Open thread Twitter experiment. Say something profoundly complimentary and also quite true about yourself.
HIM: I had never met anyone who worked 7 days a week before. I mean, usually I met someone, and then on the weekends we would hang out.
HER: Well, I woke up at 7 a.m. one day and went to work, so that I could spend the day with him. And it was like 3 o’clock, and I was nowhere near done. And he said, why don’t I come over and help you? And he did. And he did a great job! (beat) And I married him.
ME: Well at that point, who wouldn’t?
(Photo courtesy of Don Makoviney AKA Former Housemate Don)
The “WWC Salad” was a hit at Tuesday’s meeting. I think I have created a reasonable approximation.
* 1 bag local greens from tailgate market or friend
* 1 yellow squash
* 1 container Parmesan cheese (I used the good stuff, real grated Parm from Earth Fare in the deli case — makes grocery store stuff taste like dust and salt)
* French bread (Country French Batard from West End Bakery was perfect, and a good buy in the day-old bin)
* Caesar dressing (tried to buy local, missed out, had to buy Paul Newman)
* plain goat cheese (wanted Spinning Spider, had to compromise with cheese from Vermont collective)
Slice the squash lengthwise and crosswise and lightly saute it in olive oil.
Wash the greens and PAT THEM DRY (dressing stays so much better on dry greens). If from a friend’s garden, check for slugs (learned this the hard way [slug lived]).
Tear into pieces and toss with dressing and some extra Parmesan.
Toast a slice of bread. Slice into pieces and add to salad. Crumble in goat cheese.
Add squash. Toss. Eat.
(I added fresh oregano and it was great)
When I lived in Charlotte I rented a small basement apartment from a woman, Marianne, with whom I became very good friends. I was thirtysomething and she was about 70.
When my attempt to move out and join an organic farm in upstate NY ended in immediate failure (long story), I came home to find my deserted bed made with fresh sheets. Marianne.
Not long after I met her she began to die of brain cancer. It was like seeing a great elephant struck by a bullet and falling slowly. She had a wonderful mind and a long life of triumph over adversity, escaped an abusive husband, raised three sane and loving children in a time when single mothers were consigned to a life of shame and poverty.
And the cancer and later the stroke ate up and overthrew her personality and wonderful intelligence, and she faded day by day. She was dying as she stood, even as she lived.
After she had begun living in an assisted living facility (a nice one, where she was placed by a family who adored her) I had a dream about her.
She was sitting on a wooden throne at the edge of a forest. It was wintertime. The sun was setting, making that spectacular light-show on the snow, turning the world gold as evening approached. She wore a white robe — not a celestial white, but a natural white. A simple woven robe, pure and regal.
She looked like a medieval cleric-queen, or god incarnated as a white-haired and strong old woman, tall and implacable.
She said nothing, and I didn’t either. I just witnessed her presence. That was all of the dream.
It felt like part of her soul had taken up residence somewhere else, and she was visiting me somehow, in a state both magnificent and strangely incomplete.
Later I would think of the idea of the gros bon ange and the ti bon ange. In the vodoun (”voodoo”) religion, these are parts of the soul. In vodoun the soul has multiple parts, not a single part as in the Christian religions I am culturally familiar with.
If I remember right, the gros bon ange is the life force, the animating spirit. The ti bon ange is the source of the personality. At death, the gros bon ange returns to the universe, and the ti bon ange is transformed into a spirit.
That’s exactly what I felt in the dream-presence of my friend — that I was seeing part of her that had spooled out and away, still connected. The gros bon ange remained, giving life to the gross matter of her body. But her dignified soul had partially flown, leaving a tattered remnant behind, connected still and traveling to another side of life like sands through an hourglass, like a raveling sweater being reknit somewhere far away.
These are my friends, Ben and Heather.
(One look shows you that these are dishonest, skeevy people who clearly have a bad marriage.)
They rented an apartment in Marshall, NC for $800 a month — a lot, but they really liked the place.
Heather, an underemployed college student, swept floors in the commons area for $150 a month.
When hard times hit them, they found a cheaper place to live. They asked their landlord, who is also Ben’s boss, to let them out of the lease early, and to take their last month’s rent out of the money they paid up front — 1 month’s rent, plus $500 security ($1300).
He agreed. No problem. Heather could even keep sweeping the floors after they moved out.
They got ready to move. But several weeks into their plan, the landlord/boss changed his mind and told them the new story was that their rent (the rent he agreed to take out of their move-in deposit) was 6 weeks late. And that Heather would not be paid for cleaning the floors anymore, even though she’d been cleaning them all month.
He also said they are responsible for their $800/mo. rent through the end of the lease, even if they move out. And they aren’t getting any of their $1300 deposit back.
Then he advertised their place on Craigslist for $150 cheaper than what they had been paying for months (they eventually learned that their old rent price was more than any other renter in the building, even though theirs is not the largest or nicest rental).
Then he evicted them for not paying rent they paid up front months ago (not to mention the $500 they deserve back for keeping the place spotless.)
It gets worse.
He fired Ben.
Ben asked if he had been slow, or done poor work. He was told no, but being fired (IN THE MIDDLE OF A RECESSION, WITH NO PROSEPCTS, SUPPORTING A WIFE DEPSERATELY SEEKING WORK) would be a “good life lesson.”
The topper? Heather is three months pregnant with their first child.
Evil landlord had to know.
Please spread the word: the man taking money for this rental at 133 S. Main St. in Marshall is a conniving rat bastard of the lowest kind.
The building:
The takeaways: Always get agreements in writing, even if it’s awkward, even from your boss, and never, ever rent from this sack of shit.
My friends are OK. As they are honest and decent people, they are surrounded by love and help. But if you have a construction job lead for Ben or job idea for Heather (senior Spanish student looking for work in helping women, families and low-income communities, esp. through healthcare), please comment.
And hey, Evil Landlord: As you sow, so shall you reap.
** Added June 20: Evil Landlord/Boss took $200 out of Ben’s final paycheck, citing “damage to plants.” What damage was done and when, he never bothered to tell Ben. I couldn’t make this up.
(Hello universe! I miss blogging! Love, Jen)
Attention conservation notice: an account of a social media lunch at an unlikely spot, and how it made me feel.
This morning at 11:30 was a lunch event at a local college, Warren Wilson, a private university known for its pro-environment practices. It was respectful, open-minded, open-hearted outreach from a college that openly admitted a history of shunning technology, a history that’s now been replaced by eco-hippie students tending electronic sea gardens on Facebook.
WWC wanted to get with the program and asked some local social media types to come out for lunch. Representing Broke-Ass Underemployed College Students Unsure How They Got On This List, I attended.
It was lovely. There was a little blowhardery and a little self-promotion, but mostly there were curious, community-minded people looking for ways to support an effort they wanted to learn more about, Warren Wilson’s Mountain Green Sustainability Conference.
The fed us on campus-grown greens with local goat cheese, organic bread and locally made herb dressing. The event’s facilitator said he used to look for the cheapest way to feed people at college events, but now can’t image any other way than feeding people with sustainably produced local food.
There was cold water and Georgia peaches on ice. To me hospitality is simplicity and abundance, and I found both here and was given pause to consider adding sustainability to my list.
The WWC people were wonderful hosts — polite, not pushing an agenda but rather asking and listening, taking notes. And I thought to myself, Is this what the real world tastes like?
I’ve been studying in my ivory tower for so long I can’t remember the last event like this I said yes to. And all this time there was friends and sunshine and good food and a feeling of respectful mutual help and learning.
Maybe there’s more to the world than just jumping right into an advanced degree as soon as I graduate this winter. (THIS WINTER!!!) Maybe I want to be turned loose in the fields of reality for a bit, go to luncheons, go to conferences, meet people, talk and listen, learn, rest, think, play in fields of data and connection and knowledge, but less formally.
Spend some time being sure of my direction and not just charging forward, desperate for progress.
It can’t be a bad idea to rejoin society for a bit before racing off for an MFA, can it?
Check this salad out:
(Photo courtesy of my friend Don Mak)
Hey friends. It’s been a long time since I rapped at ya.
Sorry for the long hiatus. I’ve just been having my brain rewired & installing the photography/scientific visualization/science photography programs into my biological PC.
Writing still pays the bills, but my plans for summer 2009 include a photography internship and arranging Asheville’s first independently organized TED event, for which I’m serving as Head Nerdpicker executive director. Big news! I just found out today.
And unless I choose another minor (or heaven forbid, another major — unlikely but useful in light of my recent switch from writing and documentary screenwriting to visualization and science photography) I’m graduating in December.
Graduating. In December.
I’m looking into grad schools, and delighted to find my dear home state actually has several universities that offer degrees that might work, like cognitive science and new media/global education (!).
So this blog and all its delights finds itself on the back burner, where the most delicious things sit and simmer until we hunger again.
I’m not quitting — famous last words — I’m just bringing you up to date. If you want to continue follow this blog, thanks. It’s been a great ride, and it’s not done yet. I recommend Google Reader to save yourself time and energy — I may go all Clay Shirky and post infrequently but intensely.
I’m also on Facebook and Twitter and having fun there, sharing links and news that don’t grab me for a whole blog entry.
So if you’re in Asheville, see you at TEDx Asheville! Or a Tweetup. Or at Wizzy’s. Or at the dog park. Or somewhere around this wonderful, beautiful, friendly, supportive, creative, entrepreneurial place we call Asheville.
If you’re not, I’ll “see” you in the ether, and I hope you have a lot of cool adventures to share with me soon.
The scent of barbecue and lilacs fills the air as I write on the second South-hot day of my best year yet. I don’t know if life begins at 40. Maybe’s it’s just a coincidence, but mine sure did.
Love,
Jen
My friend from high school went to Yale, as a teenager posed with the knowing smirk of youth under a poster that read “Broadway Bound.”
In from Chicago she emailed me, and I saw her the other day for the first time in 17 years. Still slim, beautiful, talented and funny. Married to an electrician, her work is caring for her sons.
A former film professor, someday she’ll take up her craft again. If she had not dropped acting, would we say we all knew she was destined for fame?
I for one wanted to high-five the woman I met yesterday right there in the cafe, who looked me in the eyes with the frank honesty of real-life happiness and told me she had married a true and honest man who deeply loved her.
Young people dream of fame, but fame picks only a few. Happiness, the real goal hidden from so many (!), is equally particular.
It favors, blessedly, the wise over the beautiful. Being a sane, loved, actualized person of integrity, no matter your role in life, is an artwork (emphasis on WORK) decades in the making.
Congratulations Amy! Gving up less happiness for more happiness is not a compromise. I didn’t give up my dreams either, I just set the more ridiculous and ill-fitting ones aside to step into the dreams of a heart that grew up.
Huge 40th birthday thanks to Chris for sending me a poem that tells almost exactly how I feel on this numinous, quiet day.
Something I am learning lately: the things (poems, images) that vault over the words I loved so long, and inject meaning directly into the heart and mind rather than showering it on the skin.
Birthday presents from the universe: an orange birthday fireball, a full moon at the exact moment of my birth’s midnight anniversary, bluebirds everywhere like living reminders of the corny glory of good fortune, a life that could easily win Most Improved in almost any contest you’d care to enter me in.
And my party hasn’t even happened yet.
Happy birthday to me.
Here’s Chris’ poem.
| Crossroads | ||
| by Joyce Sutphen | ||
The second half of my life will be black to the white rind of the old and fading moon. The second half of my life will be water over the cracked floor of these desert years. I will land on my feet this time, knowing at least two languages and who my friends are. I will dress for the occasion, and my hair shall be whatever color I please. Everyone will go on celebrating the old birthday, counting the years as usual, but I will count myself new from this inception, this imprint of my own desire. The second half of my life will be swift, past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder, asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road. The second half of my life will be wide-eyed, fingers shifting through fine sands, arms loose at my sides, wandering feet. There will be new dreams every night, and the drapes will never be closed. I will toss my string of keys into a deep well and old letters into the grate. The second half of my life will be ice breaking up on the river, rain soaking the fields, a hand held out, a fire, and smoke going upward, always up. |
||
Class visit to the Elumenati studios in West Asheville, Feb. 20, 2009.
The program shown projected on the GeoDome is NASA’s Digital Universe Atlas.
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