Ordinary Beauty

3:03 a.m. September 13, 2007. I am awake.

3:43 a.m. September 13, 2007. I am still awake.

In the intervening 40 minutes I have realized that: It’s my birthday, my jaw muscles are raw with ache from clenching my teeth, my attitude is askew–pitched toward the unpleasant and negative aspects of my life rather than upon the bodacious beauty that is my world–and, as I understand it, this is the time of year when my focus sets the tone for the upcoming year. Uh, I don’t believe I want a full year of mal-aligned attitude. So now I am VERY awake.

Last week at this time my nephew was complaining about the teacher and the classmates he would have when he got back to school. He’s a fourth-grader, and I am perpetually intrigued at how he views the world. So I was questioning his perspective, and lecturing him that sometimes our circumstances are what they are, and to cope or enjoy them, we have to adjust our attitude. That, in fact, there were things in my own life that were perturbing me but over which I have no control, and that I was therefore trying to adjust my attitude.

Which is all true. However, I’m finding it’s very difficult.

So here I find myself at 3:43 a.m. ruminating on the negative portions of my life, in physical pain because I’m internalizing this crap and storing it in my jaw. And I am wishing that this attitude of mine came with some knob that I could hold between my thumb and fingers and twirl–click, click, click–adjusting to a new perspective. (Maybe it is that easy.)

So, Rob’s been crafting some very specific playlists for our wedding. Hours in I-tunes of drag and drop and arranging. And the plan was of course, to place it all on our I-pod and happily scroll through the wedding day.

Well, Perry’s I-pod failed (for the third time), so we went I-pod shopping. Decided the Nano was the best candidate, but was concerned that its 1000 song capacity wouldn’t handle six hours of music, so went home to ask Rob. Nope, he says it was just fine, lots of room, so the boys went off to throw more of our money at the Apple store gang.

Okay, so home again jiggetty-jig. Onward to transferring the playlists.

Or, not. Seems my sweet new Nano demands the most modern of I-tunes, which is not an option, as that demands an os upgrade, and that’s not an option b/c previously loaded (and recently upgraded) ProTools won’t run on a more modern os.

WTF?! I can’t run my new I-pod b/c I can’t run the new I-tunes?

Meanwhile, I-tunes upgrades itself, or something. And then DEMANDS a new os, refusing to reveal anything from I-tunes until then.

Well, for those of you following along at home, this means we now cannot access the playlists. At. All.

Lucky for me I have a penchant for geeks, and the resident geeks get to it. Out comes the os disks, out goes the new I-tunes, in comes the old I-tunes, and voila, playlists can be found.

But that’s only part of the solution. Remember, no upgraded I-tunes means there’s nothing for my I-pod to relate to. So, out comes an external harddrive, add a few new folders to it, drag the playlists from the old I-tunes to the harddrive, and traipse through the house to another Mac, upgrade its I-tunes, and–voila–move all those hours of hand-crafted playlists onto my new Nano.

It shouldn’t be this hard.

Don’t get me wrong. I support anti-pirating efforts. But. This. Was. Ridiculous.

I suppose I have spent more time on our invitations than on anything else for this wedding. I don’t want to count the hours of thought and effort.

My first wedding, I dunno know what I was thinking, the breadth and quantity of people I invited. I was young and socially inept.

Now, I am old, and still somewhat inept. And my venue has its limitations, so I have–for months–been grappling with the disparity between the numbers of people I love, and the number of people the venue will comfortably hold.

We started with listing all the many folks whose company we enjoy and whose blessings we would cherish. Of course, we added certain “obligatory” names to the list; who could believe we hadn’t. But here’s the thing about the Obligations–I don’t feel ambivalent about any of their invitations, those people belong at my wedding.
The total number of names … damn. It was a big number. Much larger than our venue– OR, our introverted natures–would tolerate. So we cut things down to just family, and those dearest of friends (you know, those friends who would donate one of their lungs to you, without question). That number was still huge (uh, over eighty names).

And pretty much I’ve been losing sleep over it ever since.

So, if you thought you would be receiving an invitation in the mail, and you did not–please know that the lack is not because you don’t shine in my eyes. The lack is my lack.

Perry and I decided this weekend, that if three weeks from now, after the wedding, hindsight reveals some “we should-uvs” and we have regrets about things or people we did not include in our wedding, well, we’ll just have another one. Refresh our vows and all, and have another party while we’re at it.

It is 2:19 p.m. I am STILL sitting, waiting. My name has yet to be called, so I wear my “JUROR” badge with some falseness. All that I am juror of is this process.

If it weren’t for my experience at the law office, I would be extremely frustrated by now. There are dozens of us here who have not even yet been called to voir dire. Just waiting for I don’t know what.

But I’ve learned that, at least in civil matters, people settle their differences at the last minute, avoiding the cost and stress of trial. So, the court can’t really predict if we’ll be needed or not.

So, when you pack your bag to head out for the call for jury duty, you’ll want to include some snacks and beverages, maybe lunch even, those thank-you notes you’ve been meaning to write, a couple of pens (’cause one will run out), aspirin, hand lotion, a couple of tasty treats, your fully charged cell phone. And dress comfortably. Duh, but hey, this is a LOT of sitting, in standard issue cafeteria chairs. Hard on the arse.

In King County (Washington) Superior Court, here’s how it goes.

You arrive. They scan the bar code on your summons, give you a Juror Biographical Form, and point you to the clipboards on the wall. The double doors on your left open into a large, and on this day, very sunny and warm room full of chairs and a smattering of folks who arrived earlier than you. This trickle of arrivals goes on for quite awhile, well past the appointed 8:00 a.m. time that we are assigned to be here. It’s not about promptness, but that’s nice, because parking can be an adventure, so the best intentions can go awry.

The Juror Biographical Form is in triplicate NCR paper, and wants to know your name, age, how long you’ve lived in Washington, how long you have lived in King County, your number of years of education, where you were born, how many children of what gender and age, do you drive a car, have you been convicted of a crime, your occupation. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN PARTY TO A LAWSUIT? HAVE YOU EVER MADE A CLAIM FOR INJURIES? HAVE YOU EVER SERVED ON A JURY?

Actually, all the queries are in all caps. Do print firmly and clearly.

The top white sheet is the DEFENSE COPY, the yellow one is for the PROSECUTOR, and the pink page is COURT COPY.

Done with the form yet? Well, be still and patient. Not much is going to happen for awhile. But eventually, at least today, a Judge gives an inspiring speech (see previous blog post) and a prerecorded video goes on for awhile. Go ahead and read your book or flip through the newspaper or whatever during the video, as the room is full of people nonchalent about it. But, if you are unfamiliar with the court system, you really might want to attend to it, it will give you a bit of a sense of what is ahead in the courtroom.

So about now in, you might start visually meandering around the room, rather like how you might read the advertisement signs on the bus just because there’s nothing else to do. Don’t let the huge stack of paperback books on the windowsill frighten you, but you might want to take it as a sign of what is ahead. Of course you aren’t frightened by those stacks, because having read this missive, you know to bring your own reading material, something light and interruptable, and something more intense as well, since there will be moments to fill during which you have to pay attention to the upcoming announcements, and other long stretches when all you are doing is waiting.

Do plan on sitting and waiting. The amount of waiting is unpredictable. Plan accordingly. (ha ha, get it? plan for the unpredicatable! ha ha)

Oh. Bring your sense of humour and lightness with you. It might come in handy.

Today is the day I get to do some civic duty. Here I sit, where I’ve sat for 2 hours and 19 minutes so far this morning, awaiting my name to be called so that I can be assigned a number so that I can be served a summons so that I can be pulled onto a panel of jurors. And then, and then, and then, the panel gets called into a courtroom and screened. But more on that later, if I make it that far.

The morning started out with an actually inspiring introduction by one of the Superior Court Judges. I forget his name, but I mean to ask, because he strikes me as having qualities to be a good judge, someone to take note of. His presentation subtly addressed some of the common misgivings about this jury duty chore, and he re-packaged them into something more palatable.

I mean, granted, the sunrise this morning was beautiful, and choice to absorb, and I saw a view of Mt. Rainier that I don’t know that I’ve ever had, all ethereal white somehow. However, I was out of bed by 5 a.m., not my favorite sport. That would be about six hours of sleep, only, not my best condition.

Anyway, after the Judge’s inspiring speech, there was a video on the tv monitors, about how there will be plaintiffs and defendants and evidence and so on. It encouraged impartiality, with many references to the founding fathers and the importance of decision by juror (rather than by some king somewhere I suppose).

It would have been nice if they’d given us a little more information in advance, of how this is going to go. All the sitting and waiting. I mean, I brought stuff to read, and obviously I’ve a laptop–but some advance suggestions about such things would have been kind. I do hope that a stretching and exercise video doesn’t come on the monitor, like it does on those long trans-atlantic flights … they’re silly.

More, later. After “something” actually “happens”.

I made myself a very tidy ToDo List before leaving the office today, and now I cannot find it; I must have left it on the desk, which means of course that I have nothing more pressing ToDo than meddle with this blog.

My friend Dominique, whom I think is probably the epitome of Dork, has a new video. There’s like this fancy way to just upload it to blogs, but for some reason the Google video site does not include my blog backend (wordpress) amongst the options. So, go ahead click and see for yourself. Somewhere amongst his stuff is a great piece involving a loud machine.

Wednesday morning I have to report for jury duty. Everyone near me knows I’ve been complaining about this. It’s not the duty of it, it’s the crazy ass location of it. Somehow I’ve been called to the Reginal Justice Center in Kent, which from my apartment in morning rush hour, who knows how long it will take to get there, so I have to leave insanely early, which means I have to get up stupidly early. It’s called stupidly early because getting up that early leaves me muddled and stupid.

Really, I wish I was called to the Seattle courthouse, a twenty minute bus ride from my home. That I might even enjoy. Who’s in charge of this stuff anyway.

So, my goal of course is to see if I can get kicked out of the pool. That’s wrong, sure. But cripes. Between being half asleep and my generally variable and leaky memory, no one in their right mind would want me making decisions about their case.

Circus Contraption has concocted a party for which we’ve alreay purchased our tickets. JINXED: A Halloween Blowout. It’s nice to have my second favorite circus back in town.

People. People. People.

“r.s.v.p.”

It’s not that hard. You get the Evite, you look at your calendar, you make a decision, you share it with the entity who invited you. “Yes” “No” “Maybe” There’s only three choices. Just select one, okay?

Yeah, sure. Sometimes the event is weeks and weeks away, and you’ve got other things in your queue of possibilities.

Yeah, sure. Sometimes there are three or six other sexy things going on the same night and you’re still holding out for the device that lets you be in all those many places at the very same moment.

Yeah, sure. Sometimes you’re waiting to see if a particular one of those sexy people on the invite list is going to r.s.v.p. Yes, in which case you’ll be Yes-in’, too.

Sometimes you’re not wanting to appear too eager by saying “Yes” right away, like that means you have a pathetically empty social life. Sometimes you’re overburdened by the chore of crafting a clever response (’cause we know we peruse each other’s wit, or lack thereof).

Here’s the deal.

1. When you don’t reply, your name stays on that list of “Not Yet Replied” folk, letting all the world know that your manners are so caveman that you can’t even respond to your Evites.

2. You don’t have to be witty, really. The witty ones are mostly either just cracking themselves up, or showing off. (Yeah, I like to think I’m a TRULY witty one.)

3. Think about this. You can use the Evite to further your personal agenda. Change your reply over and over again, and it puts you at the top of the list of respondents each time–flirt, campaign, cajole, confuse the world. Maybe that will make it worth your time.

4. If your social life was completely ph*ckin’ perfect, you wouldn’t be on any Evite lists anyway, you’d be above all that. It’d all be engraved correspondence and hand-written notes and one-of-a-kind messages sent by sky-writer aeroplanes.

So, just answer the Evite already, okay? (Your grandmother’s watching, you know.)

Strange morning today. I never did narrow in on what was responsible for my feelings that my commute was surreal, but it was. The bumper stickers seemed incongruous with their autos’ drivers. The traffic lights seemed to coordinate an effort to slow my travels. “My” regular DJ’s playmix seemed odd and out of character. I don’t know.

The sky seemed fine, normal. But the pedestrians moved along oddly, with freaky postures and miscellaneous objects in their hands.

And, the butter on my morning to-go biscuits wicked into the napkin and left me without a good hit of grease. That, was all wrong.

I will be at The Beach for the Fourth. “The Beach” is my friends/family’s place on Camano Island, the spot we’ve been going to for summer holidays for more than twenty years. For us, the Fourth, is steeped in traditions, explosives are key.

A standard Fourth of July activity in our group is called Tank Wars, the gist of which is to amend a basic cardboard tank firework with other burnable elements–smoke bombs and snakes and firecrackers–and then aim your burly tank at the other burly tanks, and set the things on fire. It’s completely dumb, and very fun.

My eight-year-old nephews have more than $400.00 set aside for buying fireworks, money gleaned from extra chores and saved birthday gifts. The have already spent hours shopping the fireworks stands, assessing the selections, comparing prices, scheming the final display.

Their father, he has a reputation as a fire fiend (wonder where the children got their bent?). Dad’s youth included inventing ways to melt little green plastic army guys, but more spectacularly, launching his sister’s Barbies–burning–into the swimming pool.

My boyfriend, in his youth, would grind his own magnesium powder and craft incendiary devices–cinder blocks and fuses and rockets launched from the roof. He swears that’s all behind him. I doubt it. I believe that fire is elemental, and these boys are permeated with pyro proclivities.

It’s going to be a bangin’ Fourth.

Today I learned not to use the last towel from a roll of paper towels to clean glass.

The last towel on the roll is glued to the cardboard tube. The glue, activated with my glass cleaning product, makes for subtle smears on the glass.

Who knew?

Please.

Look. Those automobiles we use, they really are the WMDs. No, I’m not whining about fossil fuel abuse. I’m concerned about the pure physical destructive potential that is inherent in moving automobiles.

They are big. Heavy. Brutal. And, check this out. Sometimes we are not in charge of their destiny. Sometimes people come out of nowhere and do things they are not “supposed” to do, and in an eyeblink, mass destruction ensues.

Yesterday, I held the head of a man who lay in the middle of the road, his snarled Harley just six feet away. The SUV with whom Harley man collided had been making a left turn, the driver’s sight obscured by another large vehicle; the SUV driver went where really he shouldn’t have.

Harley man’s right arm was bent at inhuman angles. Harley man’s left hip unable to move. Traces of yellow mustard edged his lips, from a quick hot dog he grabbed for lunch just moments before.

It was a sunny day. Perfect for a simple ride.

Full leather chaps. Full leather jacket. Solid boots and helmut. Eye protection in place, shielding from glare and insects and dust. Alert. All the requisite items of safety.

But these days people are in such a damn hurry or something. Speeding through the yellow lights, even though they really are red. Hustling to turn, even when the sight lines are not clear. Jostling around stalled traffic. Ignoring the pedestrians.

I’m guilty of impatience. Crap. If the speed limit is 45, why is that driver in the left lane dawdling along doing 30? However. I do try to rise above it. Even more imporant than my state of mind, is that lives are at stake.

We are the terrorists. Motorized piles of steel and distracted, irritated, egotistic drivers.

Be careful out there.

There is nothing more stupid looking than a human at the end of the leash of a dog who is defecating. Dog squatting, human on a leash, mustering every possible iota of nonchalance. Dumb look no matter how much cool the human has in every other moment of life.

Okay. Dumber sight even. Human sashaying along with the plastic bag of dog excrement. Everyone knows what’s in that bag.

Sh*t.

For pities sake people, add a Martha factor and put your plastic bag o’ sh*t in a cute tote or something. Please. You look so ridiculous carrying that crumpled Safeway bag wrapped around the poo.

Somehow I became convinced this would be a good idea, taking up residence in the old Rainier Brewery–you know, the one next to Interstate 5 with the big red R on top, only now the R is a T, a T for Tully’s.

Anyway. Way back like in September I answered an ad that was on craigslist. The ad was offering up membership in a co-op of artists which plans to occupy Artist Studio Dwelling space that has been under development in three of the many buildings which make up the Rainier Brewery complex. Ariel Development is the developer, Sietch 22, LLC is the co-op in question.

What a crazy ride. Turns out that the project was not quite as far along as the developers claimed, AND, the developers were no longer exactly excited about having Sietch 22 as tenants. See, the co-op’s rent was locked in quite awhile ago, at a low rate, that is now significantly below market rate for similar space (in case you haven’t noticed, real estate prices in Seattle have risen insanely over the last few years). So, suffice to say that some of the negotiations in the past few months have been a bit contentious.

Progress seems real though. There is a new COO on site and he’s kicking ass. We’re just hoping that it’s not Sietch 22’s ass that gets the boot.

There is a rumor that the established art community in Seattle also isn’t exactly thrilled about the project, since they did not instigate it. What do I know? I’ve never been one to adhere to the established. Oh well.

I do hope to invite you to my housewarming party, AKA my birthday party, this coming September, in my new space in the old Rainier Brewery. Keep your fingers crossed.