Scarlett Letters

I know it's time for WorldCon because I dreamed last night about my ex and about Jay Lake, who died several years ago. We were all at WorldCon. Dream logic kicked in at that point. The former texted me a map of the harbor (which was called Paradise Pier but we weren't at Disney) near the hotel with all the docks marked off where tall ships were moored. He didn't ask me to meet him there, but I told him I was on my way. I got stuck watching a movie for a bit--some Indiana Jone-ish thing--while I was on my way, and then got a little lost. When I got finally there, he was wearing a purple velvetish pirate shirt and leather belt and being all distant and unconcerned about me. (I'd want to believe otherwise, given our history, but we always hope that sort of thing when love is lost. I'm still working through that.) Somewhere in this mishmash dream, I encountered Jay, and that encounter was mostly about hugging him. He hugged me back, but it was with this sort of "I have to hug you" attitude that seemed to have more to do with a sort of parental feeling of obligation than friendship. How delightful all around. :: irony ::

So WorldCon is this weekend. When San Jose was chosen for the site, I was really pleased: a WorldCon close to home with the assurance that friends I loved would be there, as well as the prospect of possibly going to the Rosicrucian Museum among other local delights. But things have changed since the site selection. As I reflect on the last couple of WorldCons I've attended, they had their bright spots but, overall, weren't awesome for me. This seems to be the way with me and conventions these days: I go, have some fun but also have some moments of real discomfort or unpleasantness that overshadow most of the goodness. So that's why I'm not going to WorldCon this year, despite a growing desire to do so (which has more, I suspect, to do with watching friends head out and with FOMO than an actual desire to go).

I feel like maybe it's a closing of the chapter for me. Last year, I didn't think about it much; I couldn't afford to go to Helsinki, much as I wanted to, and so it was a financial fait accompli. This year? I could totally have done it and chose not to. And I'm kind of OK with that. There are other things capturing my attention and other places I need to put my energy. Let's see what comes of those.

So . . . it's Mother's Day in the US. For those of us who lost their mothers young, it's always a tough day. I miss my mom. I was angry at her for years -- when she got sick, when she died. I was angry at her for how she dealt with my father's death, but that's mainly because at 11 years old, I didn't truly understand what she was mourning, and I was busy mourning, too. When I lived back east, Mothers' Day was the day I went to the cemetery. Fathers' Day, too. I had a lot of residual anger at my mom that I've worked my whole adult life to process and, somewhere around 10 years ago or so, it seems to have just evaporated. I'm sure that this was the result of a lot of years of therapy but, more importantly, I'm sure it was also the result of just getting older, accumulating more experience, thinking and processing everything that happened, and then letting go of the things I had no control over back then and things I'll never be able to change. This is part of the process of growing up, maturing -- in one fashion or another. I can love her for who she was and all that she brought with her. I can love her for what she tried to do and for what she succeeded in doing. I can love her for making me and my brother. I can love her.

I always wanted to be a mother. I very much wanted to have children. I think I've written about this here before: that I wanted to have a family, but I didn't want to do it alone. I considered single motherhood. I wrote up a list of the friends I thought I'd ask about donating sperm, though I never floated the suggestion with any of them. (My list today would be significantly different than it was back then, with one key exception.) But in the end, doing it with a partner was key, and I never quite managed to find that partner. (Not saying it won't happen, but the childbearing aspect is pretty much a non-starter at this point.) And so there are no children. It still makes me sad. And I still find myself thinking things like, "When I have a daughter . . ." I can't seem to break the habit.

On Facebook today, I've seen people saying things like:

• "And for all women who chose not to be moms: you made a valid choice that was right for you."


• "My deepest love and respect to any who have accepted that extraordinary challenge; to all who seek to do so; and to all who made the equally righteous choice to leave motherhood to others for one reason or another."


• "So, happy Mothers' Day to all you women out there; chances are that, even if you haven't mothered a human child, you've mothered a cat or a puppy or a friend in need. Cheers, all of you, all of us."

I find these posts enormously comforting. I made my choice for the right reasons, even though they were hard reasons. But they were the right ones; of this I am certain. It's a balm to me to see acknowledgment of those choices as valid and worthy.

And you know, if that last quote has any bearing at all, then for Flatbush, Merlin, Spanky, Sophie and Ezekiel, I've been a mother -- mother enough at any rate. And if it's not too self-aggrandizing to say so, I think maybe I've been a mother to a friend every now and then.

I'll take that, for what it's worth.

When I had my accident back in February and the insurance company totaled the car, I decided that I would go carless for a while and see what it was like. It was a big adjustment, having to plan every little detail and to rely on schedules and resources that were not mine. Commuting was easy; I work downtown now and don't need a car for that. The bus got me to where I was going just fine. I learned the schedules and the buses that would get me here and there as needed. But other things slowly began to drive me crazy: needing to arrange transport for heavy grocery shopping (like, for example, getting kitty litter or lots of liquid stuff), figuring out how to manage longer days out, always having to check the routes, schedules and connections to be sure I understood my timelines and could catch a bus, and wondering what I'd do if the kitties had an emergency and I had to get them to the vet. I got a ZipCar subscription, which has worked in a limited fashion. But it made me crazy having to get the car back at a particular time, not having the option to change my plans and spend a little more time out and so forth. And I had the settlement from the accident sitting in my savings account.

About a month or so ago, I started looking for another car. I gave the carless lifestyle a 7-month trial and I've realized that I just want my independence. Do I need it? Well, the last 7 months have demonstrated that I can get by just fine without a vehicle. But I feel constrained. My independence and my agency feel compromised. My life just feels smaller. And no matter how generously friends offer me lifts, I always feel like I'm imposing unless carpooling just makes sense in context. I looked at a number of vehicles and there was always some issue: impact damage that wasn't explained in the CarFax, weirdly-engineered electrical systems that would be a bear to maintain, poor ride quality, noisy interiors. I gave up for about two weeks. But yesterday I had the day off in anticipation of weekend company, and I took one more shot at the car shopping. Today, I took home a great vehicle:



It's a 2008 Ford Focus SES sedan in excellent condition, with a 6-CD changer/player, tinted windows, a moon roof and all sorts of snazzy little extras. (ETA: It's not just all about the pretty. The car has low mileage for its age, brand-new tires, new rear shocks, barely a scratch--technically it's in great shape.) I drove it only to get it home. The insurance kicks in tomorrow and then I'll take it out for a proper spin. I couldn't be more delighted.

As I start this journal entry, it has no title because I'm not sure of all the ground I'm going to cover; I know it will be wide and deep. Perhaps the entry will have a title before I'm done.

About 6 weeks or so ago, a friendly acquaintance sent me a letter via Facebook, telling me that I'd helped make his life over the last few years well worth living, that he appreciated my friendship. I was delighted, if a little surprised, at this outpouring. I knew that he was getting ready to deploy overseas--he's in the military, with the Army Corps of Engineers--and would be gone for a year. We see each other annually at Norwescon, as we did this year, though we didn't get to spend much in the way of quality time; we didn't have a real visit for any number of reasons. We don't know each other very well, but well enough to have fostered a certain friendly affection--we each give good cocktail party talk, flirtationally (it's a word now) we each give as good as we get, and have learned a little about each other's lives over the last couple of years. He lives, I have learned, in a very different world than I do; I want to learn about that world because, in some senses, my friendship with him is a kind of experience of the Other that is rare. My primary reason to spend time and keep in touch with him, though, is that we like each other and have much in common. We've just experienced it in very different ways. I thanked him for the note, expressed my surprise, and he said that I shouldn't be surprised; he meant every word of it. A couple of days back, he texted me a picture of himself in camo, saying he was about to head out--he'd see me in a year. I told him to be safe and to come back in one piece and asked for an address where I could write. He promised one when he discovered where he would end up. I just received his Skype address. And suddenly his friendship is that much more precious to me.

I have friends who are veterans, but with one or two exceptions, their friendship came in the wake of their service, not during same. It has been said that convention friendships are years long and weekends deep; in this case, that is absolutely true. The convention space fosters strange, intense connections because of the kinship created by shared enthusiasms and shared energy. And so as this friend departs for parts distant and dangerous, I am worried, I am hopeful, and I am watching his Facebook page and email/texts to see whatever news may come.

As I temper my concern, I am put in mind of another friend who has decided that the best course for his life is to engage in life-threatening behavior as a recreational activity. There is nothing about what he is doing that is harmless. It is behavior in which he engages with complete awareness, provides momentary pleasure and comfort, and could kill him. I was ferociously angry when I learned about it, and terrified for him, and I find that I'm angry, still. I have compassion for him, I love him, and I understand why he does it, but none of that matters to my anger (or maybe the love does; maybe that's why I am so angry).

So here I have a friend who goes willingly into life-threatening danger for a cause larger than himself, and another who thrusts himself toward danger for the comfort and the thrill. I have friends who fight for their lives every single day as a result of illness over which they have no control. And I consider the idea of taking one's life into one's own hands.

It's a strangely vivid phrase, as if life were a tool--a knife, a plow, a wrench, a brush, or a pen. I think about the ways in which I have taken my life into my own hands: my travel, my weight loss, dating, editing and writing. Deliberate choices, all. They are such different ways of doing this thing that they could almost be said to be entirely different from the things I talked about above, and yet they are not. All of these choices are about behavior, about control--about, well, living. Sometimes, even when we think we've got control or we do things that guide this wild horse we ride every day, it's beyond us. That's what my dating life--what little there is--feels like sometimes. No effort at finding a permanent partner has ever panned out; it preys on me, lately, quite a bit. My travel has resulted in enormous rewards for me; I suspect it will continue to do so. True of my creative life, too, for the most part. My work life has always felt like a mixed bag, so much of it out of my hands. We control what we will, what we feel like we can.

I suspect--no, I know that there's a point beyond which we have control over nothing. That places greater weight on the choices we make that we can control. Which means we might want to be thoughtful about those choices. If we have one life to get it right, then we ought to make those choices mindfully. I don't suggest that there should be no spontaneity or serendipity; they are vital and necessary to a life well-lived. The unexpected opportunity, the magnificent discovery are what makes it all worth it. But we have to be present for those things, present physically, emotionally, spiritually, intellectually.

I'm not sure where all this thought is leading to. I know I want more direction than I have. I feel like, at my age, there ought to be more than there is. I look at these friends who have made choices to do these dangerous things, and part of me feels like, well, at least they made a choice, whether or not I agree with it. I look at friends who are monstrously ill and see them making choices about how they live, about how they'll die, choosing directions, taking their lives into their own hands.

Sometimes I am desperately afraid of that. Sometimes I desperately want to do it and don't know how. Sometimes I think what I don't need are hands to take control, but gills, fins and a tail to just keep swimming, as if movement itself were a kind of control--as long as I'm moving, I'm making decisions and taking control without overthinking the process. Maybe that's the key: to not overthink it. (Um, to the person writing this, I say, "Have you met me?")

If life is a tool that we take into our hands, the question becomes the greater one: what do we do with it? I want to create: love, art, family. I want to build. I want to make rhythm, rhyme, vision and thought. I want to foster experience--my own and others'. And I do want to move in some direction. I still haven't figured out which one yet.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I edited books for a Major New York Publisher. And because I'd had a longtime interest in UFOs, alien abduction, and the paranormal in general, I edited a couple of titles on these subjects for said employer. I had a quiet conviction that, while I didn't know what had happened to people who claimed to be alien abductees, something had happened to them, and I was fascinated by the possibilities, as horrific as some of them seemed to be. (And once you've read as many books on this subject as I admit to having read, you realize that these ideas are horrifying.) But nothing can turn a believer into a skeptic so quick as receiving a phone call from an alleged abductee wanting to know where her money is. Or a book proposal that pushes the edge just a little too far. The proposal that ended my career as an editor of the paranormal attempted to relate all of the paranormal phenomena you can think of into one big package, a sort of unified field theory of the weird, if you will. Pyramids were related to crop circles were related to aliens were related to the Kali Yuga World Cycle were related to ghosts, and if A equals B and B equals C, then A equals C and WE'RE ALL DOOMED! I didn't acquire that project, and I never edited another one of these books again.

Now, I should state for the record that I still have an interest in all these subjects. It's hard for me to pass up TV shows about alien abduction, or the occasional episode of UFO Hunters or The Haunted. It's fun stuff to think about, and spooky goodness is always entertaining. For every twenty or thirty crackpots, there are one or two serious researchers (like the well-credentialed Dr. David M. Jacobs, whom I interviewed for a project, who does really interesting research, and who was completely credible--and funny as hell, too) who make pretty convincing arguments on the subject. And I admit that I'm still intrigued by the idea that There's Something Out There. But extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence and, these days, I'm far more interested in the credibility of the evidence than I am in the extraordinariness of the claims.

Which brings me to why I'm posting about all this stuff this morning. On Facebook, an acquaintance whom I know to have some interest in these things posted a link to an article that discusses a video making the rounds in conspiracy circles. The video claims to show President Obama being guarded by a shapeshifting alien secret service agent at a public speaking event. It's all about video artifacting effects, of course, but the narration is hilariously serious, especially the bit about "Illuminati elites being in bed with extraterrestrials." I presume the "Illuminati elites" refers to the president and the assemblage to which he is speaking, specifically, a meeting of AIPAC, also referred to in the video as a "Zionist cabal." What this article and the video it analyzes demonstrates is how a simple misunderstanding of evidence leads to incredible conclusions. In some circles, of course, video can't be argued with; this video may--MAY!--be evidence of government affiliation with extraterrestrial influences. I was never this far into the deep end, ever, and I have difficulty imagining the mindset that would take such stuff seriously.

But if I still worked for that Large New York Publisher, I might see an opportunity for a book about all the ways that evidence can be misconstrued, and all the bogus theories that might emerge as a result.

A while back, I posted a picture of Sophie sitting on top of the cabinet where I display a number of my porcelain cat figurines. The seed of the collection was my mother's Royal Doulton Siamese cat figurine. I suspect the collection began to grow during a period of unemployment when I had far too much time on my hands and very little brain for being thrifty. The collection is now larger than it appears in the above-linked photograph, the number of figures totaling 37 grouped artfully about the house, a little less than a third of which are not much bigger than my thumb.

This morning I got distracted online and found myself back at The Source of All Collectible Cats (also known as eBay), where I perused something like 15 pages of figures up for auction. I tagged a number for watching but didn't bid (an act of pure self control of which I'm enormously proud). And I realized at that point that my standards for my collection are in some ways pretty rigid, pretty exacting though I've never specifically articulated them. These standards include the following points:

-- The figure must be porcelain or some form of ceramic.
-- The figure must depict a cat in a realistic way, not cutesy* or exaggerated. For example, the cat should not have flirty little eye lashes**, an overly large head, or overly large eyes.
-- The figure should be just the cat: no toys, boxes, baskets, or ribbons and bows tied around their necks. (This rule may be construed as a corollary to the "not cutesy" rule.)
-- The figure should be no more than 5 or 6 inches tall.
-- In an ideal world, the figure should have some sort of maker's mark on the bottom.***

Another element that often determines the desirability of a cat for my collection is the manufacturer. I will often look for cats from fine figurine makers that are not already represented in the collection. For example, the collection currently includes cats from Royal Doulton, Lenox, Lomonosov, and Graelenthal. I have yet to acquire -- and continue to pursue -- figures from Herend, Bing & Grondahl (now part of Royal Copenhagen and so becoming a little more scarce), Royal Beswick (which are actually a little cutesy for my taste), and Lladro among others. All of these are higher-end manufacturers and their products, even second-hand, ain't cheap. So I watch eBay and I wait. (I'm actually watching a Lladro cat on eBay right now that's at a ridiculously good price, given that the figure is listed and shown to be in excellent condition.)

And, of course, some cats are products of the situations in which I discover them. For example, I bought a beautiful little maneki nekko in Narita, and my lovely white Graelenthal in Germany. I brought home a malachite lion from Kenya. I will, naturally, be looking for cat figurines as I travel in Europe this fall. I will make key exceptions to my rules when I travel because it's likely that if I don't purchase a figure I really like while I'm away, I'll never see it again.

Why a collection? My life is filled with collections: elongated coins, regular coins, porcelain ladies, porcelain hands, signed and limited edition art prints, plants, friends. It's a Thing. But I don't think any of my collections has quite such exacting standards as the cats. And I think the reason that's the case is that I'm not generally a cutesy sort of person -- you don't see Precious Moments figurines in my house, for example, and probably never will. I cringe at that sort of preciousness, and cats are all too susceptible to such treatment. Cats are graceful creatures who have enriched my life, so my collection tries to respect their gifts. The result is a collection of figures that I never tire of admiring. They please me, and are an important part of what makes my house my home.


-------------
* I made an exception to this rule when I purchased a beautiful little maneki nekko in Japan. It's a cultural thing and it's a lovely little souvenir.
** I made an exception for a vintage figurine that in every other way meets my requirements. And the lashes aren't big. :-)
*** I have broken this standard regularly because there are simply too many lovely little figurines to choose from. That said, about half my collection meets this standard.

As is usual around here, my birthday (today) was a rolling celebration that started Friday afternoon and ended this evening (though I suspect there may be more revelry as the week goes on). I attended the Clarion West party, completed my first 5K, hit the Ballard Seafood Festival, and had a perfectly wonderful dinner at Root Table (Asian-inspired tapas: steak cubes in a savory sauce, shrimp wontons, and mushrooms stuffed with corn, peas and a Thai-style sauce--yum!), which I recommend to anyone here in the Seattle area as it's just terrific.

The culmination of the weekend was a delicious lunch at Chinook's, and then this afternoon's tea here at Chez scarlettina. I had a small group of girls over for treats and talk in tiaras. We laid out quite the spread.




The afternoon's fare included three kinds of sandwiches: tuna salad with green onion, cucumber, and tomato dill; scones; lemon curd tarts; delicious muffins; cupcakes; shortbread; two kinds of cheese; pepperoni; bean dip with crackers; Milano cookies; and at least one or two things I'm forgetting. And of course there was tea.

I can only hope that the year brings me the same kind of joy I had this weekend. It was very nearly perfect.

I grew up on Long Island. My family was one of only three Jewish families in our neighborhood. The families around us were mostly Italian Catholic, Irish Catholic, or German Protestant. Many of their kids went to St. Barnabas parochial school. My brother and I went to the secular elementary school, a typical public school with kids from a wide variety of backgrounds, most of whom nevertheless were some flavor of Christian. My parents chose this neighborhood because, as my mother told me, they wanted us to grow up knowing that "there were other people besides Jews in the world." As if that could ever have been in doubt.

Every Christmas our street would be lined with Christmas-lit houses. In every front window a Christmas tree twinkled. And when it snowed, there would always be at least one Santa snowman. Each winter before my father died, we'd take a walk or a drive, usually the weekend before Christmas, to look at all the displays, because they were pretty and different from what we did at holiday time.

There were Jewish neighborhoods in the town where we lived. At least one of them was the tonier neighborhood to the south, where the houses were bigger, the gardens were meticulously trimmed, and the kids went to different schools than we did. Though my family attended a Conservative synagogue, many of the families who were members were more observant than we were though we went to shul most Saturdays.

I had one friend who lived in that tonier neighborhood to the south whose family kept kosher--in the kitchen and dining room. They didn't keep kosher in the family room, where we often had pepperoni pizza or Chinese food (pass the pork-fried rice!) on paper plates with plastic utensils. And her family had a Chanukah bush. It was a large sort of palm bush that they would hang homemade Chanukah ornaments on: dreidels, boxes wrapped like gifts, paper cut-out menorahs, blue glass balls, white glass balls, and Jewish stars. One year I asked about our having a Chanukah bush. My mother was adamant: Chanukah bushes are Christmas trees in disguise, she told me, and have no place in a Jewish home. My father would never have allowed it and neither would she. And that was the end of the conversation.

Cut to: 2010. Last weekend, I attended the annual Christmas gathering that ladyjestocost and bedii throw to help set up and decorate their Christmas tree. I always enjoy this get-together and have fun hanging ornaments. Last night, I attended varina8's lovely annual pre-Christmas event and discussed with other guests her tree, its ornaments, and how each tree is different from home to home.

I was recently in the local Fred Meyer store, the place festooned displays of Christmas merchandise. On sale were artificial trees about 1.5 feet tall; piled nearby were small glass balls in blue and white and silver. And I had a moment. I'm an adult. I can do what I please. Having a Chanukah bush would make my mostly secular Jewish lifestyle no less Jewish than it already is. And then, in the back of my mind, I hear the admonishment: Chanukah bushes are Christmas trees in disguise and have no place in a Jewish home.

Being Jewish in Seattle has always been something of a struggle for me. It's easy for me to keep whatever measure of tradition I want to keep in my own home, but being out in the world here is difficult. Seattle is the only town I've even been in where I've been accosted on the street for being Jewish (in liberal-as-hell Capitol Hill, no less). I've been given a hard time by employers about taking time off for the high holidays. The Seattle Jewish community is pretty insular, so I've often found myself in the position of being a sort of ambassador, and taken whatever teachable moments I could as opportunities to share and educate. And for many local Jews, I seem to be a little too ethnic, a little too East Coast somehow for their comfort. I've found my own small circle of local Jewish friends, but it's been challenging and not always comfortable.

So there I was in Fred Meyer looking at this little tree with the echoes of my mother's words in my head. And I went back and forth about buying a little artificial tree and setting it up. I couldn't do it. I wanted to, but I couldn't do it. I went through this last year, and the year before. I'll probably go through it again next year. And maybe, someday, I'll set up a little Chanukah bush. But for now, I'll skip it. I'll enjoy my friends' Christmas trees and walk through neighborhoods looking at the displays of lights. But then I'll go back to my little mostly secular Jewish home, enjoy my pretty little Chanukiah, and find comfort in it. It's what my parents would have done.


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List of things I want to write about, updated:
--The movie "Black Swan" Done
--Ripping my CD collection to my computer and the resulting discoveries
--Christmas trees, Chanukah bushes, and me
--Perspective and politics
--Sophie and Spanky--mainly some pictures because I haven't done that in a while Done
--The creation of art (words, pictures, or jewelry) (or lack thereof) in my life right now
--What comes next

Snurched from miss_swamp:

I'm watching Defying Gravity, and there's this great line from Donner:

"There are a handful of days in everyone's life that they can point to and say, 'That day changed me. That day helped make me who I am'. They usually happen on big event days; the day you get married, have your first kid. The day you land on Venus. But they can also happen on regular days. In unlikely moments, with events that may seem like nothing at the time, or they're so huge that they literally take your breath away."

So my question is - what were your days like that?

Good thing this question is in the plural otherwise I wouldn't be able to answer it.

( Enter at your own risk: self-revelation beneath the cut. )

Don't know what happens from here. Maybe I've missed a day here or there; time will tell.

How about you?

Back again!

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