Some Actual Discursive Thoughts

Since I have started this blog, I'm always seeking new things to write about and different tangents to take us on--and it should go without saying that the best of these ideas happen when I am unable to do anything about them.  Driving, working, whatever.  Sometimes I remember what I had semi-crafted in my mind, sometimes I don't; I guess they weren't good enough if I cannot remember them.  

Naturally what follows is that when I do sit down to create a post, there has been more than one occasion where I stare at the screen and nothing happens.  I'm not terribly worried about these moments--there will be blog posts that are better than others.  The idea is to keep creating anyway.  Also, the contrast between posts will at least keep us all guessing.  

As such, for now I will be listing out a few of the random thoughts/events that have come to me recently and managed to stick.

• There was a Mini-Cooper in front of me today on the road with the license plate "PIP PIP."  I found this quite hilarious and was upset that I couldn't grab a picture before it turned out of reach.  
• I chose my meal tonight at this Mom and Pop Mexican restaurant in Cloverdale because it was the only item on the menu that had something other than solely the description of what was in it, specifically "Mmmm ¡Que rico!"  I know, because I checked.  
• I feel like I've been talking about myself too much or the job too much when clients ask me questions about me or work, and yet I'm just answering their questions.  I don't know how much we should get to know each other.
• How many people are genuinely good at names?  I've heard many, many people apologize in advance for being terrible with names, but how many people go the other way?  And is it better for them just to pretend they don't know so that the person who forgot does not feel bad about not remembering in return?  Can we collectively stop apologizing and accept that names slip our minds sometimes?
• I went down to the pool last night to relax and had my ear talked off by a lovely retired couple.  When/what indicators in a conversation help us figure out when it is okay to swear in front of the other party?  Because they eventually felt comfortable enough with me to work their way over to it.  If not swearing, politics--when is that okay?  Wonder how that line is established by different people.
• Penguins have knees.  They just hide them well.  
• I had a very stressful site recently with work.  I stuck with what I needed to teach them and more than once had to stop, take a deep breath, and recite in my head "Not my circus, not my monkeys."  Where did this phrase originate from?
• I continue to worry about stressing out more than anything else because it's cyclical like that.
• I am actually not at all upset with seeing Minions absolutely everywhere.  
• I can tell no difference when I'm in Illinois vs Indiana.  I have to stop and think about where I am.  This seems odd to me, as though Indiana should feel foreign somehow. 
• Who do you complain to if the "Complain" button isn't working?
• I feel that prepositions are the most confusing part of another language, when to use which one.

Could I make a full-blown blog post out of any of these?  Sure, I have the English Major Power to turn one paragraph into a full, ten page paper; there is an art to taking a long time to say absolutely nothing (**cough** ask a politician **cough**).  As for now, though, this is a fun sort of list and I'm content to leave it as such--we'll see what needs to be revisited as time goes by.  

That Song Stuck in my Head this Week

The song:  Piano Lessons by Porcupine Tree

Truth be told, this song gets stuck in my head on and off.  The lyrics resonate something everyone involved in creative careers or processes can relate to:  the tension between not wanting to sell out and at the same time recognizing that there are rules and ways to get noticed.  How can you keep your artistic integrity while still playing the game?  

The chorus goes as follows:

Credit me with some intelligence/
If not, just credit me/
I come in value packs of ten/
In five varieties.  

That hook at the end, sucked me right into the song, and the smooth sound of their music overall--complicated in the right ways, but pleasant and easy to listen to--had me listening to this song several times in a row.  It makes a simple request for appreciation but will settle for small recognition or money.  Then a declarative acknowledgement that the singer is himself a product to be bought and sold.  The music video, too, plays off of formulas in the music video world, labeling each part lest we forget.  There are a few breaks in the song where the drums stop and there's an ethereal plea "Take your hands off my land."  That small voice still wants to keep itself and maintain that integrity.

As I listened, more of the lyrics began to stand out to me and another theme with it.

I remember piano lessons/
Those hours in freezing rooms/
Cruel words and tiny hands/
Destroying timeless tunes

She said there's too much out there/
Too much already said/
You'd better give up hoping/
You're better off in bed.

I found this particularly haunting.  Anyone who wants to write, draw, paint, sing, etc. runs into the fear that what they're trying to put out there has already been done before.  Ecclesiastes 1: 9, it says "What has been will be again, what has been done will be again; there is nothing new under the sun."  And this text has resonated with me as well; there's comfort and despair both at the same time.  

Someone has felt the emotions you are feeling now.  Someone has had circumstances very similar to yours.  What's new was hip just a few years ago and is back again.  Someone else has already published your great idea.  You're not quite as special a snowflake as you thought you were. 

And yet, someone has already survived what you're going through; it is survivable.  Someone has already felt what you're feeling and might be able to help.  Trends happen, the world turns on.  The world will continue to turn on.

So whatever you're putting out there, someone else has already done it.  To that, I say, "So what?  No one can say it in my voice."  And that's the trick to it, really.  

More than once I have caught myself thinking that someone is more talented than I am, someone else is a better writer/employee/wife/friend/etc. than I am.  Anyone in a creative career especially understands that frustration.  What I have to say has been said before by someone else.  What I have to say could probably be done by someone with more talent than me.  There will always be someone out there with a better voice or who is a better writer or a better whatever.  But, no one will quite be able to say it in your voice.  What I touch will have my own unique spin on it, my own wonky way of wording and sculpting.  It's not new, but being the best that I can be is more important than being the best.  I do not have to be the best in order to have value or to validate what I have created.  

One of the best pieces of advice I have ever received came from a man that started by saying that there were times that he didn't feel good enough.  The table of people immediately chorused in that it simply wasn't true, that he was qualified, that he was such a good guy, that he does a lot of good work.  He shushed them politely and continued that sometimes he wasn't the best man for the job, but he was going to work hard enough that it wasn't going to make a difference.

So where does this fall with the song "Piano Lessons"?  Mostly, I expect that tension to rear up every now and again because it will.  In those moments, I can allow myself to feel that frustration, but not dwell in it longer than I need to.  What I put out here will have been done before, sure, but not quite in my style.  I may not be the best equipped for whatever I'm doing next, but I'll put enough of me in it and work hard enough that you wouldn't know someone could have done it better.  And ultimately I have a choice into how much I'm going to sell out.  I could write pieces I know will specifically garner a lot of readership or I can stick to what I need to say and let paths cross where they may.  Tough to choose sometimes, but, again, I'm only acknowledging that tension that's there, not dwelling on it.  The fear of not being good enough resurfaces every now and again, but I don't let it rule me.  What I have to put out there isn't new, but that doesn't mean it's not worth putting out there.

And if nothing else, it's a catchy tune.  

Andy's got a Squeezebox, Larissa Can't Sleep at Night

No, really, Andy bought an accordion.  It smells like an old man, and it came from the Ukraine.  Andy tried to name it Maya; I named it Torvald.  

Yes, this is my life now.

Torvald has paneling that looks like a bowling ball, heightening that old man charm.  He even sounds like an old man, in that he can't tell he's shouting because his hearing is going:  Torvald can project.  When Andy was first tinkering, we were in The Big Peterson House and all that open, wood-lined space amplified the sound.  I was certain our neighbors would hate us within a week.  Home, though, Torvald is very polite, keeping behind a closed door.  

Torvald's a chromatic, button accordion, a Bayan to get a little technical.  For those who don't know an accordion outside of Weird Al, it's like a handheld pipe organ, in terms of versatility and depth of sound.  French accordion music is different from other classical pieces which is different from a German Polka.  Or so I'm learning.  And would anyone be surprised that Andy is interested in an instrument featured in Norwegian folk music?  Because as soon as I heard that, the rest of it made sense to me.  My dear husband, I am only partially joking when I tease that I could slap a Norwegian sticker on anything and he would buy it.  

But he has caught me in his dream, too.  Andy is really good at that.  He comes up with all kinds of strong ideas, and carries such a beautiful child-like excitement that I hope he never loses.  We're going to Norway for our fifth wedding anniversary (particularly as our first was a bit of a bust, timing around my Crohn's hoopla), and more and more it feels like an audition.  We've even started to learn the language.  

Then here's the downside--Andy comes up with great ideas, but can be quickly swept up into the excitement of the next thing.  In the meanwhile, I'm sticking with it:  Jeg snakker norske ikke så bra men jeg vil gjerna snakke norske ganske bra.  His excitement regarding Norway has not waned, but his dedication to some of the details can get distracted.  

This is just an example, though, of how we work together.  Most major changes in the apartment have been made at Andy's suggestion, then I help a lot with the maintenance.  This is not to say that I don't contribute ideas or that Andy never helps push ideas through, but these just seem to be the typical roles that we fall into.  Andy comes up with an idea; I find a way to make parts of it happen.  It's a pattern that we've fallen into without thinking about it.  Similarly, when we're looking into a major purchase, Andy does the research and he is very thorough--if he comes to me with an option, it's the best reviewed for the best price.  For my side, I keep an almost obsessive eye on our finances and have some good organizational skills, dictating, then, when we'd best be able to buy it and where it's going to be in the house and/or what other pieces would need to come with it.

It has been bothering me for a long time that I don't feel I have a dream right now.  I had a very clear direction for a long while, or otherwise by the time I was done with one step I knew where to place my foot next.  I feel like I'm treading water and that I have been treading water since my first bowel resection didn't go as planned (**cough** hell of an understatement **cough**).  But here is where the two of us have worked out something together again:  this ultimately has left room for Andy's dreams, which have been more than enough for both of us.  I had him say it aloud once, that there are things he would have pursued had it not been for my health circumstances.  It wasn't a blaming statement, but I needed him to stop pussy-footing around it.  Both of our lives would have been different if my colon had not spilled all over my abdominal cavity, I hadn't spent a few weeks in and out of ICU, and I hadn't needed an ostomy bag for the first thirteen months of our marriage.  But this is where things are now.  I have my eye keenly on the present, working on our short-term goals and day to day needs, but Andy has his eyes on the future and where we want to be.

And right now I'm content to follow with his dreams until mine begin to take a shape of their own.  Teamwork and accordion notes humming from the next room in the meanwhile.

Leaving Camp

So initially I had promised myself that I wouldn't take on a heavy theme until I was at least two full entries into my blog.  And yet, this is what is pounding in my mind currently.  At least Sprinkles making a break for freedom added some nice levity.

I was at Family Camp this week.  I cannot tell you how much I needed this break.  In truth, as soon as I walked into the front door of Stone Lodge at Wesley Woods, I could feel a wonderful sense of calm settling behind my eyes and lightening my chest, those rare moments when you realize all that you had been holding onto and only because it was suddenly absent.  Family Camp is essentially a family reunion for my father's side of the family, meaning uncles, aunts, cousins, second cousins, and good friends all in one close space.  We go on hikes, play games, go sailing, play games, eat, go in to town to shop, play games, and all-around catch-up.  This year, the hot ticket (pun intended) was Ticket to Ride.  Andy and I were only able to be there from Saturday to Tuesday, with how our work schedules panned out this year, but that was something, at least, and I had every intention of using my time as thoroughly as possible.  

And so I helped set up the sailboats, canoeing out with my father to tie the scow to a buoy--this involved some careful maneuvering in the boat to turn around and tie a bowline knot with a ratty rope, without tipping the canoe, of course, while it was raining/misting.  Then we jumped into card games, board games, eating, and chatting.  We're fast talkers and strong personalities, all vying to be part of the conversation.  After unpacking our room and heading back downstairs, five people were standing around the coffee maker and trying to figure out how to make it work, a few repeating the same suggestions and a few more voices adding in their own thoughts.  I just shook my head and chose not get involved in that one.  We're loud.  We're open and friendly.  We're kind.  Everyone's hearts are in the right place, though the jury is out on where our minds are some days.  

However, I've had a few symptoms crop back up on my again with my Crohn's.  For those who don't know what that means, your immune system is like a three-year-old in the kitchen.  When that three-year-old has something to do, something to help with, it'll be messy, but they'll try to get most of the flour in the bowl or only knock over three things trying to reach the next piece.  If that three-year-old does not have a direction, Lord knows what is going to happen to that kitchen:  pans splayed everywhere, flour and eggs on the floor, and all kinds of other mess that is best left to the imagination.  Well, the immune system, our figurative the three-year-old, has been wreaking havoc in my digestive system, the kitchen in this scenario.  I'm sure I'll discuss some of the further ramifications on what that means at a later time, but in this case I will summarize that the last few centimeters of my digestive tract, the area known as the rectum, is a few shades of mad.  I have a lot of scarring and symptoms stemming from this angry, angry part of my body, including an abscess that kicks back up intermittently, bringing pain, pressure, and a whole lot of blah.  Naturally, when I was off antibiotics for less than a week, it reared back up again.  

So in the midst of feeling some relief and spending some much needed time with family, I was again more concerned with what was going on now with my body.  In this case, I could not sit down, and I was grateful that I had brought some good painkillers with me.  I didn't have the umph to do much anything, but started doing things anyway because I'm stubborn.  I was drained just by sitting at the table playing a board game, excusing myself when I couldn't take the pain of sitting anymore and had to lie down for a while, removed from the people I had been so excited to see.  

Probably the biggest blow was the realization that I couldn't go sailing.  My father and I both find a very specific peace on the water, where all you can hear is the wind rushing past your ears as you hold the sheet in one hand and the tiller in the other (sail-rope and steering stick, for those not familiar).  All in all, it's a different kind of quiet where I can stop my mind if only for a while.  Pop and I have had some very meaningful discussions on a sailboat. I was very much looking forward to that peace again, where even the longing for it made me want to cry.  But I couldn't sit on an inflated doughnut; there was no way that I was going to be able to maneuver on a sailboat.  Andy was trying to be helpful, suggesting that the wind looked good and why didn't I try, but he was unknowingly twisting the knife just a bit further.

Then, I realized that I still had to go to work on Wednesday.  So, I made the tough call to go home a day early, that I could use Tuesday to recuperate.  That decision hurt to make, still makes me choke up.  

I feel that I have lost so much because of my Crohn's.  I've lost time, experiences, money, and the image I used to have of myself.  The first big experience I missed out on was the sixth grade trip to Medieval Times, the first of many other things I would rather have been doing than stuck once again on the couch or the toilet.  Losing your self-image is a jarring thing to work through, too, finding who you are in the midst of all that is changing.  I have even lost friends because I did not have the energy to maintain friendships, sad as it sounds.  

I have grieved the loss of all these things.  I still do.  Grieving doesn't just suddenly stop at one point, where things are magically better again.  It's about finding that new normal.  In the meanwhile, I can be really good at smiling over a lot of things.  Damn good, if I say so myself.

Some days, I worry that I have lost a real part of myself, that I have become jaded with all that I have carried and experienced and lost something important to what makes me me. But Crohn's can never get the best of me, because I give the best of me away every day.  

What I give away can never be taken from me.  What words I write and thoughts I share are out there, never to be pulled back in again.  I will pour myself out and let my disease take the chaff left behind.  I want to be present and fully in all that I do, from my work to a conversation with a friend.  All my time and my gifts I lay out for those around me.  

Crohn's can never get the best of me, because I give the best of me away.  

(**cough**And sometimes I carry on just to spite the disease, getting my revenge on Crohn's by living my life anyway, dammit.**cough, cough**)  

There are still things that I will miss out on.  There are still places I'd rather be.  There are certainly things I'd rather be feeling.  Well-meaning people asking me when I'm going to have children unknowingly twist a knife of their own (I want to have kids some day, but my body is in no healthy place to do so any time soon, thanks for the reminder).  I might only get to see a friend for an hour because my body has decided that it is tapped out, or otherwise cancel on the suspicion that my body will, once again, let me down.  

So what experiences can I still have?  How will I budget my energy to ensure I'm there for the parts that really matter?   I'm not sure, really, but I do the best I can with the information that I have.  I weigh out what I think my body can handle, and stay at least an hour later than I should anyway.  It might mean that I'm on my survival foods for the next day and a half, but I'd rather be present in the moment.  Facing a glass of wine or a beer or something beautifully greasy, there's that question of whether enjoying it now is worth the inevitable pain later.  

I am still here.  I am still myself.  I will continue to give, for the sake of my spirit and those around me.  And I will not be undone, if only because I'm stubborn like that.  

The Great Sprinkles Scavenger Hunt

Our Rosy Boa is named Sprinkles.  He's a little less than three feet long and dumb as a box of rocks.  We try to feed him, and he'd rather cuddle his food.  He has tried to kill Andy's bathrobe in an attempt to eat it.  He's never going to love us back, and we've accepted that.  Andy is prone to say that we only like him for his looks.  He is pretty.  And his is a very fascinating creature.  But he is definitely not bright in our traditional sense.  

And yet he can still outsmart us on occasion.  

"Who, me?" he seems to ask, plotting his next escape.

Andy set him in a box on the floor.  We normally move him into a different box when we try to feed him, so he doesn't associate hands coming into his tank with food coming into this tank; save a few bites that way.  Why it was on the floor instead of the kitchen table, though, was so we could, in Andy's words, "Keep a closer eye on him."  And yet, even with that thought specifically in mind, when Andy was ready with the mouse, Sprinkles was decidedly not in the box.  We had a "lid" on the box, his normal screen cage top, but this does not fit perfectly onto the box he was in.
  
So the two of us were wandering around on the floor calling "Here, Sprinkles!  Where are you Sprinks?"  Not that he would ever answer, but it made it fun for us to pretend (I, at least, was imagining him cackling to his little self as he slithered more deeply under cover somewhere).  

About twenty minutes later, I won the Great Sprinkles Scavenger Hunt:  he was behind the couch, content to explore all the dark places we had in the living room.  I picked him up and he was quite calm, as though his escape attempt was really no big deal, though I like to think that inside he muttered the word "Curses!" at least once.  

Once returned to his box, he was curious about the mouse we were trying to feed him, but he never went for it, spooked by it instead and shying away, choosing instead to re-explore the box to find another escape route.  

This is actually the second time that he's made an escape.  The first time, Andy had left the cage open overnight after giving him some more water.  Mike found him in the bathroom the next morning where he was calmly exploring all of the apartment, this the same snake that when he is being held sometimes forgets to hold on to you and plops to the ground with an ungainly thud if you don't realize in time.  I have to imagine that he did much the same coming down from his cage that night, just *flump* onto the carpet, looking around in some dull confusion before continuing his exploration.  

I promise to those that do not particularly care for snakes that this is not a common occurrence in the apartment, should you choose to visit.  He can plot just as well in his cage where he is, doing the snake equivalent of rubbing his hands together.  

This has been a small snippet of the Peterson Apartment.

Trying Something New. Well, Sort-of-New.

I feel compelled to create, and I have stopped creating recently.  I’ve been away from home, so I cannot play leftover roulette (the game to see what you can make that will use up the most leftovers in one meal—challenging and productive to clean out the fridge).  I forget to bring drawing materials, so staring at a blank page and trying to think of something worth drawing hasn’t worked out onsite either.  Words, though, are blessedly portable, and recording instruments of some kind are effectively as important as clothing in this day and age when I can pull out my phone and scribble out some nonsense rushing between my ears.  In the absence of creation, it’s a certain kind of pressure that builds.

**BURP**

Ah, much better. 

When I was studying abroad in Scotland, I had a series of emails that I sent out every other week, calling it my “Holy Crap, I’m in Scotland!” emails, or HCIIS for short.  I looked forward to making them, watching the world in a different way while I considered what components and observations I wanted to bring up in the next installment.  I certainly had no shortage of things to talk about, with the places I found and the people I met. 

But let’s be honest, here:  I never seem to have a shortage of things to talk about.  And I will certainly have my own unique way of saying it.  I invite you to follow if you choose.  I will write either way, but it is a bit more fun to have an audience.  I otherwise will not demand likes or subscriptions, comments or shares, or whatever else is typically demanded, though certainly feedback is appreciated.  I cannot promise that the content will be specifically slanted in one direction or another, than certain opinions won’t filter in, that posts will even have the same mood, or anything similar, and nor will I.  The world is not one shade or volume but a range of many, and so is our experience in it.  Some entries might be crass, some decidedly more eloquent, perhaps a snippet of a half-formed story idea, but at least I hope it will be some flavor of entertaining.