What I’m Doing

Project 52 is a project to keep people blogging at least once a week. The Project 52 posts you see here are ideas I’m turning around in my head for future essays. I’m using Project 52 as a way to make me work on those essay ideas, rather than jotting down the idea and then moving on to something else. New entries are posted each Tuesday.

On Pain (Project 52, Week 7)

My headache was intolerable. It radiated to my spine, or perhaps the pain in my spine radiated to my head. There was a burning sensation in my neck, between my shoulders. I was visiting family in Juarez, Mexico and while there, I found myself often popping aspirin. Quite unusual for me. When I complained of the pain to my mom, she translated my complaint to my aunt who suggested we invite her friend to the house to crack my back. “No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head. My head and back might be making me miserable, but the idea of a stranger from down the street coming in to manipulate my spine was utterly unappealing. “I’ll wait and go to a chiropractor when I get back to Florida,” I told mom.

I excused myself to go take a nap in hopes of relieving my headache. I woke up some time later to laughter and screaming from the living room. I didn’t know what they were doing–all the conversation was in Spanish–but the sounds were not enough to prompt me out of bed. A few minutes later I heard everyone enter my room. I was still half asleep, but I felt activity on my bed that caused me to crack open my eyes to see what the hell was happening. My aunt was lying prone at the end of the mattress and a woman I didn’t recognize was rubbing oil on her bare back. I closed my eyes and bitched to myself. They had invited the woman over after all. The one who cracks backs and lives right down the street. I was aggravated not only because I was woken from my nap still feeling like shit, but because now I had to figure out a polite way to repeatedly decline the opportunity to have some stranger from down the street manipulate my back. While I thought this to myself, my aunt let out a gasp as the woman pressed  down on her spine, sending out a series of snaps that sounded like someone popping gum.

I opened my eyes and lifted myself on to one arm; the women greeted me with enthusiasm, glad that I had finally joined them. I watched as my aunt adjusted her shirt and then sat in a chair that was brought to my bedroom from the kitchen. The neighbor woman massaged my aunt’s neck and toggled her head around until it moved loosely between her hands. Then she wrenched it to one side quickly and sharply, sending out snapping noises again and scaring the hell out of me. I thought her neck might break from the force. My aunt had a stunned look on her face, obviously caught off guard by the force of the twisting action. Then she burst into laughter as did the rest of us. She was able to relax enough for the woman to crack her neck again, this time in the opposite direction.

Soon they were calling for me to take my turn. I waved my hand in the air. “No, I’m okay,” I said. The neighbor lady moved on to someone else and my mom whispered to me that my family had invited her there because of me. They thought she could help me. They were paying her. She said the woman had worked on her foot and ankle when they were in the living room, and it had been incredibly painful–she was the one who had been screaming, and my cousins were the ones laughing. However, she said she felt great now. Her feet weren’t bothering her at all. “Really?” I asked. “You feel better?” My mom’s a bit of a skeptic, so for her to participate so willingly, and to recommend it so heartily, well, it helped to change my mind. And my neck and back and head were really hurting.

I agreed to have my back adjusted. When I took off my shirt and turned so that my back was facing the reflexologist (that’s what the woman had studied in school–reflexology), she made a big deal about one side of my body being lower than the other. Since she spoke only in Spanish, I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but she was pointing out various curves and knots in my back and at the base of my neck, and speaking with great emphasis. My family responded with mumbles that sounded concerned and surprised. She had me rest on the bed and proceeded to crack my back and work out a knot in my neck. I felt better afterward, but I emphatically declined having my neck cracked.

When I returned to Florida, I went to a chiropractor and had x-rays taken. He told me I have scoliosis. A pretty common condition, but I was still shocked to learn the news. He showed me the curve in my back, but the news I was most alarmed over was the condition of my cervical spine (the neck). When the doctor showed me a “normal” neck x-ray, and then showed me mine, I started laughing at the absurdity of it. A normal cervical spine has a “C” curve to it (the cervical curve); mine was virtually straight. It almost looked like it wanted to curve in the wrong direction. I wasn’t feeling any pain at this point, but the doctor mentioned something to me that hasn’t left my mind since. The possibility that this could cause bone spurs some where down the line. I’ve never had a bone spur, but I understand they are quite painful and not easily relieved.

And so I’ve come to this realization: I’m scared of chronic pain. Consciously scared of it.  As in, when I have a pain that lasts for a day, I immediately wonder if it’s going to last forever. This occurred to me this week when I started getting dull headaches and neck aches, and knew it was time to see my chiropractor again. I have the great and happy privilege to be pain-free nearly every day, which is something I don’t take for granted. I think of my mom who has a pretty high level of pain in her legs every day thanks to all the chemo her body has been subjected to. I think of my dad who had incredible back pain toward the end of his life because his cancer was playing with the nerves of his lower back, creating a sensation so severe that he popped Percoset like candy and it had next to no effect on the pain. Hospice eventually created some Morphine/Oxycontin cocktail that finally  provided some relief. Knowing what they experience/experienced reminds me to be grateful. But the other thing about these two people, the two heroes of my life, is that they never showed their pain. I sat next to my father for weeks on end and he never said a word about the pain in his back. Never. Didn’t grimace, didn’t bitch, didn’t say a word about it. I run around with my mom whenever I can, and I have to remember to ask her how she’s feeling. Her legs could be blistering with pain, but she pushes through without complaint.

I’m also amazed when I read about what life was like for people prior to the invention of anesthesia and pain medication. For example, the harrowing description of the surgery Samuel Pepys went through to have bladder stones removed (bladder stones, themselves, being excruciatingly painful):

There were no anaesthetics, and alcohol was certainly not allowed to a patient undergoing surgery to the bladder. The surgeon got to work. First he inserted a thin silver instrument, the itinerarium, through the penis into the bladder to help position the stone. Then he made the incision, about three inches long and a finger’s breadth from the line running between scrotum and anus, and into the neck of the bladder, or just below it. The patient’s face was sponged as the incision was made. The stone was sought, found and grasped with pincers; the more speedily it could be got out the better. Once out, the wound was not stitched–it was thought best to let it drain and cicatrize itself–but simply washed and covered with a dressing, or even kept open at first with a small roll of soft cloth known as a tent, dipped in egg white. A plaster of egg yolk, rose vinegar and anointing oils was then applied.  –Samuel Pepys: The Unequaled Self by Claire Tomalin.

This description makes my hair stand on end. No anesthesia for this procedure; I can’t begin to fathom the pain, and I’m glad that we’ve progressed to the point we have today in our medical technologies.

I wonder if chronic pain is an inevitable way of life as the body ages. A woman came into the vet clinic last week and asked for help carrying in her cat’s carrier. She is a regular client of ours and had never had any problem carrying in the carrier before. I walked to the car with her and she explained that she was having some back and arm problems. She had had surgery once already and seemed to think she’d have to have it again. When her appointment was over, I wished her well and said I hoped things improved soon. She thanked me and said she was in pain pretty much all the time. “Getting old’s a bitch,” she said as she walked out the door. My dad used to say the same thing.

There is another client who comes in pretty regularly who wears a body brace to support her neck, arms, and legs. I think she has rheumatoid arthritis. Her movements are very slow and the brace looks like it would be quite cumbersome. I understand that rheumatoid arthritis is painful and I believe she’s had it for many years. Yet she is so friendly, patient, and pleasant–an upbeat spirit who seldom dwells on how she’s feeling.

And so I’m thankful for the privilege of living pain-free; I’m aware that this can change at any time, either due to changes in health or unforeseen accidents; I’m conscientious in how I treat my body in hopes of keeping it in the best shape I can for as long as I can; but, ultimately, should I find myself experiencing situations like those of the people noted in this post, I hope to find the same strength and grace. Because right now I’m spoiled, and if I have a headache/neck ache/backache that lasts longer than it should, everyone near me is going to hear me whine about it (ask my husband). And surely that’s no way to handle such things.

Is There Anybody Out There? (Project 52, Week 6)

Holophane had been in my life since I was 3-years-old. I was that age when mom accepted a job there. It was a factory that made high-end light fixtures and it paid well. She was happy to have it, despite the fact that my dad thought it was unnecessary for her to take it. “I provide 3 squares,” he’d said. But when he became explosive over my brother leaving on the bathroom light, and the significance that action could have on the electric bill, mom told him, “that’s why I’m taking the job.” She didn’t like that things were so financially tight that he would get angry over something as innocent as a little kid forgetting to turn off a light in the house.

She kept that job until the factory closed in early 2009–over 30 years. Toward the end, as the number of employees dwindled from week to week, it felt like watching a family member die. Every week there was cake to say goodbye to the most recent group of people who were being let go. My mom was among the last to leave since she had so much seniority.

One summer, when I was 18 or 19, I worked in the office at Holophane. While I was there, I met my first outspoken atheist. His name was Glen, and he was charismatic, sarcastic, and quick-witted. Even though Glen was older than my parents, I developed a bit of a crush on him (I’ve always had a thing for older guys). I would hang out with him and his girlfriend during lunch and we’d go on walks, or just hang out and talk. I don’t remember why we were talking about death and religion, except that I’ve always been rather interested in the subjects, but during our conversation he told me he didn’t believe in god. “What do you think happens when you die?” I asked. “Nothing,” he said. I started crying. Not weeping or anything like that, but I was so flabbergasted and frightened by the idea of nothing that I couldn’t hardly keep my shit together. I excused myself and went back to my office. He felt bad and told my mom that he had upset me.  Twelve years later, when I had come to understand my own religious leanings better (or lack of religious leanings) I told my mom to tell him I get it now…that I’m not afraid of “nothing” anymore.

My first experience with sexual harassment happened at Holophane, too, when a young guy, about 12 years older than me, was standing in front of my desk at the office. He was having an informal meeting with a couple of other office workers and I was sorting through paperwork. When it was over, he leaned down to me and said “I know you were checking out my ass. I could feel your eyes,” or something equally absurd. My face flushed; I’ve always been rather naive and awkward and I was so mortified by such an accusation that I’m surprised I could respond at all. “Don’t flatter yourself,” was all I managed, and he smiled and walked away. What a creep.

(This reminds me of another situation when I first moved to Florida. I was assigned to take a portrait of this oh-so-important guy at this oh-so-fancy boat club. He was an older guy, in his early 70s I think, and carried himself with great sophistication and class. He spoke with beautiful precision and seemed like a gentleman. I moved him this way and that, and at one point I kneeled down to take some pictures from a lower angle. While I was in this position he said, “It’s been many years since I’ve had a young woman get on her knees in front of me.” WTF.)

One of the first memories I have of Holophane is calling to make sure I wasn’t the only person left on earth. I guess I was around 9 or so. Mom would wake me up to comb my hair, then she and dad would leave for work, and my brother’s junior high bus would pick him up. My elementary school bus came last. With everyone out of the house, it was just me and the trees that surrounded my house. It was quiet, and there was very little traffic where we lived. It would still be dark outside that early in the morning and I felt terribly alone. Maybe I was the only person left on earth? I thought to myself. Maybe everyone has been swallowed up by some unknown force and there’s no one left but me? The idea scared me and the only thing I could think to do was to call someone. Don’t ask me why I didn’t call my great-grandmother next door, or my grandmother down the street. Instead I called mom’s factory. “Holophane,” the guy said, his voice rough and catching me off guard. I quickly hung up the phone. Yep, there were still people out there.

So when Holophane closed it was painful. It was a constant in my life for 30 years. And it was weird having this definitive ending to a thing that had gone on for over 100 years. That it had entered my mom’s life in her late 20’s and ceased to exist when she turned 60. Here was this block of 34 years that she had spent working in one place. That place is gone, and so are those 34 years. How the time just goes and goes.

High Seas (Project 52, Week 5)

I put all my faith in the Dramamine patch. My photo editor suggested I get one from the doctor’s office, rather than buy the stuff you can get over-the-counter. I thought a prescribed Dramamine patch would be stronger, would form a protective bubble around me, keeping me bouncy and happy and nausea-free for the duration of the assignment.

We, the reporter (N) and myself, were going on a trip with some high school students who were studying marine biology (if I remember correctly). They were riding a pirate ship to some islands southeast of Florida–perhaps the Bahamas? Anyway, we had the good fortune of tagging along with them for a few days to document their experience. I was taking pictures, which is why I think so many details are foggy now; I was more concerned with the visual elements while the reporter was collecting details on what the students were studying and what they were going to do when they arrived at the final destination.

We met the crew at a harbor in Miami, and it was a balmy, beautiful night. The students laughed and chatted, as family members milled about, checking out the ship, and musing over the tightness of the quarters. The ship was beautiful, exactly what you would picture when you hear the term “pirate ship,” though I think  it’s more commonly called a “tall ship.” The captain was charismatic and handsome and introduced the crew to everyone. They took us on a tour of the ship and showed us our quarters. N and I would share a room in the hold of the boat, next to the galley. The students would be sleeping in a separate part of the ship’s hold. The sections were not connected; if we wanted to visit the students, or wanted to use the bathroom (which was located in the students’ section of the hold), we had to climb out of the galley area, walk across the ship’s deck and climb back down into the hold. Not a big deal at first glance, though this separation would become problematic as the trip continued.

The group socialized for a few hours, and it was late when family members said final goodbyes, so that the students could go to their quarters and prepare for sleep. The captain planned to leave harbor some time in the night, so we all retired to our beds. I had my handy Dramamine patch behind my ear; it had been there for a few hours. It left a weird taste in my mouth and left me feeling generally medicated. I didn’t care though, because it was going to keep me functioning out at sea. I think everyone there  laughed about taking Dramamine, and making sure they brought some with them.

N and I crawled into our beds. The ocean gently rocked us asleep. I recall waking at 3:00am and recognizing that we had left the harbor. The gentle rocking was now more pronounced, but still quite enjoyable, and I snuggled down into my bed, happy to be at sea.

In the morning, I woke up to the smell of breakfast, an unfortunate side-effect of sleeping next to the galley. It always smelled like bacon grease and dough, and the smell was very thick. N and I made our way to the deck. Students were on their knees, puking over the side. Others had found their sea legs and were helping the crew, and learning how to handle the sails. I started taking pictures. It was cool and drizzly. There was a chop to the water, but nothing that bothered me. I walked around, trying to find a tactful way to photograph seasick kids. The boat creaked and swayed below my feet, but I gave it no thought. Soon N decided she wasn’t feeling so well, and returned to our room by the galley. She had looked a little green.  I chatted with some of the kids, asked them how they were feeling, took pictures of the ones whose faces and body language betrayed their seasickness. And then I made the mistake of plopping down where the others were sitting and staring out at the horizon.

It started as only a twinge as I watched the horizon line move up and down. An uneasy fluttering in my belly. The water continued to chop at the boat, and I noticed the chop a little more. “But that’s not possible,” I thought to myself. “I’m using a Dramamine patch.” The longer I sat there, the stronger the fluttering became. I picked up my cameras and tried to keep working, but the feeling intensifed, and I was getting a little green myself.  I decided to return to my room as well and rest for a while.

I fell asleep and was woken by the physical movement of my body rolling back and forth in my bed. While I was asleep, the choppy waves had become tumultuous and ridiculous, and were battering the ship back and forth like a ping pong ball. I literally rolled from one side of my tiny bed to the other in accordance to the waves. It felt like the ship had become some sort of amusement park ride; dishes fell off the wall in the galley from the strength of the waves pushing us around. Sometimes it felt as if the ship caught air, and landed with a thud back on the water. My stomach was positively upended. Back and forth, back and forth, I rolled. There was no possibility of being still.

Then I realized I needed to use the bathroom.

The bathroom, of course, was on the other side of the ship. The action of sitting up was all my stomach needed to lose its contents. I had a plastic bag near my bed and used it as my receptacle. I felt a tad relieved and climbed the stairs to the deck of the ship.

It was raining something awful. The crew wore rain suits and were fussing with various things on the ship. The storm and the waves were severe enough that most of the workers were tethered to the ship by ropes, and, in hindsight, I’m surprised they didn’t reprimand me as I staggered my way across the deck. With as loopy and sick as I felt, and with the ship careening so radically, I’m surprised I didn’t topple over the side. And, at the time, I felt so ill that I don’t think I would have cared.

I climbed into the students’ quarters and found the ridiculously tiny bathroom. Judging from the smell, I wasn’t the only one sick on the ship. Once I finished, I staggered my way through the rain and back to my bed, climbed in, and vomited again. I flopped against the mattress and felt the ship rock to the left, to the right, and my body moved in response. I got sick again. I felt abject. Absolutely abject and desperate. “This is hell on earth,” I thought to myself.  “There’s nowhere to go. There’s no getting off this ship.” I decided from that point forward, should anyone ask me what I imagine hell to be like, this ship experience would be my answer. Eventually a more Buddhist-minded thought came to to me: Nothing Lasts Forever. This storm would subside, I would stop feeling sick, we would get to land.  And it helped to recognize this fact. But my answer to the question of hell still stands.

I think we figured out that we were bedridden by the ocean waves for 17 hours–a total time warp.  17 hours of rocking, vomiting, and occasionally staggering to the bathroom, then vomiting again on the return to bed. The waves weren’t so extreme for the entire 17 hours, but by the time we woke up and were able to get out of bed and not be sick, 17 hours had passed.

When we finally climbed to the deck, both of us sallow and peaked, the sun was shining. Most of the kids had been out and about for awhile, recovering much faster than I. At least one student had even helped during the storm. There was land in sight and I couldn’t have been happier. We were stopping at a different island than planned because of the rough sailing, and the captain wanted to give everyone a chance to collect themselves, and get some ground under their feet. He blamed the rough waters on the Gulf Stream.  But, finally, there was land in sight.

For Love of the Dog (Project 52, Week 4)

I didn’t think I’d become one of those types of people.  The kind that dress their dogs in shoes and jackets, carry them in handbags, and speak to them in baby talk. The kind who disregard people on behalf of their dog (once, my colleague at the vet clinic was working on some paperwork at the front desk while some clients milled around in the lobby. One client came toward the desk and asked “How are you today?” My colleague replied along the lines of, “I’m good, thanks.” The client looked at her and said, “I wasn’t talking to you; I was talking to the dog.” Nice.)

Well, I’m not really one of those people. Sgt. Pepper is too big for handbags. And while she’s willing to wear clothes, she’s so skinny that most stuff doesn’t fit her well, and slides from side to side. Clothing also blocks access to her harness; the most pragmatic item of clothing she has is a pink raincoat, but it’s a hassle to deal with when I need clip a leash to her harness. (The raincoat came from her foster mom; I remember when she gave it to me I asked her if Pepper would wear it. “She loves it!” foster mom said).

So, I’m not quite one of those people. What I am, however, is a person who is thrilled when Pepper meets me at the door when I get home from work. I typically greet her first, though I try not to linger over her too long for fear my husband will notice that she is usurping his greeting. I’m a person who waves to my dog from the car when I see her through the front window, standing on the back of the love seat, poking her head through blinds, watching me leave the house. On one occasion, when I was leaving to drive to Ohio, I backed out of my driveway and saw Pep watching me from the window.  After several minutes of watching her peer out the window at my car, I decided I couldn’t leave her behind and pulled back into the driveway to pack her travel bag and take her along. She was thrilled; I could tell by the wag in her tail. I’m a person who flops on a chair and encourages Pep to join me, and then I rub her belly, and massage her ears, and hold her face in my hands and talk to her in baby talk, and shower her with more attention than is probably necessary (it’s all quite ridiculous, I assure you).

I’m a person who is unnecessarily forlorn at the prospect of leaving Pep behind when my husband and I take a trip later this year. Pep is 7-years-old and hasn’t had the easiest life. She was found as a stray by animal control, and then was taken in by the Animal Protective League. When she was at her foster mom’s, she escaped from the backyard and was gone for 10 days. They found her 5-10 miles away from where she started. She’s very shy around new people and if you move toward her too quickly, she’ll squeal in anticipation of you kicking her. My step-dad is convinced she was abused; I think she was probably shoved or kicked out of the way a lot by her previous owner. It’s the only explanation I can think of for why she’s so skittish and fearful around people’s feet (she comes up to about the middle of my shin, so she’s not a very big dog). She’s very affectionate though, and loves to cuddle, so I don’t know that she was abused.

She hates being kenneled, and barks incessantly when she finds herself in one. I hate the prospect of leaving her at a kennel–she’s not a fan of other dogs, and I hate to think that she’ll think she’s been abandoned again. (Yes, I know she doesn’t have the capacity to think in such terms, but I know she’d be scared. That much I know.) I’m becoming the type of person who considers rearranging all of her plans in order to accommodate her dog. I adore traveling more than almost anything, but a couple of times I thought perhaps it would be best if I stayed behind with Pep. However, I haven’t gone out of my head quite that much, and am most definitely going on this trip. (All of the other trips I have planned for this year are with friends or family members, so I don’t have to worry about Pep’s accommodations–my husband will be home). For now I’ve made tentative arrangements with a friend who has said she will come and take care of Pep at the house.

But for all the traveling complications created by Sgt. Pepper’s presence in our household, not to mention the reconfiguring of my lunch schedule around Pepper’s need for bathroom breaks, I cannot describe the unadulterated delight she has brought us.

Pristine (Project 52, Week 3)

I don’t know much at all about my dad’s time in Vietnam. I don’t know how he felt during that flight across the ocean; his first and last flight across the ocean. (He would always stick close to home once he made it back.) His first sight of exotic grasses and exotic people. What smells greeted him each morning and tucked him in bed at night? Shit and piss and sweat and sulfur and rain and rot?  Was it claustrophobic in the hull of that tank as he tracked across the land? Who was his gunner? Were they friends? Did he have close calls? Did the sounds of bullets and bombs make him flinch, break into a sweat, give an involuntary shout?

I imagine him as pristine. In the war, but seeing none of its atrocities. In the war but not of the war. He sent home a picture of a stray puppy that the troops had adopted. I imagine him as innocent as that puppy. No blood shed near him, no blood shed by him, no blood shed.

Mom says he had nightmares when he returned. He wouldn’t talk about any of it. His brother asked if he’d seen anyone killed over there. He wouldn’t talk about any of it.

He never really did talk about any of it. Just a couple of times with me, when I was a teenager. It was like he needed to get something off his chest. His story made us both cry. That was the only time I ever saw him cry. There had been blood shed near him.

As he got older, he talked more openly, matter-of-factly about it all. But he never gushed with information. He kept in much more than he shared. And all that he didn’t share went with him to the grave. Maybe I should have asked more questions. Maybe I did, but could sense that I shouldn’t have. He was the mellowest person I’ve known. Had complete faith that everything would somehow work out. He didn’t dwell much on the past.

Recently, I located part of a cigarette lighter–I recognized it upon seeing it and was glad to have it in my hands again. It’s a Zippo lighter, metal, the kind that you flip the lid in order to light it, and then shut the lid to snuff out the flame. This is only the bottom part of the lighter; it’s hollow inside. On one side is an etching of a naked woman, reclined on her arms in, what looks like, an uncomfortable position. On the flip side is this saying:

Yea Though I walk

Through the valley

Of the shadow of

Death I will fear

No evil for I’m the

Evilest son of a bitch

in the valley.

Inside the hollow lighter  was a piece of paper that I folded long ago and had placed inside. I pulled it out and read what I had written:

“Jackie McLaughlin owned this lighter when he got killed in Vietnam in 1969. I received it from dad on Feb. 8, 1994, 25 years later.”

Dad had kept that lighter for 25 years. I found it again 15 years after dad first gave it to me. Forty  years after Jackie died. Nearly 4 years after dad died.

I imagine them both pristine.

Just a note

I’ve decided my blog will be updated every Tuesday for Project 52. So, feel free to stop by then for new content and (sometimes) new pictures. I don’t think I’ll be blogging much in between (with this exception, of course).

This Day (Project 52, Week 2)

I’m listening to Train’s “Hey, Soul Sister” over and over, and I’m not proud of this fact. It’s like a drug. Every time I think I’ve listened to it enough, I think, No! Once more! Even lyrics like “You’re so gangsta, I’m so thug, you’re the only one I’m dreaming of” don’t deter me from playing it again and again. (Those lyrics are damn sweet, right? Riiight.)

The singer’s voice is simply intoxicating. It massages my temporal lobe and puts me in good humor. I suppose that’s what pop songs are meant to do, but I’ve never been a follower of pop songs.  In fact, I think I may be a little bit of a snob regarding such things.

I should clarify my definition of pop song. I’m sure it’s like yours: catchy rhythm and melody, conventional structure, etc. But there’s one element that is more important than any other in my definition of pop: lyrics.  Modern songs that I identify as pop have lame lyrics.

This element is important enough to me that if a song has all the other elements of a pop song, but the lyrics are good, then it immediately rises above the genre of pop. I guess pop, in my mind, is a genre filled with forgettable music with lame lyrics.

Perhaps I take it too seriously. As I said at the start of the post, the song makes me feel good. Perhaps that is the only point to the plethora of pop songs that get cranked out of music studios every day; they aren’t all designed to leave some definitive mark on the history of music.

I was dwelling on the idea of lyrics today while driving to Champaign-Urbana, and listening to my ipod. I cranked up my Pink Floyd playlists, which I haven’t listened to in some time. I’ve always been such a fan of their songwriting; I like that they seldom focus on new love, or lost love, or women, or any predictable subject matter for their songs.  The song that comes closest to being a “love song” is probably “Wish You Were Here,” and, from what I understand, it was written about Syd Barrett and his drifting into schizophrenia.

Anyway, I listened to “When The Tigers Broke Free” on the drive. The first time I heard this song was when I watched “The Wall” as a teenager. It wasn’t included on that album of the same name, unfortunately, so I was thrilled when it came out on the compilation cd “Echoes.” The lyrics to the song have always made an impression on me:

It was just before dawn
One miserable morning in black ‘forty four.
When the forward commander
Was told to sit tight
When he asked that his men be withdrawn.
And the Generals gave thanks
As the other ranks held back
The enemy tanks for a while.
And the Anzio bridgehead
Was held for the price
Of a few hundred ordinary lives.

And kind old King George
Sent Mother a note
When he heard that father was gone.
It was, I recall,
In the form of a scroll,
With gold leaf and all.
And I found it one day
In a drawer of old photographs, hidden away.
And my eyes still grow damp to remember
His Majesty signed
With his own rubber stamp.

It was dark all around.
There was frost in the ground
When the tigers broke free.
And no one survived
From the Royal Fusiliers Company C.
They were all left behind,
Most of them dead,
The rest of them dying.
And that’s how the High Command
Took my daddy from me.

It’s a song about the death of Waters’ father, yet it avoids pathos and sentimentality (in my humble opinion). It’s more a sardonic critique of the war machine.  I’ve just always been impressed with the way Waters put this song together. He would have lesser success in some of his later, more political and didactic songs (tho I don’t mind some of them), but this one just hits the mark for me.

Pink Floyd isn’t exactly pop music of course, but I think their work set the benchmark for what I consider good lyrics and good (musical) story telling.

As I get older though, I find myself bopping along to catchy tunes and thinking, “This is the stupidest song I’ve heard all day, but I like it!”

And that’s fun too.

Here’s a picture taken with a pinhole lens on my camera:

New Day, New Year, New Challenge (Project 52, Week 1)

This is the first day of my participation in Project 52. One post a week for the rest of the year. Sounds reasonable. I’m taking the easy way out for this first post of 2010: a Q and A about 2009.

1. What did you do in 2009 that you’d never done before?
Defended my MFA thesis. Helped with a dog c-section and animal x-rays.

2. Did you keep your New Years’ resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I don’t really make resolutions, but this year I resolve to send out some nonfiction to the various journals I read.

3. How will you be spending New Year’s Eve?
We watched the Soloist and then live streaming of the NY festivities at midnight (eastern time). We went to bed after the ball dropped in NY, even though it wasn’t midnight in our neck of the woods.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Not this year, thankfully.

5. What countries did you visit?
None, sorry to say.

6. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009?
More travel! A little more money!

7. What date from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
I suppose the date of my thesis defense, tho I don’t remember the exact date. It was in March. Also, the date I was finally offered a writing gig with the local university.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? Receiving my MFA and finally being offered a writing/editing job with my local university. Getting a freelancing gig with the newspaper.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Not getting anything published in journals (because I didn’t send anything out. Fail.)

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
A dog bit my thumb. It hurt like hell. And I was scared of rabies. Because I’m a hypochondriac about such things.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
My new Canon EOS Rebel. My new plastic lenses for the Canon. Some really fab jewelry from Etsy.

12. Where did most of your money go? To the monthly bills.

13. What song will always remind you of 2009? Probably “Walk it Out.”

14. What do you wish you’d done more of? Traveling

15. What do you wish you’d done less of? Fretting

16. What were your favorite TV programs? Project Runway, The Office, Community, 30 Rock (Thursday night TV)

Those days are over though because we’ve disconnected our cable.

17. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year? I’m not big on hating.

18. Who were the people you were closest to this year? My mom, stepdad, and Spence.

19. What was your greatest musical discovery? Well, it was a video of Walk it Out set to the smooth movements of  a 70’s dance trio. It rocked my socks, but the youtube video has been disabled, so I can’t share it. Also, the Fireman.

20. What were your favorite films of this year? It doesn’t seem like I saw many. I liked the Serious Man.

21. What did you do on your birthday? Dinner with Spence.

22. What kept you sane? Reading, writing, Spence, mom, Sgt. Pepper.

23. Who did you miss? Lots of the Florida folks.

24. Who was the best new person you met? Lyndsey!

25. What things are you looking forward to in 2010? Travel, writing, taking pictures, hanging with people I dig.

(Meme stolen from Lyria.)

This day

My black cat, the one who ignores us 98% of the day, always picks the most inopportune time to get some kitty loving. Always when my hands are dealing with other things, and when my patience is short and quickly made shorter with her incessant meowing. And then, when I drop my hand to pet her, she bobs and weaves around my fingers, sniffing the tips and choosing which part of her body she’ll rub against them. I’ll allow you to pet the right side of my face, she seems to say, and as soon as I cross into unapproved territory, she quickly pulls her head out of my reach. It’s a little annoying. But then I feel guilty because the other animals get smothered in love and embraces.

We’ve had our first random sparrow death of the winter. This happened a few times last year; I would find dead or ailing birds outside of my house. There didn’t appear to be anything wrong with them, except they were dead. Some found their way into our garage and died in there too. It was distressing. We’ve blocked all access to the garage (they were crawling in through an opening left between the garage door and the cement floor), so we haven’t had to deal with birds in the garage. Whenever Sgt. Pepper and I go out the front door for our walk, she always runs to particular section of the house and sniffs around. I noticed there was an opening of sorts in that vicinity, so I wonder if there are rodents (or birds?) living there. Just now, about 15 minutes ago, I heard some scraping and scratching going on somewhere that was not quite inside, but not quite outside either. Maybe underneath? Maybe something crawling and living in the in-between area of our house’s insides and outsides? I think I heard it again.