What is it about this woman?
Her voice is mesmerizing. That much is sure. But there is something else. A 'smokiness'. Richness. Some thick, velvety feeling to it. I haven't been this enchanted over a singing voice since I first heard Allison Krauss.
I have been listening to the Come Away With Me album on repeat all day. While I've been working. And I haven't had my fill. Not by a long shot.
It's also something about the lyrics: "Come away with me in the night. Come away with me. And I will write you a song."
And: "I want to walk with you. On a cloudy day. In fields where the yellow grass grows knee kigh. So won't you try to come."
There is nostalgia on slow boil somewhere inside me. Nostalgia for something that hasn't happened.
Friday, February 13, 2004
Mona is from Brooklyn. As in Brooklyn, New York.
She moved out here because there were just too many people there. Here, she first got a job in a general store. She worked there for a year, before she began working for a college library. The job was good, but it had her working alone most of the time. So Mona, who moved here to get away from the masses of people, now quit her job because of lack of them.
Then she joined forces with another free spirit to run a daycare business. And now, Mona takes care of my daughter. And I do not think that she could be in better hands.
She moved out here because there were just too many people there. Here, she first got a job in a general store. She worked there for a year, before she began working for a college library. The job was good, but it had her working alone most of the time. So Mona, who moved here to get away from the masses of people, now quit her job because of lack of them.
Then she joined forces with another free spirit to run a daycare business. And now, Mona takes care of my daughter. And I do not think that she could be in better hands.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Familiarity can be oh-so comfortable.
My daughter is, like most other infants I guess, totally hooked on routine. She knows that when I've fed her her dinner, I will take off her bib and take her to the bathroom to brush her teeth (recently upgraded from 'tooth'). After that, she gets to turn off the light in the bathroom and we take her upstairs for a fresh diaper and a change into the pyjamas. Then it's down again for a night cap and then off to bed. Any change in this routine will cause a little hesitation and uncertainty, but a stricht adherence brings out a smile and a giggle.
I have heard that we pick up almost as many things from our kids as they do from us. For example, I swear that my wife's laughter is sounding gradually more like my daughter's giggles. I, too, have fallen victim to this. I have become a horrid little creature of habits. And I didn't used to be this way. Now, I derive real satisfaction from our little routines. To the point where I now get up just moments before the alarm clock goes off in the morning.
Even eating has now gotten some familiar habits. For example, I have come to realize that when we go and buy slices of pizza down in the village, I am a two-slices-man. Not one. And not three. No. Two. And only two. Every now and then, I'll try to break out of these habits. And I get punished every time. Like tonight. I had three slices and my stomach feels like someone heavy is sitting on it. Not good.
Listen to me! Jeez! I can't believe that this is me talking. I am not like this. I don't follow rules. I do not have 'habits'. I sound so boring. What's happening to me? I can't be turning middle-aged. It's too soon!
Help!
My daughter is, like most other infants I guess, totally hooked on routine. She knows that when I've fed her her dinner, I will take off her bib and take her to the bathroom to brush her teeth (recently upgraded from 'tooth'). After that, she gets to turn off the light in the bathroom and we take her upstairs for a fresh diaper and a change into the pyjamas. Then it's down again for a night cap and then off to bed. Any change in this routine will cause a little hesitation and uncertainty, but a stricht adherence brings out a smile and a giggle.
I have heard that we pick up almost as many things from our kids as they do from us. For example, I swear that my wife's laughter is sounding gradually more like my daughter's giggles. I, too, have fallen victim to this. I have become a horrid little creature of habits. And I didn't used to be this way. Now, I derive real satisfaction from our little routines. To the point where I now get up just moments before the alarm clock goes off in the morning.
Even eating has now gotten some familiar habits. For example, I have come to realize that when we go and buy slices of pizza down in the village, I am a two-slices-man. Not one. And not three. No. Two. And only two. Every now and then, I'll try to break out of these habits. And I get punished every time. Like tonight. I had three slices and my stomach feels like someone heavy is sitting on it. Not good.
Listen to me! Jeez! I can't believe that this is me talking. I am not like this. I don't follow rules. I do not have 'habits'. I sound so boring. What's happening to me? I can't be turning middle-aged. It's too soon!
Help!
As you may have noticed, I am not really big on turning this little rant into a forum. Listening to other people somehow doesn't seem to fit in with this thinking-aloud-thing that I have got going here. So instead of having a 'shout out', I have a 'whisper back', which is basically just an e-mail address.
And I get the most amazing variety of e-mail.
Sometimes I get compliments, and sometimes I get disapprovals. Someone sends me little snippets of poetry every now and then. Many keep asking for a 'shout out'-style comment system. Not going to happen.
Then there are those real-life trolls. I have actually grown fond of one of them. His last e-mail, of yesterday, is just plain hilarious:
[...] Why have you gone SOO SOOOOFT???! This has turned ino PURE EMOTIONAL WISHYWASHY DRIVEL!!!! Get a GRIP, man! You're not the first idiot who knocked up his old lady. So you have a daughter. BIG DEAL!!! [...]
To me it is so obvious that this guy really cares. You can just see that his frustration is only a way to say 'I miss your old way of writing'. And that is so sweet.
I feel your pain, maan. :)
And I get the most amazing variety of e-mail.
Sometimes I get compliments, and sometimes I get disapprovals. Someone sends me little snippets of poetry every now and then. Many keep asking for a 'shout out'-style comment system. Not going to happen.
Then there are those real-life trolls. I have actually grown fond of one of them. His last e-mail, of yesterday, is just plain hilarious:
[...] Why have you gone SOO SOOOOFT???! This has turned ino PURE EMOTIONAL WISHYWASHY DRIVEL!!!! Get a GRIP, man! You're not the first idiot who knocked up his old lady. So you have a daughter. BIG DEAL!!! [...]
To me it is so obvious that this guy really cares. You can just see that his frustration is only a way to say 'I miss your old way of writing'. And that is so sweet.
I feel your pain, maan. :)
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
I feel like my work matters. Much of it, anyway.
At least the teaching. And the research stuff. What I do to pay the bills, I am not so certain of. It does have its merits, I guess, and my work actually does help people from time to time. And that feels great. I mean, actually giving somebody something and thereby making him better equipped to do his thing.
That feels good.
At least the teaching. And the research stuff. What I do to pay the bills, I am not so certain of. It does have its merits, I guess, and my work actually does help people from time to time. And that feels great. I mean, actually giving somebody something and thereby making him better equipped to do his thing.
That feels good.
Funny how your subconcious self is always at work.
I had this song on my mind all morning. Just the song. Not the lyrics. I sort of thought it might be by Elvis Costello, but wasn't sure.
Finally, I called an old friend and sang the first few lines for him. Of course he knew it. "It's 'She', by Elvis Costello and Burt Bacharach".
I went and Googled the lyrics. This is how it begins:
She
May be the face I can't forget
A trace of pleasure or regret
May be my treasure or the price I have to pay
She may be the song that summer sings
May be the chill that autumn brings
May be a hundred different things
Within the measure of a day.
I had this song on my mind all morning. Just the song. Not the lyrics. I sort of thought it might be by Elvis Costello, but wasn't sure.
Finally, I called an old friend and sang the first few lines for him. Of course he knew it. "It's 'She', by Elvis Costello and Burt Bacharach".
I went and Googled the lyrics. This is how it begins:
She
May be the face I can't forget
A trace of pleasure or regret
May be my treasure or the price I have to pay
She may be the song that summer sings
May be the chill that autumn brings
May be a hundred different things
Within the measure of a day.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
I dreamt of an angel today.
Since it was a dream, our familiar laws of time and space obviously did not apply. So this may have happened over many years. Or in the blink of an eye.
Anyway.
This was a fairly new angel. Still had all his feathers. His first trip back home. To earth. The inauguration, consecration, institutialization and benediction of an angel takes time. And can be gruelling. So he started out on his trip somewhat absent-minded. He had also become accustomed to the quiet setting in heaven. Where noone locked their doors. And the only sound you would hear were the whistles from the train in the morning, as it pulled into the station with a fresh batch of angel material.
Therefore, as he descended further and further, he became somewhat anxious when he started experiencing the hustle and bustle of the earthly life again. He realized that he had simply forgotten all about how frantic life could get down here. Well, at least he had been paying attention in angel orientation. This wasn't going to unseat him. Not his newfound stoic self.
Finally, he came down through the clouds, and kind of hovered just above the houses and the streets, the telephone poles and the trees. Funny how being thirty feet in the air changes your perspective, he thought. He started to look for his destination, but soon realized that he had strayed quite a distance during the descent. It looked like he had still a very long way to go. He had, in his absentmindedness, simply gone back home. Instead of where he was supposed to go.
The angel started to float towards his destination. He hadn't quite mastered that flying thing, so he kind of just floated along. Which was fine by him. Granted, it took him much longer getting between places. But instead, he got to look at all the strange games people play. He actually looked forward to seeing interesting and amusing things while he floated to his destination.
But what he saw was hardly interesting, and definetly not amusing. He saw boredom and stupidity, depression and anger, and even cruelty. He remembered the world as being more colorful, somehow. They seemed to be using way too much gray.
Nothing, however, could prepare him for what waited for him at the end of his trip. As he approached the house, which was his destination, he kind of rolled by this large, old tree. He liked trees, but wasn't too good with their names. This was one of these thick, really, really tall trees, with a large and wide crown of fresh, dark-green leaves. And almost at the very top, there was something moving.
At first, the angel thought it was a squirrel. They had lots of squirrels in heaven, so he wasn't really intrigued with them anymore. He had been fascinated when he first saw them, because they did not exist where he came from. But now he had become sort of blasé about squirrels, and had therefore almost floated on by, when he realized that this was not a squirrel at all.
It was a bird! And not just your every-day run-of-the-mill bird. No. This was an exceptional bird. Small, but graceful, with brightly colored feathers and beautiful wings. When the angel looked closer, the bird turned its head and looked straight into the angel's eyes. For a moment, the angel felt as if he would fall to the ground. Somehow, this little bird's gaze jolted him. Even frightened him. He saw in its eyes so much sadness. And grief. And compassion. And love. he had to use all his strength to gather himself. But just as he had somewhat regained his stoic composure, the bird began to sing.
The song was the most beautiful thing that the angel had ever heard. And he had been living in heaven for a long time. The notes seemed to carry with them all the burdens of the earthly life, but at the same time they did something to the angel's soul. He became scared. He tried to fight it. But as the bird sang on, the angel slowly lost his perfect composure.
He began to cry. The tears flowed from his eyes, and his soul filled to the brim with melancholy and unfettered feelings for the little bird and its song. He cried so loud that the houses and the streets and telephone poles and the trees trembled, ever so slightly.
And that's when I woke up. The light had just turned green. I made a right turn and drove down the street.
Since it was a dream, our familiar laws of time and space obviously did not apply. So this may have happened over many years. Or in the blink of an eye.
Anyway.
This was a fairly new angel. Still had all his feathers. His first trip back home. To earth. The inauguration, consecration, institutialization and benediction of an angel takes time. And can be gruelling. So he started out on his trip somewhat absent-minded. He had also become accustomed to the quiet setting in heaven. Where noone locked their doors. And the only sound you would hear were the whistles from the train in the morning, as it pulled into the station with a fresh batch of angel material.
Therefore, as he descended further and further, he became somewhat anxious when he started experiencing the hustle and bustle of the earthly life again. He realized that he had simply forgotten all about how frantic life could get down here. Well, at least he had been paying attention in angel orientation. This wasn't going to unseat him. Not his newfound stoic self.
Finally, he came down through the clouds, and kind of hovered just above the houses and the streets, the telephone poles and the trees. Funny how being thirty feet in the air changes your perspective, he thought. He started to look for his destination, but soon realized that he had strayed quite a distance during the descent. It looked like he had still a very long way to go. He had, in his absentmindedness, simply gone back home. Instead of where he was supposed to go.
The angel started to float towards his destination. He hadn't quite mastered that flying thing, so he kind of just floated along. Which was fine by him. Granted, it took him much longer getting between places. But instead, he got to look at all the strange games people play. He actually looked forward to seeing interesting and amusing things while he floated to his destination.
But what he saw was hardly interesting, and definetly not amusing. He saw boredom and stupidity, depression and anger, and even cruelty. He remembered the world as being more colorful, somehow. They seemed to be using way too much gray.
Nothing, however, could prepare him for what waited for him at the end of his trip. As he approached the house, which was his destination, he kind of rolled by this large, old tree. He liked trees, but wasn't too good with their names. This was one of these thick, really, really tall trees, with a large and wide crown of fresh, dark-green leaves. And almost at the very top, there was something moving.
At first, the angel thought it was a squirrel. They had lots of squirrels in heaven, so he wasn't really intrigued with them anymore. He had been fascinated when he first saw them, because they did not exist where he came from. But now he had become sort of blasé about squirrels, and had therefore almost floated on by, when he realized that this was not a squirrel at all.
It was a bird! And not just your every-day run-of-the-mill bird. No. This was an exceptional bird. Small, but graceful, with brightly colored feathers and beautiful wings. When the angel looked closer, the bird turned its head and looked straight into the angel's eyes. For a moment, the angel felt as if he would fall to the ground. Somehow, this little bird's gaze jolted him. Even frightened him. He saw in its eyes so much sadness. And grief. And compassion. And love. he had to use all his strength to gather himself. But just as he had somewhat regained his stoic composure, the bird began to sing.
The song was the most beautiful thing that the angel had ever heard. And he had been living in heaven for a long time. The notes seemed to carry with them all the burdens of the earthly life, but at the same time they did something to the angel's soul. He became scared. He tried to fight it. But as the bird sang on, the angel slowly lost his perfect composure.
He began to cry. The tears flowed from his eyes, and his soul filled to the brim with melancholy and unfettered feelings for the little bird and its song. He cried so loud that the houses and the streets and telephone poles and the trees trembled, ever so slightly.
And that's when I woke up. The light had just turned green. I made a right turn and drove down the street.
Monday, February 9, 2004
I have never had an overdraft.
I have never had a credit card debt. I have always managed to pay off my credit card bill in full at the end of the month. Except for my mortgage, and my car loan, I have never borrowed money in my life. All that changed today.
Now, I am a proud owner of a HELOC. For those that are uninitiated, it isn't a form of helicopter. "MEDIVAC" was what sprang to my mind when I first heard it. No, HELOC is a fancy overdraft. A 'Home Equity Line Of Credit', no less. It's basically a second mortgage, but instead of you using the money for something useful, like paying down what you owe in your house, you are supposed to use it for spending. It even says so in the loan terms. Not to be used for investing, saving or business ventures. Nope. This is to be used to buy all those useless 'things'. All that stuff that you really don't use. The stuff that many people genuinely believe is the purpose of life to get their hands on.
We got the HELOC to pay off a $2000 loan that my wife took a couple of years ago. Her first loan, excluding student loans. So we applied for a $2000 HELOC. And got promptly declined. Why? Well, there is a $10.000 minimum! So we applied again. For $10.000. And were greated with smiles and hearty handshakes from the 'loan processing specialist'.
And then we got a fat checkbook. To write out checks directly against our spiffy $10.000 line of credit.
No wonder everybody is neck deep in debt in this country. Are you feeling happy yet?
I have never had a credit card debt. I have always managed to pay off my credit card bill in full at the end of the month. Except for my mortgage, and my car loan, I have never borrowed money in my life. All that changed today.
Now, I am a proud owner of a HELOC. For those that are uninitiated, it isn't a form of helicopter. "MEDIVAC" was what sprang to my mind when I first heard it. No, HELOC is a fancy overdraft. A 'Home Equity Line Of Credit', no less. It's basically a second mortgage, but instead of you using the money for something useful, like paying down what you owe in your house, you are supposed to use it for spending. It even says so in the loan terms. Not to be used for investing, saving or business ventures. Nope. This is to be used to buy all those useless 'things'. All that stuff that you really don't use. The stuff that many people genuinely believe is the purpose of life to get their hands on.
We got the HELOC to pay off a $2000 loan that my wife took a couple of years ago. Her first loan, excluding student loans. So we applied for a $2000 HELOC. And got promptly declined. Why? Well, there is a $10.000 minimum! So we applied again. For $10.000. And were greated with smiles and hearty handshakes from the 'loan processing specialist'.
And then we got a fat checkbook. To write out checks directly against our spiffy $10.000 line of credit.
No wonder everybody is neck deep in debt in this country. Are you feeling happy yet?
Sunday, February 8, 2004
I just said good-bye to very dear friends of mine. One of them used to be my lover, actually. Almost twenty years ago. She was my first real love. Luckily, we managed to keep our friendship, and then grow it. It doesn't hurt that she and my wife are really good friends.
And now she has found someone to share her life with. A truly wonderful, intelligent person. She chose to spend her birthday with us, and then they decided to stay the weekend.
Yesterday, we had originally planned to have two more of our dearer friends over, since I have for the longest time envisioned that the four of them would enjoy each others company. But over the course of the day, more and more of our friends called us, and subsequently accepted an invitation to join us.
In the end, there were twelve of us that sat down for dinner. In our little dining room. I made carbonara. For sixteen. Still, every single scrap of it was eaten. My wife made a large bowl of salad. That disappeared as well. An apple crisp and a gallon of ice cream went the same way. As did numerous bottles of Valpolicella. I don't think that you can pay me a higher compliment than enjoying my food. I mean really enjoying my food. That moment when somebody pulls at your sleave, looks you deep in the eye and says quietly in this child-like honest manner: "Thank you!" That just makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. And I am a sucker for feeling warm and fuzzy inside.
It really feels good, having butterflies in your stomach.
And now she has found someone to share her life with. A truly wonderful, intelligent person. She chose to spend her birthday with us, and then they decided to stay the weekend.
Yesterday, we had originally planned to have two more of our dearer friends over, since I have for the longest time envisioned that the four of them would enjoy each others company. But over the course of the day, more and more of our friends called us, and subsequently accepted an invitation to join us.
In the end, there were twelve of us that sat down for dinner. In our little dining room. I made carbonara. For sixteen. Still, every single scrap of it was eaten. My wife made a large bowl of salad. That disappeared as well. An apple crisp and a gallon of ice cream went the same way. As did numerous bottles of Valpolicella. I don't think that you can pay me a higher compliment than enjoying my food. I mean really enjoying my food. That moment when somebody pulls at your sleave, looks you deep in the eye and says quietly in this child-like honest manner: "Thank you!" That just makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. And I am a sucker for feeling warm and fuzzy inside.
It really feels good, having butterflies in your stomach.
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