The day after the Annapolis Middle East Peace Conference, explosions were heard and felt in downtown Annapolis. Heard and felt by me, anyway, starting about 8 p.m. I didn't actually see them. No one else seems to be talking about it.
Sirens did not immediately join the apparent conflagration which was shaking our house and went on for about 15 minutes, so I eventually assumed that the explosions were being caused by fireworks. This, even though November is not exactly associated with any known firework-exploding occasion.
My first thought: What idiot thought that EXPLOSIONS were an appropriate way to mark the conclusion of the PEACE Conference?
My second thought: What if it had been a terrorist attack? No one in Annapolis appears to be responding with any alarm. [I seemed to be the only person standing out in the street wondering what in the world was going on]. We're just sitting here like fat, dumb, ducks.
My third thought: Well, anyone at the Naval Academy who has experienced the dangerous kinds of explosions will certainly respond appropriately. . . . Here's hoping they gave them advance notice of a just-for-fun explosion display!
Because they sure didn't tell us about it - you know, the citizens of this town who live here and pay taxes that presumably paid for the display (although I guess that could be federal money, so that's all of you out there) - not that I saw, anyway. And I looked in the paper (after the fact) and we'd watched both local and national news - in between ridding the fridge of the final left-overs from Thanksgiving. And I don't see anything searching the online archives of the local paper, either. Unless I'm just missing it? The hidden-in-plain-sight syndrome. . . .
Maybe it was a flash-forward. . . . a Freudian fear revealed of what I dread might happen when you combine Middle East combatants in our little town. One soldier I know said that he was willing to go in harm's way over there so that we wouldn't have to, here. Right then. So that we can have a little make-believe explosion session for grins and giggles, and oooh and ahhhh over all the the pretty colours. . . .
The thing that has always amazed me is to discover a huge, angry contusion and to realize I have no recollection at all of how I might have gotten it.
I found one on my knee yesterday, cast about in my mind for a vague memory of pain and bumping into something, but no-go. I have no clue as to how or when I got it.
Last night I smacked the other knee on the bedside table getting in - or out - of bed at one point before lights out. I made a mental note, OK. That'll leave a mark . . . . now remember that this is where you got it!
But you know what? By the time I find it, a few days hence, I will have forgotten. So I thought I'd write it down. And then I thought that in a way that's what prophets do. They look around them and say of what's going on: "That'll leave a mark! Best not do that anymore. Mark my words."
So that those around them won't look at the bruise some days, weeks, years hence and exclaim: "Wow. Where'd THAT come from?!"
B.B.D.'s - "Big Black Dogs" - are discriminated against in animal shelters, pet stores, and by every day people, most of whom seem to prefer lighter-colored animals. They are the least likely to be adopted, and the most likely to be euthanized. No, I am not making this up.
You may read about it here (commentary in Bark Magazine) and here (a website devoted to "making a difference, one black dog at a time).
The reasons are varied: superstition, fear, appearance (insofar as they can be harder to photograph and may not stand out as much), and even physicality, in that, for example, lighter colored sled dogs are said not to overheat as quickly as do black ones. . . . (try any of those excuses in the human realm!)
Well then, there you have it. More evidence of color discrimination. Truth be told, though, as with the squirrels, I prefer black dogs. And we've always had black cats. . . . (ok - for the last two-thirds of my life, anyway).
Then again, with me it's usually a matter of choosing what's not popular. My biggest nightmare is when something I've adopted becomes the rage. All I can do is hope it will pass quickly. . . .
But I wonder why no one talks about this color discrimination? I hate to say it, but I think it's a p.c. thing: not wanting to be accused of reducing the question of human racial discrimination to the level of animals. But then what about the animal rights activists? They're looking to elevate these kinds of questions. I would think they'd be all over this one.
[ok, ok. . . . I can't resist: "I would think they could really sink their teeth into this one."]
[WARNING: explicitly religious content, including anti-institutional/denomination rant]
Before Thanksgiving, I was struggling with how to give voice to my increasing antipathy towards an increasingly offensive aspect of evangelicalism.
It kept coming out just nasty and critical, however, so I heeded my grandmother's advice and "since I couldn't say anything nice, I said nothing at all."
I've experienced several other examples of what's bothering me since then, though, so maybe today I can actually start to talk about it, without belaboring and humiliating one poor example as indicative of "THE LARGER PROBLEM."
I have 3 examples now.
1. The original example, a blog that purports to be a place to "discuss" worldview, religion, philosophy and culture, but which instead appears to be more an evangelical site for propaganda. There's no discussion. The few "nonbelievers" who stumble into the place are promptly ganged up on with the "accepted arguments". The ones who actually try to discuss the "accepted arguments" are largely ignored or dismissed.
2. A friend of mine, of evangelical persuasion, emailed me this, an ACTION ALERT that asks me to TAKE ACTION and shop at Wal-Mart instead of Target this Christmas, in order to "defeat" the "homosexual challenge to traditional marriage."
3. A Virginia megachurch is "expanding", through "outreach", and seeking to rent the Uptown movie theatre in Washington D.C.'s Cleveland Park for Sunday morning "services". The problem? Few - if any - of Cleveland Park's residents would be attending, and there is no parking for the additional minimum 400 cars that would be bringing the outreaching "worshippers" into the community. Round one went to the residents, as you may read the Washington Post, here, but the McClean church is not giving up. Ironically, they call this process "community campus development". According to the Washington Post article, their fearless leader explained: "I should have known that Satan wasn't going to take this lying down. We're going to fight, and we're going to let the Lord Jesus open the door."
Now that's a way to foster community!
It rather sounds like the attitude of the settlers towards the American Indians. . . .
I don't think I'd mind so much if this was about a bunch of Christians who lived in Cleveland Park and wanted a place to meet on Sunday mornings, in groups larger than living room-sized ones. Neither would I be offended if this was about actual Christian people actually moving to Cleveland Park and looking for a place of worship. And I'm not offended by people talking about what they believe. Free speech - remember? I take it very seriously. Just as I take the freedom of religion seriously.
I find it wierd that a church would want to rent a place in an area where none (or few) of its members live, so they could travel there on Sunday mornings at the considerable inconvenience not only to themselves but also to the people who already live there, so that they can make a show of "outreach" and so-called "worship" - and call it a "community campus."
Is it just me, or does this strike you as a bit strange? It seems to me that the new denomination - Evangelicalism - is more about ideological expansionism and warfare - and not about "winning" hearts and minds, let alone facilitating the changed lives that result when Jesus is involved. This is all about games, showmanship, and one-ups-manship. It's the equivalent of territory scent-marking or counting coup. You either live there or you don't. Stop making forays to piss and leave "Kilroy was here" messages for the devil!
I don't much like it - and I can imagine how the Cleveland Park residents feel.
Neither, however, do I like the unthinking command to link shopping at one particular store as indicative of the merits of traditional marriage or the morality of homosexuality. Hello?! Why not a little trial by combat instead? Or maybe a little witch-dunking? Divination or casting lots anyone?
As for the worldview discussion site, I expect that at one point the "moderator" will discover that he's less about discussion than actually trying to establish his own worldview and getting others to buy in. Let's face it: he doesn't want to talk about the worldview of an atheist. He wants to change it.
Out of the turkey coma. The king has gained 2 pounds - net - I've avoided the problem by avoiding the scale.
Neat trick, eh?
Let's see. When last we spoke, an enormous bird was going into the oven, predawn, with predawn-gathered herbs. (didn't that look good?!)
Here's what it looked like, out of the oven.
A work of art, wouldn't you say?
We've been having left-overs ever since. Repeat Thanksgiving dinners and now soup. Tonight I think I'll do a turkey pot pie. . . .
Just for a change.
Thanksgiving day was glorious - and gloriously warm. We opened up the house again, and the 'kids' (i.e. everyone except me, my ex-stepmother, and the king's mum) ate outside. I couldn't quite see my way clear to leaving the two mums on their own (one no longer sees real well, the other no longer hears real well, it's quite entertaining. . . .) so I sat at the table just inside the door with them, and ran back and forth.
A good time was had by all, though, I do believe.
I figured out afterwards that the only non-fattening thing on the menu was the turkey itself - and that was taken care of by copious amounts of gravy.
(and the gravy turned out great, by the way, even though I had an audience watching me prepare it - from scratch - no recipe - talk about pressure [if only trying to remember to rinse the spoon after every tasting so they wouldn't think/know I double-dip with the tasting spoon] )
You know you're in trouble when ginger turns out to be toxic!
OK. Ginger from china. Not all ginger.
But who checks to see where the ginger's from?
Who knew 'they' were importing it from China?!
I've already turned down several 'amazing deals' upon seeing that the item in question came from China. Who wants to die of lead poisoning from a cute little banana loaf baked in a one-dollar clay/ceramic loaf pan that Michael's is selling? All perfectly safe, I'm sure. But after the ginger episode - how can we know anything for sure?
This is what we get, I guess, when we take over all the "important" things like: making money or bigger/faster cars, following the careers of nubile teenaged delinquents with millions of dollars and no sense [I mean "cents", of course. . . . cents. That's right.], and gearing up for a multi-billion dollar presidential popularity contest [I mean: election]; while we leave the "unimportant" things - like food production and cooking - to whoever wants to try and make money at it. . . .
Ah - I haven't thought of that song in ages. Nor have I posted any music in a while!
OK - let's go see what I can find on YouTube.
Here 'tis! Police's Synchronicity(looking pretty dated these days. . . .)
But no. . . . actually the word I was looking for IS 'serendipity': the occurrence and development of events by chance, in a happy and beneficial way,
whereas 'synchronicity' is: the simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related, but have no discernible causal connection.
Well now. . . . but there are elements of synchronicity as well: significantly related, but no clear causal connection. . . .
What am I talking about? How just the right things - people, thoughts, information, opportunities - seem to come out of nowhere at just the right time.
Or maybe it's just my corvid-tendency to pick up bright shiny things and take them home, where they all then live together in a way that makes a (to me) surprisingly coherent pattern. And maybe it's just the superficial shininess that has dazzled my eyes and deceived me into thinking there's a greater unity underlying the whole?
Today, one Grim posted an article about military post-traumatic stress, here, at a site called Black-Five.
It opened my eyes to a whole new field of connection that is not only "happy and beneficial", but also significantly related, albeit with no clear causal connection.
A story about a supposed "non-practicing" pedophile in California some months ago led me to an article about the impotence of law, which introduced me to a whole new world of incredibly thoughtful, intelligent, encouraging and plain old fun people associated (often by marriage) with the military. I won't bore you with the complicated connections, but I'll tell you that they're quite astonishing. I've been so enriched by their thoughts!
Just today, I learned that Adorable Device is reading a book about Alice Williams - sister to William James - for her dissertation in English lit.
William James had a sister?! William James' thought appears in my dissertation, on law, ethics, and theology - for the proposition of religious experience as the connector between an individual and values/convictions. I'm ordering the book on the sister.
And it's indirectly through Lemon Stand that I found my way (by way of a path I no longer recall. . . .) to Grim's posting on post-traumatic stress. I think this might be really important with respect to the connection between the soldier and an ethics that makes sense - namely one that is more than just a series of rules written by know-nots in the no-danger-zone.
Grim has also posted on a surfer dude's amazing physics theory of just about everything which, like the last theories to catch my attention: John Nash's equilibrium in game theory and "fuzzy logic" - by whoever is responsible for that - strikes me as "related" to how we view the world, our role in it, and what we can, should, or will do.
Here's a picture of E8 - which forms the basis for surfer dude's theory - "the most elegant and intricate shape known to mathematics - a complex, eight-dimensional mathematical pattern with 248 points first found in 1887, but only fully understood by mathematicians this year after workings, that, if written out in tiny print, would cover an area the size of Manhattan."
It reminds me of the yoke of a fair isle knitted sweater. . . .
Who'da thunk it! The Meaning of Life preserved in a traditional knit pattern. . . . I'm not at all surprised.
Meanwhile, Non-essential Equipment reports that some parents are boycotting Shrek 3 because it is supposedly pro-life - if you can imagine. Mustn't have that around the children!
Not to worry, though. Nee reports that she's seen the movie often enough* to repeat the "dialogue" verbatim, together with the various sounds of scatological bodily functions, and she has seen no hint of an overt "pro-life" agenda hidden therein. So there you have it: There is no cause for alarm!
*I believe the actual number of viewing times was, at the time of publication, 3654. Give or take a few. . . .
Imagine my surprise to see a black squirrel when we first moved into this neighborhood.
Grey squirrels - check.
Red squirrels - check.
Black squirrels? Ok, then. . . . check 'im out!
I promptly called him Zorro. Only to discover that my favorite neighbor calls him the same.
Over the past 2 years, Zorro has been joined by wife Zelda, and offspring Zero. The above looks like Zero. He's a little 'dustier' looking than the brilliant black of Zorro. . . .
I understand from this article that the black coloration stems from squirrels from Canada released by the Smithsonian in the early 1900's. . . . Go figure.
They seem to get along just fine with the grey squirrels, but they stick to themselves. Real loners.
I'm prejudiced: I think they're way cool. . . . much handsomer than the usual grey guys.
But there's room enough for them all. Meanwhile, the Z-gang tend to stick to the brick-walled garden of the mansion across the street. They don't seem to want to have anything to do with the likes of us common folk. . . . Hmmm. Reverse discrimination?
I am not good with numbers and I resent having to move into number mode.
If you force me to think like that, I will make you pay for it. So think twice!
Our architect and our engineers are forcing me to start calculating. . . . The problem? Architect's dimension numbers don't "close" for purposes of staking the house out.
Back to architect. Much dithering, whining and complaining, and a new drawing was presented with new numbers.
Engineer: "Those don't work, either."
Me: "What am I supposed to do?"
Engineer: "I'll review them closely, try and meet with architect to resolve, otherwise, I will make whatever modifications are necessary, working with your builder."
OK then. New plans are produced with new numbers. As might be expected, I ignore the numbers. The king, however, does not.
"The engineer has added a foot at the rear of the house, but only some 6 inches at the front."
[do NOT rely on my numbers. . . . these are all approximations - just as the above is not a picture of the actual house - trapezoidal or not - but the picture of the approximate tower I'd like to go hole up in. And - now that I think of it - to the left is the picture of the actual tower that started the whole process of building our own house. Just because I have it, and just to be accurate, and also because there are no numbers involved in showing it to you.]
The king: "Are we getting a trapezoidal house? Or is this the fix necessary so that it is NOT trapezoidal?"
Me: "Ah. . . . hmmm. I don't know?"
In the meantime, it's raining cats and dogs (can you say "mud"?) and a cold front is coming in (can you say "Not a good time to either dig or pour foundations"?).
So we're back to waiting.
I really don't understand this. It just seems that whatever could go wrong, has gone wrong. And yet we don't think that we're doing the wrong thing by persevering in trying to build this house.
But I don't get it.
Somehow, more words don't seem to help.
There's a lesson for me here, somewhere. But I just want to pick up the phone and throw some more words at it. Or send them via email or messenger. Must. Do. Something. (where "Wait" doesn't seem to count as anything. . . .)
There are as many recipes for herbes de Provence as there are herb growers, I think. Ultimately, I think it's about what herbs you grow and which you most prefer to use in your every day cooking.
The ones I use are thyme, summer savory, rosemary and sage - in approximately equal proportions. I also add lavender, but only a third of the other-herb measurement. So, for example, 1 tablespoon each of sage, rosemary, thyme and summer savory and 1 teaspoon of lavender.
Some people also add the smaller measurement of either mint or tarragon.
Wash fresh herbs and hang to dry. When they're dry, strip off the leaves & discard stems. Mix the dried herbs together in the proper proportions and store in an airtight container.
I've just harvested the dried lavender and I'll be mixing this year's batch of herbes de prophète soon. I didn't cut the lavender [oops! That's rosemary top left] or sage until just recently, so I have to wait till it's dry. I have enough of last year's blend to get me through Thanksgiving, though, so no worries.
Michelangelo is reported to have said: Genius is eternal patience.
The story of his sculpture of David as a young lad is remarkable. It was done using a piece of marble that had been discarded by another sculptor as (as I recall) flawed. It had already been cut into, though, and thus compromised. It's been years now since I've read the story, but I recollect that the huge piece of marble lay outside, abandoned to the elements, for years, before Michelangelo was finally allowed to take charge of it. Where others saw ruin and failure after a brief - and now-ended - beginning, Michelangelo didn't give up. I understand that it was the very flaw in the stone that prompted part of the positioning of Michelangelo's David, and which is part of the "genius" of it.
. . . . and this morning's reading in Matthew about asking, seeking and knocking - and continuing to ask, seek and knock, because those who ask get answers; those who seek, find; those who knock, have the door opened to them.
The difficulty is the bit in between. The lag-time between asking and getting, seeking and finding, knock-knocking and the 'Who's there?' opening. But that's the whole point, isn't it? If you won't endure the lag-time, you won't get to the genius bit.
I'm lagging a bit in the lag-time part.
But soldiering on, best as I can. Trusting.
[sigh. That's the life of faith, now, isn't it? OK, then. I feel better.]
OK, so I guess our day of rest was yesterday. It was certainly restful! I posted over at the greenwood, along with some pictures.
Here's a picture of a stripey feather we found, walking in the woods.
We don't do a legalistic day of rest, but we do try to have one. If we don't, things start sliding into the ugly p.d.q. Truth be told, we usually try to have two days of rest: Saturday and Sunday, but things don't often cooperate to bring that about. So yesterday was rest day with a nod to the Old Testament and a Saturday "shabbat" or "rest."
Today is the more "Christian" version of what seems to me to be hyper-activity with the family get-together and meal - although we do not do the attendance at a designated "house o'worship" as well.
Interestingly, the orthodox Jewish Sabbath rules would prohibit much of what goes on in "typical" American evangelical Sunday activities. For one, there would be no driving to the "local" megachurch - which is often up to a half hour away from the average attendee - as the Sabbath restricts travel to walking, and limits the distance, at that. Electric already on may be used, but there's no pushing of buttons so sound-checks of "worship bands" are out and I'm not sure about amplification, generally. . . . There would be no selling of Starbucks coffee in the lobby or foodcourt lunches in or out of the mega-option.
Ah. Don't get me started.
Anyway: for today, I have already turned the oven on, so I'm in violation of the electricity use mandate. I expect the television will also go on at some point: football! I have kitchen duties to perform: double baked tates and green bean casserole. My brother is in charge of the steaks - we're driving an hour to his house (well past the Sabbath distance) - and my parents are doing salads and desert, I do believe. No one mentioned bread. . . . and I imagine we're in charge of wine, as well.
The king left early to do his Sunday duty by his mother: store and prescriptions and "the visit".
I have to go open megacans of green beans and slop it all together into a tin foil pan with lid for transport. Then, when the tates are cool enough to handle: excavate, smash, dollop up with butter, milk and cream cheese, season, and refill - placing in additional tin foil pans with lid for transport.
She doesn't say a word against Christians, mind you, she reports a conversation overheard in which a so-called Christian [quote-unquote] is annoyed at "having" to pray for someone who doesn't go to her church and might not even be a Christian. Like I said, it's a scathing indictment, because I have heard so many similar conversations and suspect that many people who might not actually say this, do think it, completely blinded to how UNchristian the sentiment proves itself.
The problem is that so many "christian" "churches" have turned prayer, worship, study, meditation, etc. into events; something you do or schedule, rather than forming part of your life. So we get prayer requests that are not based on any actual relationship, but which are instead based on a sense of obligation, offered in a performance spirit. By that, I mean that people seem to try and outdo one another coming up with people and/or maladies, tragedies, and other assorted travesties to pray for. I learned long ago not to bother with trying to keep up with supposed requests for prayer that did not resonate with me. I refuse even to write them down. If my heart is right about it, I'll remember without having to make a list and check it twice.
Further to my last posting, I actually read Matthew 6 this morning, and (besides ordering no worrying) it also talks about 'not doing your good works before men', to include giving and praying.
Elsewhere, I recall that it says that "God loves a cheerful giver." I think we might extrapolate the concept to include prayer. I shudder to think of grudging prayers under a spirit of compulsion. . . .
Now, if I can only stop worrying about what people will think of me because I don't play along with the pious prayer-"warrior" part. . . . (And actually, that's one of the reasons I don't write "prayer requests" down anymore. I found I cared too much what other people thought, and too little about what I was thereby implying: namely that I was going to be praying for all these people I'd never heard of.)
Every now and again, I do feel moved to pray for people I don't know. But generally I find it a whole lot easier to pray for those I do know, for help in circumstances I'm aware of, involving other people I might even know. You know what? If we all pray for those we know, who we know are having a hard time, maybe everything that needs to be prayed for will get prayed for. I can't help but think of Neil Postman's Amusing Ourselves To Death - in which Postman (among other things) points out the deadening effect of reporting as unconnected "news", events from the other side of the world, which we have no hope or expectation of being involved with. It accustoms us to seeing events that seem to require action, but which we are too far away to do anything about. We get to the point where we learn not to do anything even where we could do something.
So: to the ungracious "Christian" who doesn't want to "have to pray for 'R' " (who has a lump in her breast): by all means, don't pray. In fact, maybe you should slow down on all the prayer stuff for a while. Maybe God will help you, and eventually give you something you really want to pray for, so you can learn all about it.
I did read about "post-dissertation depression", but thought they were kidding.
I'm feeling decidedly depressed though. Yep. That's the word. "Depressed." It's wierd. I can't really get into anything and I'm finding it hard to concentrate. I run around doing little bits of this and that - not enough to really make much of a difference in anything, but I have succeeded in making an even bigger mess than what I started with. And the mess already there was substantial! Due - of course - to the dissertation and lack of tidying-time and poor organization skills while submerged in legal, philosophical and theological minutia. . . .
I have no excuse now, though.
New topic: Thanksgiving is going to be strange this year. I was looking forward to a nice quiet Thanksgiving meal at home, perhaps with Emancipated Son #1 (plus wife). ES1's mother, however (i.e., the king's EX-WIFE), who recently moved back to the area, invited everyone to her house (including me and the king - can you say "there is NO WAY?!!!?") and now it appears that all of the king's family - including his sister, her husband, 2 children, and one grandchild - are going to the ex-wife's house. We get his mom. My parents are going on a cruise.
I'm having a hard time with this.
When I called my mother - w(ho may normally be counted on for a good griping session if you pick the appropriate topic, and I thought this one would be a grand slam. . . .) - advised that she'd just finished her Bible study and perhaps I'd enjoy reading Matthew chapter 6, which talks about "not worrying." She thought that just might be a good approach to take. This is not my mother's usual response.
On the one hand, I was delighted to see evidence of her applying Biblical principles to her life. Really: that's splendid!
On the other hand, looks like I'm out of a good griping partner. She learns quick, does my mom.
I'm still put out about Thanksgiving, though. I just think it's wierd.
Yes, there are lots of things to do. Laundry. Food shopping. Put all books away - or, rather, back on my shelf/box/library system - so I can re-negotiate my studio space. Start thinking through Thanksgiving, December birthdays, and Christmas issues. Start re-connecting with neglected friends. Resume knitting. Think up Christmas gift projects. Email new friend from Florida. I could go on and on.
But no. Instead, I sit here, in front of my computer, because that's been my life for the last however many months. Years really! Truth be told.
(Ah. Also: take computer to Mac-store for repairs. . . . Maybe THAT will get me away from the computer.
I also need to re-focus on the 'what's-next' bit of my life. Yes, stay up with the dissertation (meaning to prepare for the viva voce) but also be prepared to take the next step. WHICH IS???
That's the question.
Meanwhile, the king is crazed because work is frazzled, the house stake-out is delayed because our architect apparently didn't include all the relevant dimensions on the plan to suit the surveyor (even though the county seemed to find it acceptable and don't talk to me about the county requirements. . . .), oh - and the engineers bill arrived, speaking of ridiculous county requirements.
I think my job is to pursue peace. Yeah. I was going to say more, but realized that that was it.
Pursue peace. ["full stop", as they say in Ireland. Which took me some years to realize was meant to refer to punctuation, namely: "period"]
I haven't posted this because I was struggling with the tone of it, which I feared might come across as catty. It's the last thing I mean in the world. I adore the man who footed the bill for the extravaganza we attended for his daughter in Florida. It was already over the top before his wife died. It continued along those lines afterwards. I think a lot of us are worried about what happens after the hoopla has died down and the father of the bride is left alone in his very large house. . . .
I switched to water before the pink martinis could get to me. Actually, I think the pink martinis were 'martini' in name only, and mostly fruit juice - which was a blessing to the many of us consuming them.
I find it amazing what people do for weddings. 20 piece orchestra, 8 attendants each, everyone flying in (as no one actually lives in Tampa, the selected venue), crystal light-up bars, the required diversity in seating: lounge beds, sofas, arm chairs, bar stools, foam wedges, and - ok - the traditional table and chair. Limited in number. No master of ceremonies - thank God - bride and groom cheerfully mingling with guests and determined to enjoy the elaborately-staged affair, orchestrated by not only a wedding planner, but also a production company. I understand the bride started her "Bride" magazine subscription when she reached middle school. I am not making this up. I was told so by no less than 3 close family and/or friends.
Colours were brown and red - and riotous flower colours in the red, orange, yellow family. Matching butterflies were released at one stage (which was very touching when we learned that it was a reference to the brides mother who apparently had a really strong connection with them shortly before she succumbed to cancer.)
There were three weddings at this resort that weekend. The maid - SherELL - filled me in on all the goings-on and told me of her own wedding aspirations. "What were your colors?" she asked of my own wedding.
"Colours? I didn't really have colours. . . . Well - white - I wore white. Well, a creamy white. And I told my two 'attendants' to wear whatever they liked. They ended up in mostly black. So I guess it was a black and white wedding."
This bride was in a gown that hinted gold. And almost everyone wore tuxes. Well, the men, I mean. I ended up not taking the gown I took the time away from the dissertation to shop for, as I had no time to hem it. I wore a black and white polka dot tea length dress, and felt just fine about it - thank you very much. As it was, it was way too cold to be wearing the gown I bought! I spent much of the evening in the king's tux jacket, which - with the dress - I was told gave me a very Annie Hall sort of look. Not what I had in mind, but hey. Cold is cold!
Very few of the women had long dresses on and only one - ok, two - looked really good in them. I'm not sure why long dresses don't seem to look very elegant on most women. Maybe it's the way we walk these days? Anyway, it just seems out of place on most women I ever see in them. Like we're playing dress up.
My good news was that the kings tux jacket kept me warm, and the water kept me from a hangover, so all I ultimately had to cope with was a feeling of anticlimax that all that money couldn't bring back the missing wife and mother (one) and (two) the idea of the honeymoon seemed kind of thin and pale after all the extravaganza.
Then again, I guess people don't really have "real" honeymoons anymore - namely having waited until after the marriage ceremony to consummate the marriage - and so the emphasis is all placed on the ceremony and party. I don't know that a party will take all that weight. . . .
But who am I.
I wish them the best - they are a lovely young man and woman, a whole lot more mature than I was at their age, maybe even more mature than I am now! - and yet the wedding was bittersweet. There was a lack, somehow. An absence of joy.
And I am sorry to say it.
But I think most of us felt it, even though none of us would admit it
We found him on the bank this morning and Ernie photographed him with a long lens. . . . At the sound of our voices he went into the water and swam over closer to where we were, remaining submerged except for his eyes and nose. We lured him out by throwing brazil nuts.
Why is it no one ever eats the brazil nuts in the mixed nut mix?
He came up on land and ate at least one. I hope Ernie will email me the picture - it came out great!
Other than that, today was another slow day. We got up around 8 or 9, drank coffee, and then went for a walk. Lunch at noon - battered grouper sandwich - (many comments about the battered groupers group and how no one ever does anything for battered groupers. . . .) and then back for another nap!
How many naps can one woman reasonably require?!
Time now to go get ready for the wedding. I fear I'm going to freeze. . . . I did not bring enough warm clothes!
The king was up before dawn to golf again. This is impressive. He's not normally quite so keen.
Yesterday, he tells me he was playing more of a croquet than golf. . . . and he sank quite a few water shots. The aligators prevent much water retrieval activity!
The maids arrived at 9, and let in a small black bird, who flew straight into our room, in between the plantation shutter slats, and then fluttered up and down the window in a right panic. Poor little thing! I got the shutters open, and managed to get a small towel around his body and transported him outside. He was terrified, but calmed down as I held him. He flew away quick enough when I got him outside, though!
Interesting to think how destructive we can be when we're frightened, and in a strange environment, and facing what looks to be death - but which might actually be help from 'outside'. . . . .
It was an odd sort of visitation to start the day. I've continued to think about how I struggle against my circumstances - especially when I don't know where I am or where I am going/being taken - and resist, to my own detriment. . . .
Well - it's after noon now. And time for lunch at the Tikki Bar. sigh. Then maybe a nap. grin! Oh yeah. Just what the doctor ordered.
It's warm again - but that's because I'm in Florida. Tampa, to be precise. For a wedding. The king is golfing. I'm resting.
But I'm feeling a little guilty. On the build-up for the trip, I got all freaked about what kind of room we would have and whether we'd have to share a bath with another couple and how much I really just wanted to be alone for a bit with my husband. . . . We're in a 3 bedroom condo and I finally decided that ALL of the rooms were surely nice, and not to worry about it. (I can be so petty!)
We get here and the 2 men go off to sort out the rooms and it turns out that it's a two bedroom condo and a suite. The one couple that made the arrangments took the 'suite' and the king and I turned into the 2 bedroom condo and I naturally made my way to the back bedroom (both bedrooms have their own bath) where the sight of the water, waterfowl, gof course and aligator won me right over. I put our bags in there. The third couple doesn't arrive till later this afternoon.
Turns out that this is by far the nicest of the 3 bedrooms and now I feel guilty that I 'took' it. . . . (Ms. selfish is on duty. . . .) The "suite" turns out to be nothing more than a bedroom like ours, only a little smaller. And darker feeling. They are adjoining so they will share our living room. But I'm trying not to let my guilt feelings get in the way of loving life here in the corner aerie - windows open on 2 sides, with big wide plantation shutters. Only bad thing is that we have frosted glass french pocket doors as our bedroom door. Not exactly private. Oh well.
I'm still trying to figure out what to do with myself now that the dissertation is done. Mostly, I have been catching up on sleep. I have little energy for any new projects. I did bring some quilting along with me, as well as some watercolour paper and colours. . . . And a little Paul Ricoeur - just to stay sharp. Oh - and a little fantasy book I started the beginning of the year, and then resolutely put away. Time to get back to it.