polly

Assignment #3: birthday

I am an only child.  Sure I have a sibling, but in my brain, I'm still an only child.  I can amuse myself for hours, do not like to share my toys and am most happy when it's quiet.  When my mother revealed that she was pregnant and that I was going to be a sister,  I said I did not want to be a sister.  She said I was going to be one anyway.  I was unamused.  When LilBro came home, I asked how long he was going to stay.  Mom said forever and I cried.  It wasn't a great beginning.  The months that followed were not good for me.  I was only five and couldn't quite grapple with the intense envy I felt for the new baby.  I mean, I had gone from being someone to being someone else's older sister.  I began having nightmares and wetting the bed.  I lost so much "baby fat" that my school uniform had to be resized twice.  I would hide under the dining table and blithely turn a deaf ear to being called.  My hair began falling out, darkened noticeably, lost all its curl.  There are no cute pictures of me holding a baby.  As an adult, anyone would say I was sinking into depression; as a child, everyone just waited for me to grow out of it.  Perhaps it was guilt that prompted the most lavish birthday that followed.

beloved

Assignment #2: music

When I was seventeen, I ordered a set of classical music CDs from Columbia House.  Upon receipt of them, I was immediately drawn to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata (which I prefer in D minor).  I played it on loop, wrote reams of (bad) poetry, read his encyclopaedia entry.  Fifteen minutes was too short.  I visited my local library and borrowed all his CDs; I sat cross-legged in front of my floor to ceiling window, watching the crab-apple trees outside blossom white and pink, crescendoes crashing in my ears.

I fell in love.  Hard.

For a good month, all I did was listen to Ludwig.  I felt his pain, his torture.  I felt his frustration and rage.  I felt his quiet sorrow.  I even related to  his pithy attempts at feverish jocularity (which always felt stilted and awkward).  This man was made for teen angst.

It is no great secret, then, that whenever I hear the Sonata (standing in my lobby, on hold with a certain cable company) I am immediately transported back to the windy Spring days of 1998.  I connect that melody with the beautiful tragedy of the asymptote, which is ever-diminishing even as it carries on to infinity.  I think of university applications and awkward (unsent) infatuation letters.  Mostly, though, I remember the thick sadness that coated my movements, a sadness that (after a while) became addictive.

I hadn’t heard the sonata in its entirety for many years.  Until today.  Its power has not waned.  I know that I can only give it a few hours before I must stop listening.  Its dark thrall is as enticing and as seductive as it ever was.  It would be too easy to wallow, to drink deep of his melancholy.

mirrors

Assignment #1: internal monologue

How much of ourselves do we really reveal to those around us?  Even those to whom we're close?  Can anyone really know what we're thinking?  Humans seem to be such empathetic creatures, expressing sadness for others, feeling vicarious joy.  Sometimes, though, I wonder if indeed that's true empathy or just a reflection of our own experiences as we project our feelings on to others.  I mean, whenever I witness someone's pain (physical, emotional) my first instinct seems to be to measure how I would feel in that situation and judge whether that person is demonstrating the appropriate response.


I don't think we ever really think about the pain of others unless it directly relates to us.
There.
I said it.

foster care

So, I put my new relationship with Oscar to its first test last night - I went out for the night and left him to his own devices for about twelve hours.  Well, here's the list of damages:

1. Front Closet: annihilated.  Every hanger was on the floor and every shoe was thoroughly investigated.  The fact that he can open the closet door is pretty incredible in and of itself.
2. Plants: they were the true casualties...
• Bamboo plant: a housewarming gift from Senator.  Now mulch.
• Spider plant: her babies didn't survive the first afternoon; she was mauled last night.  She's recovering in the bedroom; I cannot guarantee her safety when I'm not home though.  More on that later.
3. My couch clearly lost a wrestling match.  I even covered it with a blanket that Oscar slept on, but no dice.  Blanket on floor; lots of new scratches on the couch

Sigh.

Oscar

Having never been a cat person (or a pet person, really), no one was more shocked than I when I accepted the ownership of Oscar.  He's a 16-month-old tuxedo tabby who is quiet, playful and has a cute way of bumping his entire body against your legs in order to get free pets from you.  He doesn't seem to eat a lot, uses his litter box (and then comes and tells you about it) and like to snuggle while you watch TV.

There is one slight problem: I'm allergic to the buttercup.  Not deathly or anything - the doctor says it will either get better or get worse - no way to tell without just giving it a shot.  So Oscar moved in on Thursday night.

Now Playing: Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows

Thanks to a rescue staged by LilBro and his trusty steed (Buick), I was able to see Sherlock Holmes: a Game of Shadows last night, starring Robert Downey Jr., Jude Law and Noomi Rapace, whose turn in the Swedish Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was indelible. 

My first thought after seeing this movie was: what would Sir Arthur Conan Doyle have thought?  Were he alive, I'm sure it would be: "Money money money, mon-ey... MON-AY!"  Having never made it through Doyle's work, I can't say whether it's true to text  (though some may have better insight than me); what I can say is that this Holmes/Watson pairing is fun and believable in their own way. 

In comparison to the staccato-quick original, Game of Shadows felt a bit sluggish: even though it wasn't much longer in run-time than most movies, I was restless two-thirds of the way through.  And, spoiler alert, I missed Rachel McAdams.  I thought Irene Adler was a perfect foil for Holmes; Madam Simza wasn't utilised as much more than a plot device, which was s wasteful shame.  And Moriarty?  well, for one of the best literary villains of all time, he was ... boring.  Mark Strong's turn as Lord Blackwood was much better.  If this is a setup for a threequel, they could have made more of an effort.  3 out of 5 stars.

oh me oh Maya

So 2012 isn’t starting off very well. I mean, a sprained ankle that get misdiagnosed and sticks me with a twelve-week cast? Yeah, that sucks. This means no escaping to a hot country for a week (or two), no conferences until April (when they’re all finished), no movie theatres or road trips… yeah, sucks.

And being back at work has been… a struggle. I have some amazing colleagues who have offered to shuttle me back and forth so I can at least avoid cabs to/from work (which would really be annoying as I live 2 minutes away) and my staff have been wonderful with coffee in the morning and print-job pickups. It’s just, by afternoon, I feel drained and sore. It can’t be good that I look forward to my pain meds more than I look forward to sleep.

Since I have been stuck at home, with nothing better to do, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Some of which is good: I was able to pay down my mortgage a whole year earlier with some clever negotiating. Some of it has been not-so-good, with some hard decisions being made. I read somewhere that 2012 is for the brave; for this inherent coward, 2012 is bound to be an uncomfortable year. Thanks a lot, Ancient Mayans.