I posted this on Twitter the other day.

Obviously, it’s supposed to be funny. Well. I hope that’s obvious.

For a while now I’ve wanted to post something here about what Twitter and Tumblr mean to me. But it’s kind of difficult for me to explain that to people who don’t use the services themselves. This tweet? Sums it all up perfectly.

(Oh and, in case you were wondering? It’s not an accident that the purple on my Twitter matches the purple on this blog.)Similar Posts:

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I am both surprised and deeply humbled by the decision of the Nobel committee. Let me be clear, I do not view it as a recognition of my own accomplishments, but rather of an affirmation of American leadership on behalf of aspirations held by people of all nations. To be honest, I do not feel I deserve to be in the company of so many of the transformative figures who’ve been honored by this prize. Men and women who have inspired me and inspired the entire world through their courageous pursuit of peace. But I also know that this prize reflects the kind of world that those men and women and all Americans want to build, a world that gives life to the promise of our founding documents. And I know throughout history that the Nobel Peace Prize has not been given for specific achievement, it’s also been used to give momentum to a set of causes. So that is why I will accept this award as a call to action.

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The first was: Barack Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize. That’s so damn beautiful my nipples are hard.

The second was: And thus the Nobel Comittee has finally redeemed itself for that whole Henry Kissinger travesty.

Then I sent my brother a text message telling him the news. He texted me back. “For what? Ending Iraq? Ending Afghanistan? Closing Gitmo? Making universal health care a reality? Ensuring our right to electronic privacy?”

And that’s when I had my third thought:

“… for his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples…”

That’s part of what The Nobel Foundation had to say about President Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize.

I have neither the time nor the inclination to get embroiled in a political controversy today, but that may be unavoidable. Listen. Obama’s not perfect. I know a lot of people who support him are disappointed by some of the things he has not accomplished. And you may or may not have valid arguments. I just want to remind everyone that the Nobel Peace Prize is an international award. It has nothing to do with our domestic concerns. And if you don’t think Obama has made an enormous difference in our image on the international scene, if you don’t think he’s given people all over the world hope enough to dream of a better tomorrow, if you don’t think that since he won the election American expats everywhere have stopped letting people assume they’re Canadian…

Then I just don’t know what.

[Edited to add this fantastic and illuminating quote from the AP article, "Common Misperceptions about the Nobel Peace Prize":

Myth: The prize is awarded to recognize efforts for peace, human rights and democracy only after they have proven successful. More often, the prize is awarded to encourage those who receive it to see the effort through, sometimes at critical moments.] Similar Posts:

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I do not know what the original source is, but this is too good not to post. Similar Posts:

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So. Long story short it was a tube of A&D ointment that fell off a shelf. I figure this out in under a minute, and get back to my pizza.

But.

Bean is laughing at me. So I say, Honey, it’s not funny. Mommy’s toe hurts.

He stops laughing and says, Oh. Alright. Sorry.

(pause)

Mommy? It’s a LITTLE bit funny, isn’t it?

(via)

[Edited to add: The joyless literalist buzzkills among you will be thrilled to know that I am well aware that this does not constitute karma. Who the flock do you think I am? Alanis Morrissette?]Similar Posts:

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REALLY hurts you.

Then for a while it’s all drama and ugly and crazy over-the-top

how-could-you-do-this-to-me

and you-don’t know-me

and you-should-have-known-I-hate-red-onions-in-my-salad

and I-wish-I-never-met-you

and can’t-you-tell-the-truth-about-anyfuckingthing?

and you-have-my-favorite-hairclip-you-asshole.

And then mercifully that psychodrama stops, finally, because it’s just too awful and you can’t concentrate on work or even play and NO, dammit, I don’t want to eat anything, I *told* you I’m not hungry and just how long can a human being go without more than four hours of consecutive sleep before they go batshit bonkers anyway?

So you go about the business of your life as best you can and fine. Fine. You’re FINE. Because we’re all adults here, aren’t we?

But then that person, that person who hurt you? He pops up again, and CATCH THIS: He wants to apologize. So you listen because yes, you’re exactly that kind of sucker, you always have been and you always will be.

Lo and behold you’re glad you listened because you believe he actually means it. You do. Something clicks in your wounded soul and you wonder if it isn’t the last piece of the puzzle, the last piece you need before you can officially get your shit back together. You say to yourself, Wow. Closure. Awesome.

But then you realize. No. This? This is worse. This feels worse.

(via)

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“What de ass do he?”

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¡Salud y amor y tiempo para disfrutarlo!Similar Posts:

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I’ve toured the Grenada Chocolate Factory. It’s a gorgeous little wooden building right on the edge of Grenada’s only rainforest. It’s painted with colors not unlike the those used on the wrapper, so it looks like something out of a badly colorized movie; somehow the tropical sunshine mutes the sight so it’s slightly shy of garish. It’s 100% solar-powered and run by an elderly Rastafarian. Nearly all of the cocoa grown in Grenada is exported to Belgium. What little bit stays in the country is made into chocolate (and assorted cocoa butter yumminess) at this one little factory.

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Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.
-E.L. Doctorow

Hm. I don’t know about that. How about misanthropy? Self-flagellation? Public masturbation? Narcissism? Burning, unbridled rage? Juvenile escapism? Or, my person favorite, insufferable navel-gazing?

Forgive me. It’s just that I’m – and I don’t think I’m alone here – I’m a bit weary of the writers-as-raving-lunatics fallacy.

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BEAN SEZ HAI PEEKABOO!!11!

It’s called The Sunwheel project, and it was dreamed up by Professor of Astronomy Judith S. Young. She writes:

Through the Sunwheel, which concretely illustrates the variations in the Sun’s position on the horizon throughout the year, I plan to bring a greater awareness and understanding of astronomy to the University community, school children, and the general public, thereby enhancing science literacy, encouraging curiosity, and improving the quality and enjoyment of life. The Sunwheel provides a gathering spot for people to learn about and enjoy the sky together.

Public gatherings are held every solstice and equinox.

I have been known to refer to Amherst as the headquarters of PseudoRastafarians International, North American Chapter. I’m kidding of course but this is one of the many reasons why.

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I picked out three books really really fast, as only a mother with a toddler in tow can. Next to the cash register there was a display of postcards, and I let him choose one because he was such a good boy. And THIS, ladies and gentlemen, is what he picked.

That’s MY son.

(postcard credit Stella Marrs)

(via)
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Meanwhile, I’ve been having way too much fun over at Tumblr, which totally fulfills my extroverted need for instant feedback. Also, community. And sometimes there are kittens.

I’ve had this itch in my head for months. The idea that I need to meld the two together somehow. Or at least remember to post my better, more thoughtful posts here.

And then, over the last couple of weeks, my tumblings have made an evolutionary leap. (So has my life. BIG TIME. But more on that later.)

Anyway. It’s time. I have a vague plan in mind but really I’m just experimenting, and that’s what you’re going to see here. An experiment. I’m sure it’ll be interesting. I hope it’ll be coherent. And, as always, I look forward to your feedback.Similar Posts:

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-Nicolaus Copernicus, On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres (1543)

You know tomorrow is the equinox, right? Shorter days, less sunlight, frost in the morning, letting your car engine warm up, Halloween, icy roads, wild turkeys in the forest behind my house… Thanksgiving, visible breath, ZOMG I HATE THE MALL, and will I get my first tree in five years? Probably. So the Bean can have that memory. And because it might feel nice to do something traditional for once. Hot chocolate. Grandma’s sugar cookies and gingerbread men with ribbons tied around their necks, green and red plaid and shot through with gold. Quick work with a needle and thread and they are no longer cookies but rather ornaments, like the clothespins I painted and turned into reindeer. I’ll revel in wearing my purple down vest, that I’m finally somewhere cold in December. I’ll bury my face in the fabric and drink through it the scent of cold air, which always always reminds me of my mother and memories I must have imagined, fabricated with odds and ends of stories told about the years right before I was born. This year, perhaps, I will find out if I can still iceskate backwards. I will wake up on Christmas morning in brand new flannel pajamas. The Bean will have his first ever candy cane, and through sheer force of will I’ll stay warm and happy until the days lengthen again and my sun returns.

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So. much. fun!

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After a while you got up and went to over the window, which was very tall and rather narrow. You stood there bathed in blinding sunlight. I was struck by how yellow the light was. You put your hands together in front of you as if to catch something and then – and then! – suddenly there was a ball of solid sunlight in your hands. It was exactly as beautiful as you’d expect such a thing to be. You walked back over to the chair, sat down and put the ball of sunlight in a clear glass bowl that was sitting on a little table near my head. After a moment the ball turned liquid. It was water but it was also more than water and it was still the same pale yellow. You took a white handkerchief and got it wet. Then you gently wiped my face with it. You did that for a while. I never saw your face, and the me in the bed never woke up. You wiped my face until it was cool. Then you quietly got up and left. And I woke up.

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You put them in a Tupperware, throw the thing in the fridge and forget about it. Time passes. It gets pushed back, behind the milk. Then one day, when you’re trying to make room for something else, you come across it and toss it to the back of the bottom shelf without even thinking about what’s in it. More time passes and you decide to clean out your fridge. You come across the container again, only this time you actually open it. What’s inside is unrecognizable. And smelly. So you wrinkle up your nose and throw it away for real this time, without a moment’s thought. And you do this in spite of the fact that when you first put it in the Tupperware, you were certain it was something worth saving.

(via)
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As always, I heard Gregory’s truck a full four minutes before he actually pulled into my driveway. I stayed in my bedroom, perched on the stool in front of my mirror, eyes closed, hands in the air, going over and over a particularly difficult passage in my latest piano piece. I called this phantom piano. And yeah, I looked pretty silly, perched on that stool, back ramrod straight, hands hard at work over an imaginary piano. Not to mention the imaginary oranges in my palms… But it worked. And it passed the time. Especially when I was nervous. Not that Gregory made me nervous. 

I heard his door slam. I stood. I tucked my hair behind my ears. I slapped myself on the ass and bolted down the stairs, skipping the last six steps entirely and landing squarely on my feet, knees slightly bent, hands outstretched, level with my hips, palms down. For balance. Naturally. 

Through the living room window I glimpsed the bike rack on the roof of his truck. Next to the window, in her rocking chair, sat my grandmother. Normally I would have met her eyes. Normally I would have stopped to chat, to say goodbye and kiss her cheek. But that day I didn’t stop, I didn’t even slow, because I was not about to give her an opportunity to start her Gregory-as-Adonis-isn’t-he-just-scrumptious-and-why-isn’t-he-your-beau spiel. I mean, seriously. She used those words. Adonis! Scrumptious! Beau! I was mortified and blush blush blushing at the mere memory.

I shouted in the general direction of the kitchen, “Bye, Mom! See you later, I won’t be home for dinner I don’t think, I have my cell phone, I love you, byyyyyeeeee”. And I slammed the door behind me. 

Three hours later found us three quarters of the way up the trail. We walked quickly, but I kept stopping. I pointed out rocks. (“Hey, look, dolerite, just like the Palisades!”) I identified plants. (“Jack-in-the-pulpit, something triphyllium? I can’t remember the first word, but see how the thing pops up? Like, how cute is that?) And of course I had to show him the exact spot where my little brother vomited after eating a rancid peanut butter sandwich. I could hardly, in fact, stop myself from talking. Talking? No. It was more like narrating. Like he was blind and I had to describe for him every single detail, so that he could see in his mind as clearly as I could see with my eyes. 

Throughout my monologue, Gregory just nodded and smiled. Sometimes he asked questions. Sometimes he stared off into the forest to our right, or the mountain stream to our left. But mostly he just looked straight at me, silent and intent, focusing (I hoped) on the words that tumbled from my mouth. 

And tumble they did. 

When at last we reached the end of the trail it was after six o’clock. We sat on a flat rock the size of a basketball court, facing the lake from above. Evergreen trees cast their shadowpuppets on the water. The air was crisp and clean like autumn, like apples and bonfires and Halloween costumes. A hawk flew lazily over our heads, then disappeared over the distant canopy of forest. I wondered how deep the lake was. I wondered if I’d ever have the courage to swim in it. I wondered why Gregory and I were the only people up there. 

I had finally, thank you universe, lost the compulsion to talk. But my hands were restless, so I got an apple out of my backpack and focused every ounce of my concentration on removing the peel in one long, interrupted spiral of red. I thought about Gregory’s hair, which was thick and black and wavy and had grown to reach his shoulders since I’d seen him last. I thought about the still-pink scar that lay across the knuckles of his left hand, and how I knew without asking that he had gotten it while crashing down some mountain on his bike. I thought about our silence, the fact that we were sitting there, me with my apple, he gazing out over the lake, both of us cross-legged, both of us content to say nothing, to sit quietly together in the same space. 

And then he spoke. “Zoie? Babe? I don’t know if you noticed this, but the sun is setting.”

I looked up. I looked at the lake. I looked at the sky. Then I looked at him, and I suddenly realized what I should have known from the very beginning. That we had started our hike too late in the day, and that the price we would pay for witnessing this symphony of a sunset was walking back down through the woods in the dark. 

“Listen,” he said. “Confession? I’ve been here before. On my bike. I’ve done this trail at least four hundred times. Never in the dark, but I have it memorized. Muscle memory. I know where all the roots big enough to trip over are. I know the forks. I know the trees. I know the rocks and I know the stream and I know where the path ends and the forest takes over. Zoie. Look at me. No, look at me. Do you trust me?”

I knew he didn’t exaggerate. If he said he knew the trail, he knew the trail. Except…

“But.. ?”

“But why did I tell you I’d never been here? Because I wanted you to show it to me. Because I wanted to listen to you and your endless rambling descriptions and random facts. And because I wanted to be alone with you. OK? We don’t have time to talk about this right now. Right now, you have to give me your hand, close your eyes, and trust me to guide you. And then? Then you have to run. Yes, run. The faster the better.” 

I almost refused. I almost demanded we stay up at the lake overnight. I almost told him he was batshit crazy and he could screw himself if he thought I was going to go running through the woods in the dark. But I didn’t. I nodded. I stood next to him. I filled my lungs. I took his hand. He laced his fingers through mine. I closed my eyes. And we ran.

*

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None Found

Have you ever been to The Children’s Museum of Indianapolis? It’s one of my favorite places in the world. I loved it as a kid, and loved it even more as a parent.

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1. Mommy has just received an email. There’s a photo in it. It’s from Grenada and it’s so lovely it makes her sad and homesick. There’s a tear on her face. Bean is about to jump on her head.

2. Bean climbs into Mommy’s lap. She stops crying.

3. Bean tries to tickle Mommy. She smiles. Sorta.

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