I'm talking to someone about my wonderful sojourn in Peru seven years ago. I'm going on and on, raving about the spectacular ruins and setting of Macchu Picchu, the mysteries of the rain forest, the resourcefulness of the Peruvians I met there, and the impression that the Amazon made on me. "The country has 38 of the world's 45 climate zones," I add.
I tell her that it's got to be "the longitude, the latitude, the altitude, and the attitude" that make Peru amazing. And I am absolutely certain that I'm right.
I'll tell you all about it all sometime.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
What is the Sound of One Ear Partially Listening?
I am definitely going deaf. Although I'm usually frustrated and annoyed by my loss of the ability to hear what's being said, sometimes I find the results rather amusing.
For example, the other day I was driving to my night job, while listening to the radio. I tuned into a piece on NPR, featuring an interview with a few of this year's recipients of the MacArthur Genius Awards. When the speaker said that each recipient was awarded "a no-strings-attached" monetary prize, I heard: "Each will receive a nose string attached."
My imagination launched into over-drive. I pictured the brilliant mathematician, linked nostril-to-nostril, via a (red) cord, to the highly articulate poet. The fruit of this union of great minds and unseen (but, no doubt, tortured) faces would be a study of the mathematics of rhyme, the poetry of numbers -- or a battle of unforeseen proportion and consequences. Would this be the cosine qua non? What is the probability that such sets of disparate polygons of virtue might produce transformations that,at their very root, are the proof that metaphor, whether gauged by the foot or by meter, can be epic?
I'm not sure what this would mean, either. But then, I'm not good with numbers and rarely, if ever, wax poetic.
For example, the other day I was driving to my night job, while listening to the radio. I tuned into a piece on NPR, featuring an interview with a few of this year's recipients of the MacArthur Genius Awards. When the speaker said that each recipient was awarded "a no-strings-attached" monetary prize, I heard: "Each will receive a nose string attached."
My imagination launched into over-drive. I pictured the brilliant mathematician, linked nostril-to-nostril, via a (red) cord, to the highly articulate poet. The fruit of this union of great minds and unseen (but, no doubt, tortured) faces would be a study of the mathematics of rhyme, the poetry of numbers -- or a battle of unforeseen proportion and consequences. Would this be the cosine qua non? What is the probability that such sets of disparate polygons of virtue might produce transformations that,at their very root, are the proof that metaphor, whether gauged by the foot or by meter, can be epic?
I'm not sure what this would mean, either. But then, I'm not good with numbers and rarely, if ever, wax poetic.
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Best Weekend of the Year (Richmond, VA)
Yesterday, as I was walking towards the river to attend the third day of the Richmond International Folk Festival, I was thinking that this really is quite a wonderful place to live.
A mere half an hour before the 12:15 start-time of Jorge Negron's Master Bomba Ensemble, whose music I was planning to dance to, I had wandered down the hill to the riverfront. I found a parking spot only two blocks from the pedestrian bridge I'd have to cross to reach the festival site.
The weather was gorgeous: cool, clear, and sunny. A light jacket countered the chill.
Food vendors were already selling to the "early" risers: frozen cheesecake on a stick and fried fair-style food (blooming onions, made-on-the-spot potato chips, and other artery cloggers), Thai curries, Jamaican stews, Greek kabobs, and more. One operation hawked vegetarian global cuisine, so even animal lovers would have no beef.
When I arrive at the Dance Stage, the band is sound checking. I'd already heard them the day before and they sounded even better. I strap on my dancing shoes and start tapping my toes, heels, and thighs to the beat.
The leader of the band is a former Richmonder who'd returned to Puerto Rico. He founded the group a mere six months ago, and I believe that this festival hosted their first public performances.
Two women and two men dance (mostly individually), challenging the drummers to mimic their rhythms. Three men play the drums (sorry if I can't tell you more about the different instruments, but the musicians certainly knew how to bring out the best in percussion). I dance to the infectious rhythms by myself and with others.
Later I mosey over to another stage. While others sit on the hill overlooking this outside venue, I stand unstill watching Greek cabaret singer Sophia Bilides, whose Arabic sounding melodies make my belly and hips ache to swivel.
Tuvan throat singers follow with their own remarkable performance. Sounding like frogs, birds, and humans all at once, they warble their immense love for their horses and, maybe a little less fervidly, their passion for their women. I am less inspired to dance than I am to try to figure out how many simultaneous notes and harmonies originate with each performer or to examine their interesting garments and footwear. (I am close to the stage, so it is pretty easy to do the latter, but not the former; I guess I would have to be peering down their throats....)
Phil Wiggins and Corey Harris sing and strum the blues, Joel Rubin plays klezmer music, the Hummingbirds soar with gospel. I stagger back to my car, hearing the sounds still emanating from the other venues.
All the above takes place on Sunday. I'd already spent hours dancing nonstop on Saturaday to Colombian brass papayera, New Orleans jazz, and Swamp Dogg's rhythm and blues. I'd heard the incredible Indian slide guitarist, Debashish Bhattacharya, and attended a presentation-explanation-demonstration by masters of slide guitar from different countries and styles. I'd listened to Irish musicians and watched Korean dancers. Friday night I'd danced to a zydeco band and an East African group.
I've seen a zillion people I know, sweated in the sun, been moistened by the rain. Music reverberates in my head for days afterward. Not a terrible thing. As a matter of fact, I highly recommend it.
A mere half an hour before the 12:15 start-time of Jorge Negron's Master Bomba Ensemble, whose music I was planning to dance to, I had wandered down the hill to the riverfront. I found a parking spot only two blocks from the pedestrian bridge I'd have to cross to reach the festival site.
The weather was gorgeous: cool, clear, and sunny. A light jacket countered the chill.
Food vendors were already selling to the "early" risers: frozen cheesecake on a stick and fried fair-style food (blooming onions, made-on-the-spot potato chips, and other artery cloggers), Thai curries, Jamaican stews, Greek kabobs, and more. One operation hawked vegetarian global cuisine, so even animal lovers would have no beef.
When I arrive at the Dance Stage, the band is sound checking. I'd already heard them the day before and they sounded even better. I strap on my dancing shoes and start tapping my toes, heels, and thighs to the beat.
The leader of the band is a former Richmonder who'd returned to Puerto Rico. He founded the group a mere six months ago, and I believe that this festival hosted their first public performances.
Two women and two men dance (mostly individually), challenging the drummers to mimic their rhythms. Three men play the drums (sorry if I can't tell you more about the different instruments, but the musicians certainly knew how to bring out the best in percussion). I dance to the infectious rhythms by myself and with others.
Later I mosey over to another stage. While others sit on the hill overlooking this outside venue, I stand unstill watching Greek cabaret singer Sophia Bilides, whose Arabic sounding melodies make my belly and hips ache to swivel.
Tuvan throat singers follow with their own remarkable performance. Sounding like frogs, birds, and humans all at once, they warble their immense love for their horses and, maybe a little less fervidly, their passion for their women. I am less inspired to dance than I am to try to figure out how many simultaneous notes and harmonies originate with each performer or to examine their interesting garments and footwear. (I am close to the stage, so it is pretty easy to do the latter, but not the former; I guess I would have to be peering down their throats....)
Phil Wiggins and Corey Harris sing and strum the blues, Joel Rubin plays klezmer music, the Hummingbirds soar with gospel. I stagger back to my car, hearing the sounds still emanating from the other venues.
All the above takes place on Sunday. I'd already spent hours dancing nonstop on Saturaday to Colombian brass papayera, New Orleans jazz, and Swamp Dogg's rhythm and blues. I'd heard the incredible Indian slide guitarist, Debashish Bhattacharya, and attended a presentation-explanation-demonstration by masters of slide guitar from different countries and styles. I'd listened to Irish musicians and watched Korean dancers. Friday night I'd danced to a zydeco band and an East African group.
I've seen a zillion people I know, sweated in the sun, been moistened by the rain. Music reverberates in my head for days afterward. Not a terrible thing. As a matter of fact, I highly recommend it.
Monday, September 21, 2009
A Little Lesson for U.S. Men (Richmond, VA)
Ok, guys. "Nice" is not the correct answer when your wife, girlfriend, significant female other, or mother asks you how she looks. "Nice" describes wallpaper. "Nice" is the same as "okay" or "good," and neither of those responses is good enough.
Here are some possibilities for you: Beautiful, great, gorgeous, fabulous, incredible, fantastic, phenomenal, unbelievable, etc. Get the picture?
Use one of these, but not for your mom: Sexy, delicious... You get the idea, don't you?
Take your choice and say it with sincerity, enthusiasm, and conviction and with the appropriate body language and facial expressions.
Additional instructions:
Don't use the same word every time.
Don't wait until she asks. When she appears, make your face light up and say: 'You look fantastic!' or something similar. Believe me, you'll look better to her.
I tell you this because, for the first time that I can remember, a US-American guy told me (out of nowhere): "You are so beautiful." It made my day, maybe even my month. It might have been complete BS, but man, it felt not good, not nice, but fantastic!
Here are some possibilities for you: Beautiful, great, gorgeous, fabulous, incredible, fantastic, phenomenal, unbelievable, etc. Get the picture?
Use one of these, but not for your mom: Sexy, delicious... You get the idea, don't you?
Take your choice and say it with sincerity, enthusiasm, and conviction and with the appropriate body language and facial expressions.
Additional instructions:
Don't use the same word every time.
Don't wait until she asks. When she appears, make your face light up and say: 'You look fantastic!' or something similar. Believe me, you'll look better to her.
I tell you this because, for the first time that I can remember, a US-American guy told me (out of nowhere): "You are so beautiful." It made my day, maybe even my month. It might have been complete BS, but man, it felt not good, not nice, but fantastic!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Simple Truth (Richmond, VA)
I promised myself that this year -- finally and absolutely -- I would simplify my life: leave work when the workday ends; just say "no" to requests to join more groups; refuse to schedule more than one after-work activity in any given evening; allow time to decompress; and, yes, even clean and clean out the house on weekends.
So, you might ask, how am I doing?
Not so hot, I must confess.
The problem is that, to be honest, I enjoy being busy and engaged.
I don't think it's my Protestant work ethic (I'm not Protestant) that makes me remain at work until I've finished the job at hand and gotten a healthy start on the jobs at wrist, elbow, and shoulder; it's that I like my job(s).
And as far as participating in groups (and I'm not talking on-line groups but ones that hold in-person meetings), I only join those that deal with topics of interest to me (other languages or cultures, for example) and that inevitably turn out to have members who are smart, funny, talented, compassionate, and who sometimes, become my friends.
I don't think I should have to count my night job as an evening activity; therefore, going dancing at 9:30pm after a 10+ hour workday is just one activity, right? And the things I do in between my first and second jobs, such as working out at the gym, meeting a friend for coffee, etc., don't count either, correct? And on those evenings, such as this Thursday, when I'll dart from a 4:00 private dance lesson to meet Spanish speakers (native and wannabes) at 6:00 for conversación and bonhommerie, and then sprint to (arrive a bit late at)a dance event and stay until 11:00, well, what's the problem?
And decompression sounds SO boring and kinda scary. (Compression doesn't sound so hot either, but maybe you can squeeze in a hug? Sorry!) What would I do to decompress, anyway? Stay home and read? I do that when I eat or before bed. Watch TV? Don't get me started. Listen to the radio? That's why God made cars. Lie down and take a nap? That's why God made the hours between midnight and six a.m.
Weekends are when I can pack the most in! For example, just on Saturday, September 25th, I can grab coffee with a buddy at a cafe, hit a coupla yard sales, see two African films before 3:00 p.m., and spend the rest of the day at a festival -- eating, watching dance performances, and taking a zumba lesson. (Zumba = aerobic exercise that combines Latin dance moves with more perspiration than you can imagine streaming from your body, blinding you, and leaving puddles so big you might drown if you don't have a heart attack first or disappear altogether from all the calories you've burned in the 10 minutes it's taken you to realize that you can't breathe or walk, much less zumba any longer). Now doesn't that sound more appetizing than decompressing?
As far as cleaning, I'm with Phyllis Diller when she said, "I hate to mop the kitchen floor. Six months later, I've got to do it again!" If I have to clean when company isn't coming, then I think I need to move into a smaller space, get rid of virtually everything I own -- including my husband, and get a new (or another) job that will leave me with enough money to pay someone else to do my dirty work.
So, you might ask, how am I doing?
Not so hot, I must confess.
The problem is that, to be honest, I enjoy being busy and engaged.
I don't think it's my Protestant work ethic (I'm not Protestant) that makes me remain at work until I've finished the job at hand and gotten a healthy start on the jobs at wrist, elbow, and shoulder; it's that I like my job(s).
And as far as participating in groups (and I'm not talking on-line groups but ones that hold in-person meetings), I only join those that deal with topics of interest to me (other languages or cultures, for example) and that inevitably turn out to have members who are smart, funny, talented, compassionate, and who sometimes, become my friends.
I don't think I should have to count my night job as an evening activity; therefore, going dancing at 9:30pm after a 10+ hour workday is just one activity, right? And the things I do in between my first and second jobs, such as working out at the gym, meeting a friend for coffee, etc., don't count either, correct? And on those evenings, such as this Thursday, when I'll dart from a 4:00 private dance lesson to meet Spanish speakers (native and wannabes) at 6:00 for conversación and bonhommerie, and then sprint to (arrive a bit late at)a dance event and stay until 11:00, well, what's the problem?
And decompression sounds SO boring and kinda scary. (Compression doesn't sound so hot either, but maybe you can squeeze in a hug? Sorry!) What would I do to decompress, anyway? Stay home and read? I do that when I eat or before bed. Watch TV? Don't get me started. Listen to the radio? That's why God made cars. Lie down and take a nap? That's why God made the hours between midnight and six a.m.
Weekends are when I can pack the most in! For example, just on Saturday, September 25th, I can grab coffee with a buddy at a cafe, hit a coupla yard sales, see two African films before 3:00 p.m., and spend the rest of the day at a festival -- eating, watching dance performances, and taking a zumba lesson. (Zumba = aerobic exercise that combines Latin dance moves with more perspiration than you can imagine streaming from your body, blinding you, and leaving puddles so big you might drown if you don't have a heart attack first or disappear altogether from all the calories you've burned in the 10 minutes it's taken you to realize that you can't breathe or walk, much less zumba any longer). Now doesn't that sound more appetizing than decompressing?
As far as cleaning, I'm with Phyllis Diller when she said, "I hate to mop the kitchen floor. Six months later, I've got to do it again!" If I have to clean when company isn't coming, then I think I need to move into a smaller space, get rid of virtually everything I own -- including my husband, and get a new (or another) job that will leave me with enough money to pay someone else to do my dirty work.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Caller ID'd (Richmond, VA)
Someone who lives with me -- and made me promise that I won't mention his name -- comes home and finds a frightening message on the answering machine...
Thursday, September 3, 2009
A Winning Season (Richmond, VA)
I really should stop what I'm doing right now and run out to buy a lottery ticket. My luck has been incredible lately, and I should spend the $2? $5? or whatever a ticket costs, because I am absolutely going to win.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
