Thoughtful Thursday

About one thousand years ago, when I was writing a term paper for Jurrasic U, I had an experience somewhere between a meltdown and an epiphany. A meldiphany, as it were.

It all revolved around the word "the".

I had typed this word so often for my paper, I began to actually question if I was spelling it correctly. Because on paper, it was starting to look weird. Seriously.

In retrospect, this event was the genesis, albeit extremely tenuous (and more than a little mentally unstable), of my love of parsing words & phrases.

Nothing thrills me more that to have something so simple, so fundamental - something so taken for granted - slap me upside the head to take another look.

So when I read a mini-review of Martin Boroson's "One-Moment Meditation: Stillness for People on the Go", in a recent Body + Soul magazine, I got that flutter of excitement.

Because, hey. I am a People on the Go. And I may be going out on a limb here, but I think you might be, too.

His book speaks of taking, well, a moment. A time to stop and breathe, to recognize, and to make the most out of 'lost moments' we dismiss as a waste of time:

"Most of the time, we fail to realize the enormous potential of a moment. Perhaps this is because we think of a moment as a very short amount of time - just a few seconds - and therefore rather negligible. But the word 'moment' actually comes from a Latin word that means 'a particle sufficient to turn the scales'. In other words, a moment can be revolutionary. It can turn your life around. A moment is, by its very nature, momentous."

That one little particle can sufficiently turn your life around. Wow.

The possibilities that lie in that small Latin-rooted word are spectacular.

Moment.

Temporis Punctum.

In Corpus + Anima, Veritas.

Not so Fast

People often ask me, "Baroness, how do you manage to be such a staunch animal activist supporter and spiritual observer?"

Well, let me tell all those inquiring minds out there - people, it is hard.

And thanks to one Miss Brigitte Bardot, it just got a little bit harder.

Some facts:

1) Today is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. In observance, we fast until sunset.

2) At sunset, Jewish families all over the world will choose a celebratory meal; delicious, nutritious and easy-to-digest.

3) My favorite Break-The-Fast meal? Seal Flipper Pie. It is a true slice of Canadiana.

4) My favorite condiment for #3? Maple Syrup. Seriously. Maple Syrup = Nectar of the Gods.

Feces* would be edible with maple syrup.

Yet, according to Miss Brigitte and PETA, I should be boycotting the Canadian Maple Syrup manufacturers until Canada agrees to ban the slaughter of seals.

According to the actress, "...ethical reactions from consumers can sometimes convince a government or a corporation to change the way that it does business."

Well, even though I have all day to do nothing but reflect and meditate? I'll tell you, I'm going to have a hard time chewing over this one.


(* I'm just guessing on this one)

Thoughtful Thursday

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am not a fan of e-mail chain letters. I can honestly say I loathe them.

I blanche at the process, and find the rules and regulations on par with a karmic ultimatum. If I send them to 3 to 5 friends, I'll experience something so-so. But 30 friends - whoa, Nelly! I just have to wait by my mailbox for my guaranteed ticket to Utopia. Because it is surely coming.

All this vitriole? That's just me. No offense to the senders; I love you.

I'm just snarky that way.

However.

This one letter I kept, to use for a TT. It is from a dear woman, whom I've only gotten to know recently - and I'm so grateful I have. She is magnificent.

I sat on it for quite a while.

Let me clarify - this hesitancy was not at all intentional. I'm just a loser.

Mainly because I had misfiled the piece into an obscure sub-file I never go into. A file crammed full with Tip O' The Day riprap about diet and exercise; crapola I just kept shooting into the file as I received it throughout the summer, never to be looked at.

Well, summer's over. And with the fall comes the Cleaning House Baroness, the Diligent Baroness, the Organized Baroness. Time to purge that file with 80-odd articles. Gah.

And there it was. Waiting, patiently.

So, here it is.

The most important part of it, anyways. The loveliness of its text is a testament to the beautiful spirit of my friend:

Best of Thursdays, everyone.

'May today there be peace within. May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others. May you use the gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. May you be content with yourself just the way you are. Let this knowledge settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.'

Oo-ooo, That Smell

Of late, I have been on a personal little vision quest of discovery and enlightenment.

I would be remiss if I didn't drag you along with me for some ed-joo-mah-kay-shun as well. Because the struggle is much funner with a group, don't cha think??

As part of the rickety, broken-down ritual that sometimes attempts to be this blog's Wanderlust Wednesday, I will present you with some highly significant paleontological discoveries we made while visiting the gurgling, fetid, sulfur hell hole that Los Angelinos fondly refer to as either " East Beverly Hills", or the more common "La Brea Tar Pits".

(because if they were to allude to the fact that the stank of this place rivals 130 roofs and 5 highways being tarred simultaneously, they would lose a serious chunk of tourism coinage)

Here, only a short hop-skip-jump away from Tiffany and Rodeo Drive, is a little slice of nerd nirvana.

OK, not just nerds - they pander to a wide demographic.

There's the obligatory Wooly Mammoth crap for the kids:

seriously wooly - I'm thinking that wax for the Brazilian had not yet been discovered

There's the bird skeletons for the ornithologists/anorexics in the crowd:

"Seriously, Bernice. I had to evolve those feathers - they were making my butt look HUGE!"

There's the Roman-Greco wrasslin' lions out front, for the eroticists:

"Streisand!" "No, Minelli!" "Streisand" "No, Minelli!!"

And the kinda creepy accompanying statues just on the other side of the pathway, to validate those who just like to watch:

"Here they go again, Roger. Why don't they just **ck and be done with it, already?"

Not only were we able to witness first-hand all the fascinating work being undertaken amongst the captive scientists:

We were able to make a few of our own:

click on photo for full picture

Note here - not only are we able to see the the sinking/emerging Mastodon from the Pleistocene Era, but encircled in red is derma of the Sus Scrofa Domestica/Raiderista from the Lower Jurassic period.

Exciting stuff, that.

And I'm sorry - if that new little factoid didn't just enrich your life by about 1000 percent, I don't really know what else I can do.

Maybe you are not ready for the science that I am laying down.

I'm Good Either Way

In an attempt to str-r-r-r-retch out the financial value and mortal bliss of her yoga retreat weekend one more day, the Baroness offers this 'Pardon My Planet' for a Monday, rather than her usual prattling on:

Thoughtful Thursday

Rumour has it that we Canadians, with our healthcare system, have somehow - through the magic of lobbyists and media - transgressed from being merely socialistic in the care of our population to now being labelled Communist.

Well.

I do like vodka. And cozy fur hats.

I was also quite fond of not paying $100,000 to have the cancerous tumour in my colon removed.

Pay the Stoly, comrade.

It then goes without saying that I would have a keen interest in watching the latest in the 'American Masters' series on writer Dalton Trumbo.

Trumbo, in case you are unaware, was one of the movie industry's 'Hollywood Ten' during the McCarthy hearings, and refused to testify as to whether or not he was a member of the Communist Party. He subsequently did jail time for contempt, and for years was outcast from the filmmaking community.

If one could, however, magnanimously put aside these pesky little political leanings of his for a moment, one could clearly see that this man was one hell of a writer.

Throughout the course of the show, portions of his personal letters were read by a Who's Who of amazing actors: Brian Dennehy, David Straithern, Liam Neeson, Joan Allen.

For me, at least, to listen to his work was a mesmerizing experience. It appeared that Trumbo's passionate, well-crafted words were as much of a delight to read as they were to hear.

One of the letters was a scathing missive to one of his daughters' school principals; it seemed that the young girl had been set upon by classmates, parents and teachers alike to suffer for the transgressions of her father.

For all of the charges against him, Mr. Trumbo did have at least a couple of things going for him: a sense of justice, and a deep-running love for family. He was at once feral and the epitome of bilious civility:

"This slow murder of the mind and heart and spirit of a young child is the proud outcome of those patriotic meetings held by a few parents under the sponsorship of the PTA and the Bluebirds, ... It is a living test of the high principles of both organizations - principles noble in word, ignoble and savage in application ... I should like you to watch how decently and bravely our daughter tries to supress her bewilderment at her first encounter with barbarism parading as American virtue. Barbarism which began at your school among adult persons."

It is true that a father with alternative beliefs must have some inkling of an idea as to how his offspring may have occasion to shoulder his burdens.

Yet at the same time, attacking the parent through a child is an inexcusable act of cowardice.

All that being said, I'm off for a bowl of stroganoff before I go stand in line to buy some toilet paper.

Happy В четверг, everyone.

Hitting a Nerve

A couple of weeks ago, fresh from taking out a fifth mortgage on our house to pay for Duke 1's booklist, he and I and the entourage hit the University bookstore.

As he flitted hither and yon, blithely spending money previously earmarked for a new slate roof, Thomasville kitchen cabinets, and honeycomb tiling for Duke #2's bathroom, I meandered through the "Frivolous" section.

I ended up picking up a couple of books, one being Christian Lander's Stuff White People Like.

If you are not aware of this fine fellow, you very well should be. He's a scathingly funny guy, and the book is a by-product of his popular website. I hear he's hit the media trifecta, with an upcoming tv show as well. Yay him, for spreading the gospel according to, well, him.

Normally, I would burn through something like this with ease. But this one, well...

Reading this one is slightly masochistic. Turning each page, reading each bullet item is like oh-so-very-slo-o-o-o-owly pulling off an extra-adhesive bandaid.

Because I'm apparently white, that's why.

And not only white, but mock-worthy to boot.

What I thought of as my unique, boundless elan? It's been placed with great ease into a tidy little box.

I have become the demographic that I once sneeringly and gleefully derided.

And it hurts.

A lot.

Yet at the same time, it's truly fascinating.

Every item on the list brings me closer to the belief that Mr. Lander, in his infinite youthful wisdom, is a seer.

Because he is, with few exceptions, almost bang on with his assessment of me. Me - generic white person #2, 775, 843, 109.

Some of the things he somehow knows that I truly like:
. Coffee (#1)
. Yoga (#15)
. David Sedaris (#25)
. International Travel (#19)
. Documentaries (#57)
. Musical Comedy (#77)
. Brunch (#36)
. Dogs (#53)
. Pretending to be a Canadian when travelling Abroad (#105)

Some of the things I'm supposed to like:
. Beards (#95)
. Shorts (#86)
. Marijuana (#33)
. Marathons (#27)
. The Simpsons (#127)
. Rock Climbing (#150)

I suppose, to avoid confrontation (#128), I will have to endeavor to somehow incorporate these into my daily life. Or at least into my conversations, so as to appear to be part of the 'In' crowd:

"...So there I was, so stoked after just finishing the Vancouver Marathon that I decided to take advantage of that adrenalin surge and hike up the North Face of the Lions while still in my running shorts. So beautiful, man. I lit a spliff and just sit back and scoped out the amazing view. The sky over the city? As blue as the beginning of 'The Simpsons'. Breathtaking. You should really try it sometime - you know, the marathon, the hike, The Simpsons. It will blow your mind. And make you white..."

The beard thing? Uh, yeah. I'm working on that.

Combining my poor eyesight and usual lackadaisical efforts at plucking, this should only take a couple more days.

Stay posted.

Looking For Love in All the Wrong Places

One of my dear bloggy friends, the fantastic noir writer Cormac Brown, made me aware of a fun little exercise he and his fellow writers engage in called "Friday Flash Fiction". The rules, such as they are, are quite simple - take the given starter sentence and cobble some sort of prose out of it. The opening phrase for this week was 'inspired' by my Wednesday post, and was cleverly altered to 'Stop Me Before I Date Again".

Friday Flash Fiction linky is here.

Enjoy.

***********************

She once again sat, alone, slump-shouldered, on the edge of the table; with shame thick in her throat, she heaved out a garbled sigh to no one, "Stop me before I date again".

Mama always said, "The more things change, the more they stay the same". Hmph.

Truer words, Mama. Truer words.

For here she was, back in the same room.

Wearing the same crinkly blue gown.

Waiting, impatiently, like she had the last four times.

In a few moments, his hand would urgently be on the door knob, and her heart would start its usual silly girlish flutter.

In he would strut, all official-like in his white jacket and so full of himself - the fetus with a medical degree.

The same manchild, who would once again look at that same, decrepit hoo-hoo of hers and sniff a dismissive, "It's the same as last time, Mrs. Fotty, you naughty young lady. I'll call in another prescription."

Another day, another STD.

Another botched attempt at finding love in Ottewell Retirement Villa.

Dear Lord, stop me from dating again.

That is All.

Suffice it to say (which is how a lawyer of mine used to begin all his sentences - but unfortunately he had nothing to say after that. And neither have I).

Groucho Marx, The Groucho Letters

Thoughtful Thursday

The other day, while sitting around with some white chicks talkin' trash, my line of thought came into question.

The discussion entailed one of my Countess' daughters saying that when she grew up, she didn't want a small dog - she wanted a really, really big dog.

"Why on earth would you wish for this?" I beseeched, "Don't you realize the waste management issues? Little dog, little poop. Big dog - you're going to be picking up something the size of a roast."

The Good Countess Linda turned to me, agape, with an incredulous look on her face.

"Oh."

"My."

"Gawd, Baroness."

"How the hell did you go from dog poop to roast beef??? Heysoos Marimba, woman - what kind of bizarre, tangential thinking goes on in that cranium of yours?"

Well, let me tell you something.

Actually, some things.

1. Linda should know better - I mean, we've been friends for 30-odd years. You'd think she'd have figured this charming quality about me by now.

2. I in no way consider her comment an admonishment. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact.
I regard it as a sincere compliment - linear thinking is just not my bag, man.

3. How do I think? Well, think 'Family Circus' when Jeffy goes on one of his little vision quests, then superimpose this on a hummingbird in a field of honeysuckles, add a few double-shot Americanos, and throw in some childhood medication flashbacks, and you've pretty much got it.

Which sorta kinda explains how I arrived at today's TT.

Come September, as soon as the chilluns are out that door, I go into Organize mode. It is time, people - time to undo all the chaos that has been swirling around during the summer. Time to attack the junk drawers, the closets, the black-hole-piles of potentially pertinent mail.

And as I did this, I thought to myself, "Dear God, how does this happen?". And then, in one of my patented "Where Did That Come From" moments, I thought of a long-forgotten song:

...What if God was one of us?
Just a slob, like one of us?
Just a stranger on the bus, trying to make his way home...
Joan Osborne, "One of Us"

Yeah, I can't explain it.

But I sure love this song.

'Nuff Said 'Bout That

Overwhelmed.

Under the gun.

When will I learn the word 'no'?

Ack.

Thoughtful Thursday

Today, on the Baroness' calendar, it's August 34th.

I am having an extremely hard time letting go of summer this year. Rest assuredly, I will acquiesce next week when Duke 1 and Duke 2 are tucked away back at their respective halls of knowledge.

But for now, I am clinging on like grim death.

Usually, Autumn is my favorite season, with Spring coming in a distant second. But this summer has been somehow different. It has been lush with interaction and fulfilment, be it forging of lovely new acquaintances at the Virginia BlogFest, or blissing out to Yoga on the Dock, with the glistening river running along side of us while we downward dog.

It has been a season of strengthening and trueing family bonds, and a time of being privelege to witnessing the genesis of new ones, as two clans unite into one, with a delicious promise of forever (with a side of equally delicious pie...).

It has been days of wicked heat, and rejuvenating cool.

I'm just not ready; I'm anxiously anticipatory for whatever potentially lay ahead, yet muleheaded with resolve to squeeze every last succulent drop from the remaining 4 days.

Which makes today's TT seem all the more apt and bittersweet:

Autumn to winter, winter to spring,
Spring into summer, summer into fall -
So rolls the changing year, and so we change;
Motion so swift, we know not that we move.
Dinah Mulock Craik

And move we shall ... just not yet.

Happy Thursday.