j and i went shopping today. this is only notable insofar as it is the first time i’ve been “shopping” for two years. seriously – i have bought myself almost no new clothing in two years.

for the most part, i don’t mind. when we were saving for our trip, i only had to remind myself how far the amount i wanted to spend on that new top would go in thailand to convince myself i didn’t truly *need* it. and i didn’t need it. i had plenty of perfectly fine, servicable clothes in my wardrobe and i’m not much of a shopper anyway.

but now that i once again have some disposable income, i’m finding it hard to let go of my tightwad ways. for example, i popped into monsoon - the shop that most closely matches my “girly side” (i bought my wedding outfit from there). monsoon is a bit pricey, but not extravagant by any means – probably the equivalent of ann taylor store in the states.

i’m not usually a skirt and dress girl, but the summer collection was really beautiful, and there was a skirt there that my heart just skipped a beat over. linen and perfectly cut and vivid and gorgeous.

it was £60. that’s not terribly expensive, but it just a little more than i normally pay for such things. and in spite of my heart going pitter patter, i didn’t get it. i have spent exactly £0 on clothes for two years, and i didn’t let myself get the one thing i truly loved because it was probably £20 overpriced.

the stupidest bit? i ended up spending £20 on a rug that was on sale that we definitely didn’t even need.

and i think it’s part of a recent pattern of just not treating myself well overall. always putting myself last. guilt over spending money on something “frivolous”. i’ve been getting by with “cheap and cheerful” for so long now, that i don’t feel i deserve anything better. i find myself doing the same with all kinds of other little things as well – not buying myself new glasses even though i desperately need them, putting off my dental checkup even though my tmj is killing me, buying the generic showergel even though it dries my skin, buying the horrible cheap sheets because the all cotton ones i adore are just “too expensive”.

i don’t think i need to splash out all the time, and i never want to be one of those people who are always “treating themselves” at the expense of their credit cards. but i shouldn’t feel like a terrible person for wanting something nice every once in a while. i shouldn’t castigate myself for wanting a pretty skirt, just because. i need to lighten up on myself, be a little gentler. i deserve better from me. because if i don’t value myself, how can i expect others to?

so i promptly came home and spent £100 on a pair of running shoes.

*shrug* go figure.

cake – short skirt, long jacket

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this weekend has had the kind of glorious weather we don’t get so often around these parts – 25C (that’s near 80 for you fahrenheit folk) and sun sun sun. if there’s one thing you learn to appreciate living in London, it’s good weather – you gotta take advantage when you can.

so we’ve been spending most of the past two days out-of-doors. hung out at our friend’s kerryn and tracey’s yesterday for an impromptu bbq and poker/video evening. and today we just headed down to the park to lay out on the grass with some beer and a few books. heaven.

when we were first looking for a flat after getting back from our travels, a huge part of what attracted us to this place was its fantastic location. for me, having close proximity to green space, quaint shopping areas, transportation and friends nearby has really made all the difference. sure, we could have found someplace larger for cheaper a bit further out (as j initially wanted to), but i have no doubt that this was the right choice. i adore being able to walk to the park, walk to my friends, and easy access to nearly everything i could need. but the park just makes me so happy.

—-

and speaking of travelling, i can’t help but think back to a year ago today when j and i were boarding a plane, embarking on the biggest adventure of our lives. i’m more than a little nostalgic for that sense of anticipation and excitement and all that i didn’t know was yet to come.

i miss it.

(i grew to hate jack johnson as we were travelling [talk about ubiquitous] – but for some reason, today he provides a nice little hit of fond memory. the smell of ocean, the taste of banana pancake, the chirp of geckoes, the sense of ease.)

jack johnson – better together

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it kind of crept up on me over the past year, but recently i’m realising i’ve inadvertently become a vegetarian. again.

back when i was first entering high school, in a tiny act of rebellion or parental spite or misguided dieting, i decided to stop eating red meat. in fact, when i first started, i don’t think i had any more high-minded or noble purpose than the vain hope of perhaps losing a few pounds and setting myself apart from the crowd in some way. the only vegetarians i had run into then were the pale, stringy types who idly pushed their stuff around on their plates with a fork and picked gingerly at birdseed, all the while protesting that flesh was “gross”. and (my) flesh did gross me out, so i decided to restrict my dietary intake in a socially acceptable, even lauded way. i sold the idea to my parents by saying i was doing it for “health reasons”, and coming from families chock full of heart disease, (and betting, i’m sure, that the whole phase would last all of 2 weeks) they agreed to let me try.

the funny thing is, i used to love meat. rare, bloody meat. cured, fatty meat. thick, juicy meat. i loved steak. i loved pepperoni. sausages and chops. i used to steal bits of raw ground hamburger out of the frying pan. i used to down raw strips of bacon.

by all rights, this little experiment should have been an utter failure.

but amazingly, stubbornly, i stuck with it. i never lost any weight, of course (and looking back, i didn’t actually need to) but i continued on with it simply to prove that i could. to show my parents i could live the way i wanted. over time, it became a lifestyle by force of habit, and i never really thought much about why i’d started. i even went vegan for two years in college, eating no animal products at all, just to see what it was like. all told, i stuck with it for 14 years.

and then one day in 2000, i made myself a hamburger. and that was that. i ended much like i started – for no really good reason other than a whim.

so it’s pretty clear i was never vegetarian for moral reasons – i think there’s a reason humans are at the top of the food chain and have eaten meat for 2 million years. we’re designed to. i have no compunctions about killing animals for food, or qualms about the idea of eating dead carcass. even as a (not-so-strict) vegetarian i’d had the very rare piece of fish or chicken when at other people’s house. so it didn’t bother me to start suddenly eating meat again.

and i ate meat happily for many years, whenever i felt like it. and then i moved here.

and found out that meat in london is really, *really* expensive. and it doesn’t taste the same. and i don’t really know how to cook it very well. but j, being from south africa, has always been a pretty hefty meat eater. so we were having meat a lot, for quite a while.

and then two things occurred contemporaneously somewhere in 2005: we began saving *hard* for our trip, and i saw a programme on chicken factories. now i’ve always known that animals bred for food are not treated particularly *well*, but what they showed happening at the chicken factory was just beyond the pale. i decided then and there that if i was going to eat meat, i was going to buy only the most ethically sourced meat i could find. to some people that might sound like a silly distinction – after all, the animals end up dead anyway – but to me it was the difference between consciously choosing to support humane farming methods, and just eating whatever happens to be on the shelf in the plastic wrap without looking too closely. i’m lucky enough to have the luxury of deciding what kind of food i want to buy, so i decided that perhaps i should put a little thought into it.

and once that decision was made, meat simply wasn’t in the budget anymore. i wasn’t interested in buying steaks at £10 each when i could buy a week’s worth of tofu products instead. surprisingly, j was in agreement. meat was phased out, soy was phased in. it all happened pretty seamlessly.

and since we’ve been back from our travels, that mentality seems to have stuck, for whatever reason. it’s not with any purposeful intent – we could buy and eat meat if we felt like it. we have lots of fish (yes, i know that’s not truly vegetarian) and beans and quorn. when we go shopping i ask j if he wants anything in particular, and he invariably says no. i think, “oh it’d be nice to make steak tonight”, but then just kind of let the idea drift off. on the rare occasion when we do have meat, it never tastes as good as i think it will. it never seems worth it in the end.

so we’ve become aimless mostly-veggies by default. halfway-sorta-but-not-really on purpose. kind of the way it happened the first time. we could change that – but neither of us truly wants to.

but, damn, i still love me some pepperoni.

the housemartins – me and the farmer

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vegetarianism

it’s a friday morning. i woke up at the leisurely hour of 9:00, and am sitting here nursing a giant mug of strong, sweet coffee, getting ready to dive into a book. the flat is flooded with sunlight, the cat is bathing in a small pool of it on the floor, a tantalisingly warm breeze floats through the open window, soaring, swelling strains of opera in the background… and a four day weekend stretching out in front of me.

it doesn’t get any better than this.

Maria Callas – un bel di vedremo (Puccini: Madama Butterfly)

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so it’s that time of year again, when i have to steel my moral backbone to resist caving in and satisfying my intense craving for peeps (which are available at the asda near me – but asda is the uk branch of walmart, which i refuse to patronise)

but my lovely, wonderful, and oh-so-sweet friend stacey has sent me a bumper crop fresh from minnesota!

okay – so it doesn’t *look* like a bumper crop. you’ll just have to believe me when i tell you there were a lot more… originally.

stacey, i’m yours if you’ll have me.

of montreal – spoonful of sugar

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added: oh. my. life – stacey has just clued me into the passover peeps. hilarious. one word: frogs.

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from my friend v:

So my sister-in-law called me today all bubbly. she said she had to tell me this trippy story.

She was on the phone ordering plants from a nursery in New Mexico. she told the person her name and he said “Oh I know someone of that same name in massachusetts” to which my sister-in-law replied “That’s me- that’s my family! Who do you know?” The person said they knew B [v's husband].

So I asked if the person was [another friend], as he is the only male I know in New Mexico who would know B’s last name.

No, sister-in-law said. She told me his name and it was G [my ex husband]. I said, “He is in New Mexico???” and she said he was.

Wierd eh? Anyhow small world. And what the heck is he doing in New Mexico?

which is all god’s way of reminding me that I owe G an email… if you’re reading, i hope you’re well.

cause this song makes me think of g:

jurassic 5 – concrete schoolyard

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so i’ve finally completed my marathon attempt at citizenship in under 2 weeks! put my application in today, and (fingers crossed) should hear something back in the next few days/weeks/months.

it’s all over but the crying. i’m running around the flat practicing the lyrics to “god save the queen“… because, lord help me, i *cannot* get “my country tis of thee” out of my head, and i don’t think they’d be very appreciative if i burst into a chorus of “land of the pilgrims’ pride” in the middle of the ceremony.

the smiths – the queen is dead

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sorry for being so quiet this weekend. as you can see, i’m working on tweaking the site just a tiny bit. Yay or nay? I might still play around with the banner some more.

but overall i think it’s a more polished look. what say ye?

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so yesterday i took my “Life in the UK” test – 20 minutes of my life that i’ll never get back. 24 questions that took me under 3 minutes to complete (and that was reading the questions twice!) what kind of questions could they ask me to prove i was sufficiently british and assimiliated, one might ask?

gems such as:

1. In Britain, how many children are there under the age of 19?
2. Who replaced Neville Chamberlain in 1940 as prime minister?
3. What year did women get the right to vote?
4. How many young people move on to higher education?
5. Where were bus crews recruited from in the 1950’s?

(answers below, if anyone cares)

I mean this is stuff lots of Brits don’t even know – what is the point? After living here for at least 3 years (the earliest you can get citizenship) either you can function in society or you can’t – but memorizing facts from the census won’t change that one way or another.

still, it was a hoop… so i had to jump. the lady at the test centre last night said, “You’re my first American – why do you want a British passport?” and I said, “Because I live *here* now.” people used to ask me all the time why i was here – i suppose the grass is always greener.

and now the last component is my application appointment on sunday. they take my application, make sure it’s complete, copy my passport, (rob me blind) etc. then it’ll take anywhere from 10 days (J’s turnaround time) to 6 months for them to decide. then I have to do the ceremony, swear allegiance to the queen, yadda yadda yadda – which takes another few weeks. *then* (and only then) i get to apply for the passport (and hope I don’t get selected for the new personal interview process, which takes even longer – right now they’re doing a phased implementation on this over the next year, with every new passport application requiring interview [including credit check, police check, etc] by next April).

blech.

on an entirely different note, here are some photos from my lunch hour walk the other day. can’t believe i’ve lived here all this time and never taken photos of this stuff.

answers are: 1. 15 million, 2. Winston Churchill, 3. 1918, 4. 1-in-3, 5. West Indies

husker du – something i learned today

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well, part one of my three-part plan for world domination citizenship in under two weeks is complete. i am now a bona fide permanent resident. everything else from this point out is optional.

of course, they did have to make me sweat. apparently my previous immigration snafu was never “closed out” of the system, which meant a long and anxious 6 hour wait before getting my precious clearance. argh. but finally i have my passport back in my hands, with the lovely word “indefinite” stamped in it.

no time to relax and celebrate though – dad arrives tonight!!

(and i’m *dying* to post about the newest proposition to put litterers on the dna database… but that will have to wait for another time.)

song of the day: qr5 – the easiest lines

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there’s a huge tempation, somedays, to use this space as a dumping ground for all my less attractive mind spews. undigested anxiety, strings of stress, knots of anger that sink in my stomach like rocks, or venom that bubbles to the surface. to get things out of my system and onto the page. let it all hang out, a typewritten tantrum.

or at other times, to write for people that i know read. cryptically referencing insider information meant only for them, dropping hints, trailing breadcrumbs in a forest of words. obliquely inviting expressions of caring and concern that i’m too shy to ask for. hoping someone reads between the lines, without my having to spell it out.

and then there are things i can’t tell *because* of who reads. things i am not at liberty to share with strangers, that remain hidden in the shadows of past and blurred memory. incomplete episodes, or embarrassing indiscretions that are best left unspoken. not so much secrets (though there are a few of those), as stories that are not mine to tell. restraining myself, respecting invisible boundaries, letting the fingers hover poised over the keys… then folding them into my lap while my mind races ahead.

the temptation is there somedays, to turn this blog into a journal, virtual confessional. twist it to my every emotional whim, spill the letters out in frustration, prayer, or joy.

but if i say “my blog is not my real life”, then i cannot turn my real life into a blog. and i know (in know!) that no matter how much i might want to write about it… not everyone wants to read about it.

i know (i know!) it’s a good rule of thumb, and most of the time i’m glad for it. but sometimes, somedays… it just kinda sucks.

sigh.

song of the day: knapsack – courage was confused

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the other day I wrote about applying for my indefinite leave to remain.

then, this weekend, I found out about the massive visa hikes. double and treble the fees (which were fairly substantial to begin with) from 1st april.

if i run flat out, i might *just* be able to squeeze my applications in under the wire.

so now, my next two weeks look something like this:

15th: in-person application for my indefinite leave to remain (permanent residency), £500

15th-19th: dad arrives for visit

19th-21st: cram like crazy for my “life in the uk” test (rote memorization from the approved book, £10)

21st: take (and hopefully pass) “life in the uk” test, £35

21st-25th: complete application for citizenship and assemble documentation, references, etc.

25th: in-person application for citizenship,£200 + £35 administration fee

i hope i can pull it off. it’s madness, i tell ya’.

song of the day: the primitives – crash

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i’ve been mulling poetry lately. returning to an old love, which at various times in my life has sustained me in ways i could not, would not, begin to circumscribe with the fences that words create. i have read poetry which got me through the darkness of a never-ending night and shadows too big to fight. and i have read poetry that filled my heart with such pure, oxygenated, exquisite beauty, i thought it might pop in a last breath of exuberance. and i’ve written both good and bad poetry, fingers flying with the intense immediacy of the need to purge or perish. i’ve wandered away from poetry in happier, busier times… but once you’ve had poetry stir your soul to light, carry you on its wave from hope to despair and back to hope again – after that, you will never truly leave it.

and, not coincidentally, i’ve recently found myself returning to the faithful old lyrics of bobby zimmerman. i’ve written before about the threads of folk music that run through my life, and the colour he plays in that skein. the refrain of guitar and plaintive voice that keen in perfect pitch with the pain of generations – the timeless anguish and shattered hope that each age feels as sharply, as poignantly as the first ever did. and over the years, the academics have debated whether bob dylan is more poet than musician, more lyricist than artist, more bard than guitarist. they’ve written books and treatises, propounding criteria both for and against classification – trying to circumscribe with fences of words the ineffable themes and deep harmonies bound together with the perfect turn of phrase or chord that make a bob dylan song more than just a poem set to music. and they invariably say things like:

The problem many critics have with calling song lyrics poetry is that songs are only fully realized in performance. It takes the lyrics, music, and voice working in tandem to unpack the power of a song, whereas a poem ideally stands up by itself, on the page, controlling its own timing and internal music. Dylan’s lyrics, and most especially his creative rhyme-making, may only work, as critic Ian Hamilton has written, with “Bob’s barbed-wire tonsils in support.”

and in that sort of analysis, i cannot help but feel they miss the forest for the trees. that bob dylan’s poems are set to music, that they cannot be dissected, parsed without the context of voice and instrument and rhythm makes them, to my mind some of the most complex poems written. the words, rather than being laid bare and sacrified to the elements, are nestled in layer upon layer of lovingly spun emotion. the lyrics are inextricably intertwined with elements of a melodic pulse far older and more evocative than any written alphabet. and that makes them *more* than poetry, not less.

it’s impossible to listen and not believe that bob dylan is one of the great poets of our time. so in returning to poetry, i am also returning to dylan – and in returning to dylan, i find once again the kind of poetry that lifts me, fills me, bears me along when it’s too much to bear. the love of a life, for a lifetime.

it’s good to be back.

Bob Dylan – Shelter from the storm

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Bob Dylan – Most Of The Time

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Bob Dylan – I Shall be Released

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Bob Dylan – A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall

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Bob Dylan – Masters of War

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Bob Dylan – Farewell Angelina

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so i’ve spent the day filling out my “indefinite leave to remain” application. this is the last interaction with immigration i am legally required to have unless i elect to apply for citizenship (which i will, but not for another month or so yet).

as most of you know, i’ve had a few bad experiences with immigration in the past, which have left me traumatised. i no longer breeze through the queue at the airport with the confident assurance of someone with the right to enter the country. for the past 4 years, i have been but a visitor here, by the kind leave of the british government – a message which was driven home in the most direct way possible when i was physically escorted onto a plane home. yet even with those mental scars, i’ve always believed that a country has the right (and the duty) to impose whatever immigration restrictions they feel are necessary for the nation’s safety and well-being. they may not make *my* life any easier, but that doesn’t mean i don’t fully appreciate the need for them. and by any standard, the u.k.’s procedures are extremely reasonable and straightforward. even after my debacle, i was still allowed to come back and work and live – even if i did piss my pants every time i re-entered.

when i last visited the kind and lovely people at the immigration and nationality directorate in croydon, it was to apply for my spousal visa just after our wedding (i was here on a work permit prior to that, but a spousal visa gave me more job flexibility). i took jonno along for moral support, and lugged along a giant file full of documentation arranged and cross-indexed by any category they could possibly wish to see. and to be honest, i think the lady at the counter wanted to weep with joy for a customer who a) spoke english as a native language and b) came prepared to make her job easier. she took all of 4 minutes to photocopy and stamp her approval, sent us away to wait for the 2 hours to have the visa issued, and we were done by lunchtime. whew!

but “indefinite leave to remain” is a different kettle of fish altogether. where it is the last stop on the immigration train before becoming a permanent resident (with most of the same rights as a citizen except voting and passport), they tend to be a little more persnickety. when i last left the i.n.d. office, the woman reminded me that i should keep any and all documentation and post for the next two years. and so i have – that same file is about 3x bigger now. i have every bank statement, every phone bill, every pap smear reminder the doctor has ever sent… all in preparation for this day.

which is why i’ve spent the past 4 hours sitting crosslegged on the lounge floor, surrounded by a vast-yet-tidy sea of papers, trying to come up with the perfect combination of documents to satisfy the following criteria:

Evidence that you have the funds to maintain and accommodate yourself and any dependants
without recourse to public funds. The evidence must be formal documents such as bank
statements, a building society passbook, or wage slips for you and/or your partner (but please
don’t send us travellers cheques or credit cards). If a relative or friend is supporting you, the
evidence should be a letter from him/her confirming this together with formal documents
showing their financial situation (see Note 3).

Note 3: The documents showing the funds available to you should cover at least the last 3 months. We do not accept internet or
cashpoint statements as evidence of funds.

We need documentary evidence indicating that you and your partner are still living together as a couple and have done so during the past two years. Ideally, this evidence should indicate joint commitments in your finances, other responsibilities and social activities spread across the past 2 years/ 24 months.

Items of correspondence or other documentary evidence from sources of the kind listed below would be acceptable. These should be divided fairly equally between each of the two years, and be addressed jointly in both your names wherever possible. If you do not have any or enough in your joint names, items addressed to each of you individually may be acceptable, provided they show the same address and you provide roughly the same number of items in each of your names. The items of evidence should be from at least 5 different official sources. Ideally, a total of 20 items of evidence should be provided.

• telephone bills or statements
• gas bills or statements
• electricity bills or statements
• water rates bills or statements
• council tax bills or statements
• mortgage statements or agreement
• bank or building society statements/passbooks
• tenancy agreement
• insurance policies/certificates or other correspondence
• loan agreements
• AA, RAC or similar membership
• membership of sports or social clubs
• membership of a religious organisation
• correspondence from government departments or agencies (eg HM Revenue and Customs, Inland Revenue, Department for
Work and Pensions) including evidence that you have declared your relationship to the appropriate government bodies.
• correspondence from GP or local health authority

Mind you, this is not exactly *hard* – particularly since i paid attention, and therefore was warned well in advance (as opposed to other expats i know who were unpleasantly surprised!) but it is laboriously time consuming. boiling 2 years of marriage down to 20 documents is a depressingly robotic exercise. as far as the home office is concerned, my marriage is not the sum of the dreams and tears we’ve faithfully invested in making our relationship work, day in, day out. to them, it is nothing more than the sum of what can be proven through institutionalised behaviour – putting money in the bank, paying taxes, registering births. more depressing is trying to decide if i should go the cheap route (£335 by post – but entrusting the Royal Mail with my passports and application and original documents) or the in-person route (£500 and a day off work). I’m spoilt for choice, i tell ya.

still, after 3 work permit applications, one forced removal, one spousal visa, and several dreadful knotted stomachs at heathrow – after 4 years of stringing visa upon visa toegther, there is finally a light at the end of the tunnel. after this, i will no longer be a temporary tolerated guest, but an acknowledged permanent resident. after the years of mixed feelings, difficult adjustments, and nerve-wracking experiences, i will have earned through my persistence, my stubbornness, my sacrifice, the *right* to live here indefinitely.

should ease a few butterflies in the immigration queue at the airport.

song of the day: wilco – box full of letters

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british immigration

i have an eye infection. blech.

i am loathe to call it “conjunctivitis” because it sounds about as nice as saying i’ve got leprosy. but my left eye is swollen and painful and bright red and yucky. as my friend stacey would say, i feel *pretty*.

and so i’m sitting at home today. i felt kinda lame calling in sick for an eye infection, but no one likes to share a computer keyboard with the office leper. plus, it hurts. i can’t even put my contact lenses in, so i am sitting here in my ancient 5-prescriptions-too-weak glasses, squinting at the screen from 6 inches away through my bleary, smeary eye and getting a massive headache.

j, of course, thinks it’s hilarious. and i can’t stop touching my stupid eye.

aren’t you supposed to outgrow this kind of thing along with babyfat and security blankets? i thought so.

song of the day: matisyahu – close my eyes

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after i got home from work this evening, i changed out of my work clothes and went for a long run in the cool dark air.

got back and watched my favourite t.v. show, “masterchef” while stretching.

took a long hot shower and got into pyjamas.

had a big bowl of pasta and a large glass of red wine.

it’s 8:00.

life is good.

song of the  day: the cure – friday, i’m in love

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so j and i’ve been looking for a cat for a few weeks now. part of the difficulty is that all the shelters have said something along the lines of “we don’t place cats individually” or “cats need access to the outdoors” or “cats need companionship during the day”, in essence implying that my desire for a single, indoor cat is akin to animal cruelty. and as for needing companionship during the day? um, last i checked most cats sleep up to 18 hours a day and are naturally nocturnal – apparently working professionals cats are like the sad latchkey children of the cat kingdom, home alone for a whole *8* hours a day, pining away for their owners.

yeah, right.

so, giving up on the shelters, i started looking at local classifieds. where unsavoury, disreputable types are selling regular run-of-the-mill moggies for up to £200! (that’s nearly $400 for my stateside readers) . and i *know* there are truckloads of stray cats being sold as housepets, because *none* of the available males i’ve enquired about are neutered.

if you’ve ever spent a day around an unneutered male, you understand there is no way those cats live indoors. two words: territorial spraying. so the neutering is a bit of a dealbreaker for us, since i don’t wish to forfeit my entire rental deposit, no matter how much i want a cat.

so after being turned down by 4 shelters, and 4 private enquiries that didn’t pan out, it’s getting very frustrating – particularly since i have all the patience of a fruit fly. i want a cat *now*! i’m trying to be zen about it, and failing miserably.

i just know there’s a cat out there waiting for us, needing someone to love. and i know eventually we’ll find it. it’s just the anxious anticipation and the searching that’s so hard.

song of the day: jets to brazil – cat heaven

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yes. this.

As for your question: what am I going to do with my life? I must say (emphasis on the must) that this is a question I ask myself all the time. “What am I going to *DO* with my life?”

As if I were not already doing *IT*. I mean, does the part of life-living that involves kissing/playing/suffering/caring/worrying/feeling exhilarated/then bored/then happy/then sad again… don’t we deserve to credit ourselves with all that? Isn’t *THIS*, and nothing more than this, what we know in our hearts will be flashing before us when our bodies give out and the final curtain comes down?

When I ask myself the “DO” question and start feeling depressed I “do” this:

I imagine a world without resumés, without virtual “professional success measuring sticks,” without people we know who are more or less accomplished in their careers. I imagine the peace of mind of feeling that I don’t have to do anything with my life except live passionately and with integrity. And then? What I “do” then is focus on the fact that *THAT* world–that ideal–already exists, but only if I want it to.

But–the question is–do I want that? Am I ready for the clicking realization that comes from clicking together my ruby slippers? Do I really want that ideal, that peace, that simplicity, that quiet-mindedness? Or do I value my ambitions above all that?

Think about it, Jen, if you are working for your *SELF* (and not for the recognition of others), does it really matter if it takes 9 or 19 or 90 years for the realization of your next big “project”? Don’t rush yourself! Be calm and quiet and serene. Never let the rush inhibit the free flow of all the magnificent creativity that everyone who knows you already knows you possess.

My advice to myself–which I share with you–is that the universe is *ALWAYS conspiring* to help you, Jen, even when it seems that quite the opposite is true. Allow yourself the time and space to get in synch with that universal jive or force or beat or whatever. If you quietly surrender to your creative intuition instead of trying to dictate to it, then you can’t go wrong.

song of the day: colin hay – overkill

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*why* do i decide to do these things? why do i fuck with things that aren’t broken?

upgrading my wordpress installation (the database and machinery from whence this blog springs) and running into a few technical difficulties. at this point, the archives calendar isn’t working and the blogroll is out of order.

please pardon the interruption and any chaos or random disarray you may encounter. i’m just a doofus, trying to figure it out as i go along.

eta: okay, I seem to have got the permalinks and archives working again (through editing .htaccess and mod_rewrite permissions – don’t ask me what that means!)

still trying to sort the blogroll…

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brilliant.

via indexed

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there’s an interesting little experiment that’s been taking place in our household these past ten days: jonno is cooking.

now jonno *can* cook, but rarely does. back when he was first wooing me, he used to make simple but tasty dinners for me all the time. but since the honeymoon ended, it’s just been a function of the division of labour in our relationship; i really enjoy cooking, and am halfway decent at it, so 99% of the time, i am head chef at chez nous. now, every once in a while j will bring home some ready made pasta, or a roasted chicken as a change of pace – but most nights, i take the time and effort to put together a fresh and healthy meal from scratch. and i don’t mind doing it, even when i’m tired or cranky, because j is usually very good about letting me know how much he appreciates it and it makes me happy.

about two weeks ago, however, he came home with a cheeky attitude that rubbed me the wrong way – a sense of expectation and entitlement that made me feel taken for granted. now i usually don’t mind doing the cooking or shopping – but it sure as hell ain’t my *job*. and it appeared that that point needed a little renewed emphasis.

so we’ve swapped roles for a while. j has the chore of planning and cooking healthy meals after a long day at work, and i spend my evenings relaxing and waiting to be served. so far his efforts have not been too bad – we’ve only had frozen fish and chips once, and steak and potatoes twice. there have been, however, several evenings of eerily familiar dishes resembling many of my trusty standbys. i suppose imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so i should be pleased he likes my cooking enough to recreate it himself.

in the meantime, i’m just trying to enjoy this while it lasts, or until his repetoire is exhausted. all i can say is, it’s nice having a personal live in chef, and i’m beginning to realise just how good he really has it. and i only hope after this role-reversal experience, he comes to his senses and realises it too.

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