nature and location of my employment (job #1), I work in a library. In the strictest sense, I cannot call myself a librarian due to the lack of a piece of graduate-level paper.  Title notwithstanding, I am a person who knows a great deal about my field of expertise: music and computers.  I know how to find scraps of information that don't want t be found, and organize things so that they will be found that much easier.  Other than that, I really don't fit the usual librarian stereotype.  I do not have super-strength SHUSHing power, I do not wear orthopedic shoes, have my glasses slung around my neck on a silver chain, or put my hair in a bun.  I work in a cubicle, but I even refuse to let that define who I am.  My tiny space includes three giant stuffed Peeps, 3 wooden monkeys, a VERY dead plant, a couple of demotivators posters and a 45 rpm record I found in the stacks one day with my favorite song title of all time:  You didn't like it because you didn't think of it.  If that doesn't say office cubicle I don't know what does.  My earphones are on every second I'm at work, and I'm just as apt to be listening to Gregorian Chant as I am to be listening to Eddie Izzard, The Steve Miller Band, Ella Fitzgerald, Mozart, or last week's episode of Survivor. 

My resume says I am a professional Soprano.  I have lots of cred to back that up, including all requisite high notes, glittery performance wear, breadth and depth of knowledge of composers, genres, languages and styles, and an unending love of singing.  What I don't have is the insanity, the explosive temper-tantrumesque personality or the mile-wide ego that is so rampant (and face it, sometimes necessary) in this business.  However, let it be known that I refuse to consider this to be a failing on my part.

To my students (job #2) I am many things.  Primarily a voice teacher.  Possibly a drive-by therapist.  Hopefully someone who pushes, inspires and opens up worlds of musical and vocal possibilities.  I am supportive and kind until taken advantage of, at which point sorrow and pain come a-calling.  Woe and Woah.  I praise liberally and criticize fairly, but never without cause on either account.


According to my Spam folder, I have a tiny penis, a high school graduating class of approximately 30,000 students all currently trying to find me, a desperate need for Canadian pharmaceuticals, a bumper harvest of Acai Berries and relatives in Nigeria that would like me to send them my banking information.  It may surprise you when I say without the Internet I would have been unaware of each and every one of these factoids.  I guess I haven't been paying enough attention.

According to the Wii fit (or "the insult box" as I have heard it called) I am a orange uniformed bean type person who more often than not is slumped over looking sad or stunned, or pounding my fists into the ground in the agony of defeat while the slow, sad "loser" music twinkles my demise.  In Farmtown (on Facebook) I have short brown well-styled hair and an ever-neat and tidy pair of bluejean overalls.  I'm not sure which "me" would win in a cage match; the Wii me isn't very skilled (OK, the insult box calls me unbalanced) but the Farmtown me constantly freezes up, needs to be rebooted or has run out of gas.  I suppose it would be a draw.

Judging by the appearance of my sixteen year old car, it is as plain as the rust all over the driveway that I am not defined by my mode of transportation.

If you looked at my living room, you would know I do not have a maid, If you looked at my basement you would think I was stockpiling for the rapture, and if you compared the inside of my refrigerator at 6:30 and 7:30pm this evening, you would wonder if my greatest skills were that of an exorcist or a chemist.  I'm not sure what the answer is, but whatever was in those mystery Tupperware bowls was either demonic or the cure for cancer.


An examination of the stacks of "stuff" here there and everywhere would tell you that music, reading, fiber arts, crossword puzzles and cooking are among my many hobbies.  The dust on several of these piles would tell you I have little time to do any of it to the degree I'd like.  A quick scan of my iPod is a clear demonstration of my severe multiple personality disorder.  My twelve other personalities tell me it's not their fault.

Who am I?  It's hard to say. Or maybe it's really easy to say because if there is one thing that I AM, it is diverse.  I do all sorts of things and like all sorts of things.  I wear many hats every single day, but I refuse to anybody or anything define who I am.  After all, the fun in life is finding out for yourself, and I try to do that with as much humor, thought and grace as I can muster.  I will admit that some days are more successful than others.  But in the meantime, I sort out my days right here in my own little corner of the Internet.  I'm glad you stopped by, and I hope you'll visit again tomorrow.  And if you see those Nigerian relatives, tell them I said hi.

Three Cheers for the Undigested Bit of Beef

"You don't believe in me," observed the Ghost.
"I don't." said Scrooge.
"What evidence would you have of my reality, beyond that of your senses?"
"I don't know," said Scrooge.
"Why do you doubt your senses?"
"Because," said Scrooge, "a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats.  You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato.  There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!"

 
It's an unusual day when I write about movies, because I just don't see that many. Even in my high school and college days when I worked at the movies I didn't see that many (criminal, really, considering they were free for employees) because who wants to go to "work" on a day off? Not I.

It's an even more unusual day when I write about a Jim Carrey movie, because I'm just not a huge fan. There have been a few that I have really liked (see: A Series of Unfortunate Events and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) but they were both a little on the bizarre side, script-wise, and none of them involved pets, masks, Batman, Cable-TV, liars or God.

But here I am, talking about a Jim Carrey movie. Today I went and saw Disney's Christmas Carol, and shockingly (happily so) I was blown away.  I went in with seriously low expectations.  Disney often means predictable, saccharine, silly, and dumbed down to the lowest common denominator.  I suppose I might say it was predictable because it was Dickens, but it wasn't predictable... because they kept it as Dickens.  The words were his, and there weren't any misguided attempts to modernize the language or change plot points.  It certainly wasn't saccharine, silly or dumbed-down.  The film was in turn frightening, surreal and compelling.

Part of the reason I was so astonished at the success of telling this particular story with this particular actor was that it managed to do it all within the realms of 3D motion capture animation.  I was pretty skeptical of the whole 3D deal too.  I've seen 3D films before with varying degrees of success, and none of it overwhelmingly positive.  Sometimes they trumpet the technology, up the price, pass out the dorky glasses, and then have one or two instances where something comes popping out of the screen.  Other times it's 3D everywhere at all time.  SNOW!  ELBOWS!  TRAINS!  You name it, it's JUMPING out at you.  The only thing not JUMPING out at you is the SCRIPT!  That part is often left out, as if it were that one extra piece of luggage nobody could afford to bring.  This, of course is a shame, because, call my silly, but I'm really here to get lost in a story, not in visual trickery.

This film was absolutely amazing.  Director Robert Zemeckis (whose previous Christmas 3D motion capture animation film, The Polar Express, I'm sorry to tell you, I didn't love...not one little bit) took the 3D technology and used it to help tell the story instead of using it to substitute for the lack of story.  And it worked.

Tonight I came home to read several external reviews and to be truthful they are decidedly mixed.  Some felt it was a stunning achievement.  Others felt it was still too much 3D gibberish that detracted from the story.  With the exception of one drawn out chase scene that I thought was superfluous to the story, I thought the 3D was genius and the motion-capture animation was spectacular.  To see the cinematic magic married to the visual artistry told by the voice of Dickens was precisely what I needed today.  There are lots of versions of good old Ebeneezer Scrooge floating around out there.  This one has instantly become one of my favorites.

Three Cheers for the Undigested Bit of Beef

"You don't believe in me," observed the Ghost.
"I don't." said Scrooge.
"What evidence would you have of my reality, beyond that of your senses?"
"I don't know," said Scrooge.
"Why do you doubt your senses?"
"Because," said Scrooge, "a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats.  You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato.  There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!"

 
It's an unusual day when I write about movies, because I just don't see that many. Even in my high school and college days when I worked at the movies I didn't see that many (criminal, really, considering they were free for employees) because who wants to go to "work" on a day off? Not I.

It's an even more unusual day when I write about a Jim Carrey movie, because I'm just not a huge fan. There have been a few that I have really liked (see: A Series of Unfortunate Events and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) but they were both a little on the bizarre side, script-wise, and none of them involved pets, masks, Batman, Cable-TV, liars or God.

But here I am, talking about a Jim Carrey movie. Today I went and saw Disney's Christmas Carol, and shockingly (happily so) I was blown away.  I went in with seriously low expectations.  Disney often means predictable, saccharine, silly, and dumbed down to the lowest common denominator.  I suppose I might say it was predictable because it was Dickens, but it wasn't predictable... because they kept it as Dickens.  The words were his, and there weren't any misguided attempts to modernize the language or change plot points.  It certainly wasn't saccharine, silly or dumbed-down.  The film was in turn frightening, surreal and compelling.

Part of the reason I was so astonished at the success of telling this particular story with this particular actor was that it managed to do it all within the realms of 3D motion capture animation.  I was pretty skeptical of the whole 3D deal too.  I've seen 3D films before with varying degrees of success, and none of it overwhelmingly positive.  Sometimes they trumpet the technology, up the price, pass out the dorky glasses, and then have one or two instances where something comes popping out of the screen.  Other times it's 3D everywhere at all time.  SNOW!  ELBOWS!  TRAINS!  You name it, it's JUMPING out at you.  The only thing not JUMPING out at you is the SCRIPT!  That part is often left out, as if it were that one extra piece of luggage nobody could afford to bring.  This, of course is a shame, because, call my silly, but I'm really here to get lost in a story, not in visual trickery.

This film was absolutely amazing.  Director Robert Zemeckis (whose previous Christmas 3D motion capture animation film, The Polar Express, I'm sorry to tell you, I didn't love...not one little bit) took the 3D technology and used it to help tell the story instead of using it to substitute for the lack of story.  And it worked.

Tonight I came home to read several external reviews and to be truthful they are decidedly mixed.  Some felt it was a stunning achievement.  Others felt it was still too much 3D gibberish that detracted from the story.  With the exception of one drawn out chase scene that I thought was superfluous to the story, I thought the 3D was genius and the motion-capture animation was spectacular.  To see the cinematic magic married to the visual artistry told by the voice of Dickens was precisely what I needed today.  There are lots of versions of good old Ebeneezer Scrooge floating around out there.  This one has instantly become one of my favorites.