Pushing/Falling Along

Posted July 10, 2010 by ManicDdaily
Categories: Uncategorized, Vicissitudes of Life
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Crazy time.  I have a dear dear friend arranging for her hospice care in the city, and am up in the country drawing elephants with young kids.   So much to grieve, so much to joy in.   One of those statements that’s a cliché because it’s so true.

A [ridiculous] clock in the hall coos in the hour with varying bird song.  My mother-in-law, now gone, a true naturalist, really loved that clock, especially as hearing true bird song became difficult for her.

I suppose the deepest approach to the inevitable losses in life, the prospect of the loss of life itself, is to let go of regret, to learn to find contentment in what is before you, to stop wasting time worrying about what’s beyond recall (not of memory but of re-doing).   But that’s so hard, for me at least (a master of discontent).  For me, the more effective protocol is to make a concerted effort to remember regret, to remember, in advance, how it will feel when loss is in front of you, to remember, in advance, that this is a feeling that you don’t want to feel, and to focus, to the extent possible, on what you can possibly do to avoid the having to feel that feeling.

To imagine, in other words, that you are at a place with extremely few choices, and to think, from that position, of the choices that you wish that you had made when you had them.

I understand that it sounds Escheresque.   Perhaps this type of forward/backward thinking only works when you have dear friends who are very sick, when you want to plead with them not to go but know that you really can’t do that to them, that their life is beyond their wish and yours.

They have lived their lives well—you have no question of that–but what about you?   You feel pushed along by life,  by rapids, gravity, momentum, but is that push really irresistible? Really?

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Subway Blog – An Eye Out For Spiritual Texts on Train

Posted July 9, 2010 by ManicDdaily
Categories: New York City
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,



Me , rather I, (in the seat there) on NYC Subway Car

On the subway this morning, I move quickly from the side of a guy reading the Bible, not so much because he is reading the Bible—well, a little because of that—but  mainly because I see an open solo seat further down the car.

I realize after I sit down, however, that I am now sitting directly opposite another guy who is swaying back and forth over a copy of the Torah (or at least some seemingly spiritual Hebrew text).  He moves his lips distinctly as he reads, and he reads very very fast.

I’ve already tried to be the Good Samaritan on the train this morning myself, holding the door open as long as I could for two elderly tourists who, having a hard time with their Metrocards, had just barreled through the barred iron gates onto the incredibly muggy platform as the train doors began to close.  But the train doors are programmed against Good Samaritanism and nearly took off my hand before the tourists could stumble in.

As a result, I feel like I’ve already brought too much attention to myself to move one more time.   Still, it’s a bit hard to focus with the Torah guy swaying and reading so—loudly is not the correct word–energetically.

His nose itches; he’s congested; it’s bothering him.  The hand motions dealing with his nostrils are out of sync with the rhythm of his sway, which goes on without interruption, as does his free hand, following of the characters of his text with a stiff, three-fingered point.

I don’t want to watch him so closely; I don’t want to know about his nasal issues.  To be fair, he’s dealing with them discretely enough (as discretely as a swaying, gesticulating, lip-moving, man can) but it is almost impossible not to be aware of him when he is shouting—okay, not shouting—gesticulating so much.

I make myself look up the car.  I see a guy, next to the guy with the Bible, looking at himself with a small hand mirror, and I began to really wonder about (a) the nature of this particular subway car and (b) narcissism when I realize that he truly holds a small rectangular magnifying glass which he is using to read a newspaper article about LeBron James.   (Okay, so just narcissism.)

But I find myself increasingly agitated by the Torah reader.  It has nothing to do with the Torah.  I realize, to my embarrassment, that if someone were reading the Koran opposite me with the same avidity, I would be considerably more concerned.

When the train pulls into the next station, the Torah reader bolts away, and I am amazed at my sudden relief.  How wonderful it is on a Friday morning to have the car taken over by silence, stillness, near emptiness.  I catch the eye of a woman on a far bench, who, for once, smiles back, and I feel so suddenly relaxed that I don’t realize, until the mechanized voice begins and those inexorable doors prepare to close once more, that this is my stop too.

I make the steaming platform just in time.

A long week.

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On Hot, Tired Days – A Passage To Your Inner India

Posted July 8, 2010 by ManicDdaily
Categories: Stress, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Inner India (No Disrespect Intended)

I thought this morning of a new solution for those, like me, who are having a hard time with the hot muggy doldrums of mid-summer:  find your inner India.

Stop it–don’t groan.  (Especially you who have actually been to India.)

I’m not advising you to find the inner India of flies, squalor, unremitting aridity or humidity (depending upon your location and the monsoon cycle), the smell of burning polyurethane—

I mean the India of cool marble floors where your bare feet moistly slab slab slab, the India of shaded mosaic archways of palaces…er…mausoleums, the India of leafy Banyan trees and purification baths (delicious even if taken with bucket and cup), of endless people to watch and to be watched by, people who squat imperturbably in the midst of chaos or sameness for a very very long time, certain, or nearly certain, that there will be another life beside the one that they are currently enduring; the India of hot spiced chai, and where there is airconditioning, of air so frigid you feel your lips turning blue.

Keep in mind those lessons that are available nearly everywhere but are so quickly learned upon the Subcontinent,  i.e. (i) that there are many many forces beyond your control; (ii)  that yes, you have been cheated but there’s no use worrying about it; and (iii) that you should be really really careful of what you eat.

Don’t expect even that little boy who seemed so charming to have sold you real saffron.  (Is pink food so terrible?   He had a beautiful smile, a genuine chuckle.)

Above all, even when you feel like you are wading through an opaque sameness of muggy weekday after muggy weekday, try to find the good in the difficult, the wonderful in the ordinary (the cow in the doorway, the bubble in the Naan, the cardomom in what would otherwise still be wonderful tea).   Don’t be rushed,  don’t let anyone pressure you,  find a hat that you will actually wear.

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Few Clothes in Egg-Frying NYC – Tu-be or not Tu-be

Posted July 7, 2010 by ManicDdaily
Categories: elephants, Stress, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Wishful Thinking? (On ManicDDaily's part)

One thing that has taken me aback in these last few egg-frying days in New York City is how few clothes women have been wearing in public.

I’m someone who has always worn a fair amount of clothing in public.

One reason for this is a lot of my travel has been to hot places which are also very prurient places, places where women, people in general, cover up (i) because of cultural modesty (in situations where people live in tight quarters, they sometimes seem to use cloth as a boundary), and (ii) to try to protect their arms, shoulders, eyes, heads, from blistering sunshine.

I tell myself I’ve adopted such practices—longish sleeves, highish necks, loose clothing—in the name of comfort and good sense.  But another reason for the cover-up, and perhaps the truer one, is simply that I grew up with a strong bodily sense of original sin.  This is different from traditional original sin in which the soul is embued with innate moral failings;  rather it is a sense that the body is embued with innate imperfections, imperfections which, if not corrected by diet and exercise, are at best camouflauged.   (I’m not sure whether to blame this on Twiggy or my mom.)

Whatever the reason, tube dresses were never my style.

I seem to be an anomaly in the modern U.S., however, at least on 102 degree days.  I find it frankly breath-taking.

So many breasts, so many thighs, so many fleshy bits, bits that in my sheltered mind are usually not seen outside a dressing room or swimming pool.

So much confidence, so much nonchalance, so much skin!  And so many many different attitudes (from “God I’m hot!” to “God I’m hot!” to “God I’m hot!”)

I vary between admiration (for the freedom and unself-consciousness), to understanding (of why certain other cultures are so very hostile to us), to confusion (on one level it seems anti-feminist and self-negating while on another it seems incredibly feminist and self-accepting), to chagrin (I don’t always want to see all that skin), to–

God I’m hot.

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Looking For Relief at 102 Degrees (With Elephant)

Posted July 7, 2010 by ManicDdaily
Categories: children's book, elephants
Tags: , , , , ,

Ah!???.....

Keep cool.

(And, while doing so, check out 1 Mississippi by Karin Gustafson on Amazon.)

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Super Hot Day Brings Up Edward And Bella Again – Is The Fascination About Sex, Marriage, Feminism (Or Lack Thereof)? Or Just All the Carrying?

Posted July 6, 2010 by ManicDdaily
Categories: Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Modern Harried Female and Embarrassed Robert Pattinson (as Edward Cullen)

I hate to try the patience of my regular followers.  I ask for forgiveness based on the fact that it was 102 degrees in my city today, and  I have used very little AC for several hours in a perhaps misguided attempt to support Con Edison (as well as our troops abroad, and our environment at home.)

So, under guise of a very wilted brain, I am returning to a discussion of Twilight, it having re-entered my consciousness with the new Eclipse movie.  Only this time I’m approaching it from a sociological perspective and not an “isn’t-Robert-Pattinson-so-much-cuter-than-that-Lautner-guy” perspective.

There has been much discussion of the sexual conservativism of Mormon Stephanie Meyer’s books (the lesson of “sure, dear, sneak a vampire up to your bedroom every night, just don’t, you know, have, like, sex with him. “)

But the truly old fashioned aspect of the books relates to sex as in gender roles, rather than to sex (or the lack thereof) as an activity.  Frankly, when viewed through this lens, the appeal of the books to middle-aged women (the mothers or grandmothers of the target teen audience) is really kind of sad.

Much is made in the movies of a love triangle between Bella and her vampire suitor Edward and werewolf suitor Jacob, but, frankly, in the books – spoiler alert- Edward wins hands (ahem) down.

No, the true choice for Bella (as written) is not between Edward and Jacob, but between a) Edward, a life of very ample financial security, sex (finally) and devoted, if controlling, companionship, and b) having a life on her own—that is, going to college, having a career (vampires have to keep too low a profile to pursue work or renown in any meaningful way), having an ongoing relationship with her birth family, having children (although this one doesn’t come up for a while), having her choice of friends, having to wear sunblock, and (though rarely mentioned) eating food.   (Edward sort of sums all these things up in “having a soul”.)

This choice, if you think about it, sounds an awful lot like the choices faced by many women in the past (and currently in much of the world) in marriage.   Going from one set of fairly controlling males (the father and his sphere) to another (the husband and his sphere).   Trading off the possibility of independent personal development for material security and sex with a sole partner.

Even more strange from a feminist perspective is the fictional fact that Bella feels forced to make her choices quickly primarily because of her vanity.  (Okay, and hormones.)  She can’t stand to delay a transformation to vampiredom, even to go to college for a couple of years, because it will cause her to become “older” than her vampire beau.  She feels the tick of a biological clock that is not based on reproductivity but firm thighs and an unlined countenance.

Yes, young love is powerful.  But why do older women (much to their own embarrassment) read the books so avidly?

The only answer I can come up with (and I should know) is that Edward promises to take care of everything.   He is handsome, considerate, unconditionally loving, but, more importantly, extremely attentive to detail.  He loves to buy presents.   He arranges for house cleaners.  He cooks!  He carries Bella around, never ever complaining about how heavy she is.  One big reason he wants to get married is simply to be allowed to pay Bella’s bills.

The modern older woman a) rarely has anyone carry her groceries much less herself, and b) generally has to pay her own bills.

Of course, the success of the books probably also arises from the fact that even as Bella makes some very unliberated choices, she ends up repeatedly saving the day, and generally doing adventurous, independent, types of things.   (All the while being carried at moments, and having important bills, such as medical and travel, paid.)

It’s interesting that the non-Mormon director and screenwriter of Eclipse, presumably sensitive to feminist issues, actually change the dialogue to have Bella say that her motivation for becoming a vampire is to be her truest self (rather than her love of Edward.)   While the change may be intended to promote the idea of strong women, it ends up meaning that Bella’s choice is for wealth, supermodel looks, superhero/bloodthirsty strength.  (And still no college or family!)  Somehow the doing-it-all-for-love part seemed better.   (Especially given the carrying.)  (And the saving the day.)

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What Part of “Enough Already!” Doesn’t the Gulf Oil Understand?

Posted July 5, 2010 by ManicDdaily
Categories: news
Tags: , , , , , ,

Lots of horrible videos of the spread of Gulf oil on youtube and elsewhere.

Doesn’t that stupid oil understand the U.S. news cycle?

Doesn’t it realize that it’s gone on for days and days, weeks, months.  Same old same old.

If all the someones (preferably in the Obama administration) who we are really really mad at would just do the right thing (what they are supposed to, whatever that is, to stop this thing), we could just sit back and do what we are supposed to do, what we sort of like to do, what we always do do at least, when it comes to fossil fuels – use large amounts of the stuff until the price gets prohibitive (again), and then be surprised and angry (again).

But we really do hate to see dolphins die.   And hear of turtles burning.  And find (aerially) huge purple slicks upon the sea.  We are kind people.  We like shining seas.   (Not that kind of shining.)

But we just don’t want to think about this anymore.

So, come on, oil!  What part of “enough already!” don’t you understand?

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Eclipse/Airbender/Whizzing Fit Bodies/Why?

Posted July 5, 2010 by ManicDdaily
Categories: news, Twilight Saga
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Whizzing Fit Body (In Heels)

What does it mean that the two (by far) top selling movies this weekend are The Twilight Saga: Eclipse, taking in an anticipated $181 million in six days, and The Last Airbender, taking in a very unanticipated $70 million in five?

  1. That American moviegoers couldn’t give a rotten tomato for what professional critics say.
  2. That the male members of families, couples, households going to Eclipse had to see something, and (according to moviegoing statistics) only 20% could be coerced into spending 90 minutes with Tayler Lautner’s abs.
  3. That for all the hype about Team Edward and Team Jacob, the team people really belong to is Team Jasper as played by Jackson Rathbone ( in both movies).
  4. That a lot of households had air conditioners on the blink.
  5. That in times where solutions to problems seem truly intractable, not only beyond execution, but beyond knowledge, there is something beguiling about mayhem that results not from societal, political, economic or natural forces, but, primarily, from the vengeful character of a single good-looking, and possibly destructible, individual.
  6. Aren’t stories with tons of plotlines, subcharacters, flashbacks, unknown connections, secret powers—fantasies that almost need a diagram for anyone but the cognoscienti to follow—fun?  At least rich sources for argument? (Making all that time you thought was wasted reading the books and/or watching the cartoons finally worthwhile.)
  7. Who cares if the actual dialogue is execrable?
  8. Seemingly, moviegoers really do like seeing very fit people whizz around in semi-computer-generated martial art mode.   My concern is that there’s no real “control” to test this supposition, i.e. few alternatives.  Personally, I think at least 80% of the audience at my Eclipse viewing would have been perfectly happy with fewer fight scenes; the other 20% of the audience did not look very happy in any case.

Caveat – all comments on The Last Airbender are based on secondary sources, including those extremely uninfluential reviews.

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More About Guns (And Personhood)

Posted July 4, 2010 by ManicDdaily
Categories: news, Stress, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , ,

Elephant With Gun (Sorry, a Repeat on a Busy Day)

I’ve been thinking a lot about guns lately – not particularly because it’s the 4th of July –but because this blog has gotten recent thoughtful comments from someone who is much better informed about gun types and usage than I am.  Also, I’ve been staying in a house with someone who has an active interest in recreational shooting.

I am a non-apologetic supporter of fairly restrictive gun control.   I live in a city; I move in crowds, largely on public transportation.  But my antipathy for readily available guns does not just arise from the fact that I don’t want to get shot in a public space.  (I don’t.)

It doesn’t even arise from the fact that both me and my dog Pearl get totally freaked out by the crack of gunfire up here in the uncrowded countryside.  (We do.)

What really concerns me is madness both as a term for anger, and a term for craziness (they really do overlap.)

What concerns me even more is the combination of madness and power.

Guns are the metallic distillation of power; they pack, as it were, a very great deal of punch; brass knuckles raised to the nth degree.

I’m guessing that punch is one of the reasons recreational shooting is so popular; I’m guessing that it provides a taste of power, excitement, control, release, kickback; a discipline at which one can become skilled and also charged.

I do understand that.  Sometimes you feel like you are jumping out of your skin; sometimes even very cool humans have to physically let off steam.

I’m not saying that gun owners use guns in that way.  I just don’t have the experience to know.  The only time I ever fired a handgun I fell down.

But I do have experience of human nature; of how angry, crazed, mad, people can become, sometimes unexpectedly, sometimes less so.   I especially worry about how that type of anger, madness, may be abetted by a culture that supports a “tit for a tat” as a short-form equation of justice and also as an ultimate deterrent.

I know that hostility for guns may come more naturally to me than others.  I was raised by a mom who was a longtime pacifist; a dad who was an old school turn-the-other-cheek Christian.  More importantly perhaps, I I’ve been lucky enough to have had enough emotional support and societal favor that my ego is not continually on the line.   A sense of personal validity was, thankfully, instilled a long time ago.   As a result, it takes a fair amount of aggravation to make me feel truly “dissed;” even when I have that aggravation, I’m pretty good at just (eventually) swallowing it.

I am sure that most gun owners are not that different from me; that they don’t misuse their guns or assault weapons, view them as tools to support their personhood.

But the fact is that there are many people who do misuse guns; sometimes serially, sometimes just a terrible once.  The availability of a handgun or assault weapon can allow a breaking point to break a very great deal.

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Fourths of July Past – Swimming Pool Beauty Contests – In Search of Sparklers

Posted July 3, 2010 by ManicDdaily
Categories: Uncategorized, Vicissitudes of Life, writing
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

Sparkler?

The 4th of July was a day of mixed blessings for me.  Oh, I was proud of my country sure.  In the years before 1967-68, when I was also ten or under (oops!), it was hard for me not to think of the U.S. with anything but absolute pride.   My parents had either fought in, or been very marked by, World War II, and the feeling of the U.S. as the ultimate good guy, the savior of the world, was strongly imprinted on me.

Already, of course, there were doubts about what was going on in Vietnam, but I felt with childish certainty (strengthened by the fact that the beginning of the war was associated with the martyred John F. Kennedy), that the U.S. had, at least, entered into that conflict trying to help people.

So what marred my childhood experience of the 4th was not any doubt in the indivisible goodness of my country and countrymen, but, well, beauty contests.

My uninformed sense is that the juvenile pageant circuit is considerably larger and more professionalized now, accompanied both by heftier prizes and far thicker applications of eyeliner.

In my day, these were extremely local events, held at our local swimming pool.  Which means, yes, that they involved a bathing suit portion.  As well as a talent portion.   I don’t remember any evening gown portion, but occasionally there was bicycle decorating—crepe paper bunting was used.  Sometimes, it seems to me that the contestants were also draped in bunting, but I have a feeling that this may have been only part of my mother’s ingenuity.  In other words, I may have been the only contestant who wore bunting.  (Yes, it was red, white and blue.)

There was no congeniality part—since everyone knew each other that would probably have been considered a hurtful popularity contest.  (As if the rest of it wasn’t! )  (Some bitterness there?)

I don’t mean to impugn my mother, although she was the instigator of my participation in these activities.   She bought the new bathing suits, arranged for whatever bunting was applied, listened and encouraged my choice of “talent”, and, after the inevitable defeat always always to a girl named Karen A. (whose full name I will not use in this internet-find-your-old-friends world), she complained bitterly at the bias and short-sightedness of the judges.  (They chose Karen A., according to my mom, because her parents were super popular at the pool, i.e. they drank and partied. )

Of course, I knew there was more—even my mother would admit it eventually.   Dimples.  A certain sassiness of hips.  A two piece suit and culique of eyeliner (even way back then.)   And even more importantly — a sparky conviction which Karen A. had and I didn’t a) that the contest was fun and  b) that she definitely deserved to win it.

On my mother’s behalf, she, a brunette, was born with what was then charitably called a “Roman nose.”  It actually gave her face a striking handsomeness.  But she grew up in the age of Shirley Temple, Ginger Rodgers, Betty Grable.   And when her daughter was born short-nosed and blonde, it felt miraculous.   How could a daughter with such innate advantages not win whatever contest came her way!? !

I don’t know why I kept trying. (Correction—I don’t know why my mom kept me trying.)  I guess the only answer is that people repeat their mistakes.  (See e.g. the U.S. government and foreign wars started ostensibly to help protect fledging “democracies”.)

I say, the day held mixed blessings.  In the evening, when suburban pre-much-airconditioning Maryland finally cooled down enough for us to leave the pool, we had fireworks.  Funny little black smoking worms that my brother was permitted to light on our back patio, flame-emitting cones that only my Dad could touch, eyes averted, and sparklers, many sparklers that, even as kids, we could wave about in almost any way we wished.

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