Glass Spheres

Thoughts on the eclipse, and glass, and under glass. From the Janet side.

pamandjanet

“… The lunatic is on the grass./ The lunatic is on the grass./ Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs./ Got to keep the loonies on the path.” – Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon

No one from my office had a camera.  We looked around at each other and the human spectacle.  We looked at our feet on the sidewalk…we made small talk.  The sky was blue, and there wasn’t much wind.  Someone had a welder’s mask, like a ritual mask from a different time.

I was expecting an alien invasion with Independence Day destruction.  What else could there be, with tiny bright crescents in the tree shadows, the spiders taking down their webs, birds falling from the sky, mosquitoes believing in their blood dusk, the confusion of wandering herds, distant crop circles bringing in the day? 

An acquaintance of mine, a famous writer from some invaded place…

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Inertia

pamandjanet

“When a man gives his opinion, he’s a man. When a woman gives her opinion, she’s a bitch.”  –  Bette Davis   

I did not understand until today how terrible things have become for women.  So tell me, my friend, what do we do when the people in government twist the meaning of words?  I feel we’ve seriously entered into a war on women.

This is what has sent me over the deep-end.

“It’s difficult for me to call myself a feminist in a classic sense because it seems to be very anti-male, and it certainly is very pro-abortion, and I’m neither anti-male or pro-abortion,” – KellyAnn Conway

Merriam Webster today even tweeted the meaning of feminism in response.   “The belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities.”  USA today   Wow! Note that the meaning has nothing to do with man hating or abortion.  Words…

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Stardust Melody

Stardust and a song on pamandjanet.

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From which stars have we fallen to meet each other here?”  Nietzsche

I trudged across a snowy parking lot this morning and could not help but think of Zhivago, the poet at the time of revolution.  The writer Pasternak caught that moment in time.  The snow deep and then shallow, snow blowing into my scarf, into my eyes, seeing only my shoes….the snow gradually breaking into a muddy road.   Zhivago, with the soft eyes of the poet,  Zhivago, the doctor who loved and lost, Zhivago, who looking out across the Russian plains saw the summer fields of grasses and flax, thistle and wheat; in winter, the dark forests looming at the edge of meadows.  Zhivago who heard the grey wolves calling and saw them gather at his cabin in the dawn of early morning.  And Zhivago who saw the blood of Revolution splatter on his fields, in his…

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Stardust

Scattered stardust on pamandjanet.

pamandjanet

unknown     “The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff.”

Carl Sagan, Cosmos

I’m writing this evening when my brain feels as scattered as stardust, blown about about the cosmic wind. My focus is lost; I think there’s a thousand things I should be doing with myself to oppose the insanity that has taken this country. Where to best put my energy? I come up with a plan, a theory, and the next event, the next encounter, changes my mind. I want to write about how sorry I am that you have had this terrible loss, this friend that is gone from your life, like the loss I suffered nine years ago..nine years! It’s so hard to believe she’s been gone that…

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Waves as Wings, or Water as Dark Matter

the 10,000 birds need some exposure.

pamandjanet

 via Daily Prompt: Folly

Seabirds walk along the pier.  The beach is rocky or you’d be barefoot.   I’m stuck here working in a chilly room.  Temperatures falling.  I’ve borrowed a blanket and put on gloves.  I’m looking forward to your return, your warmth and  optimism.    My friend, you watch waves under a bright white sun, the sky for once not the usual grey.    

“May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.” ~Edward Abbey

I noticed on BBC World news last week the story of thousands of Snow Geese in Montana.  Just a small story at the bottom of the U.S. section.  It’s said, “Thousands of Snow Geese Dead.”  It’s been 3 days, and no further news.  CNN reports the story a day later as “hundreds” of geese.  I am waiting for a public…

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Pilgrimage — pamandjanet

I can’t mix the idea of the typical American with the idea of a pilgrimage. I imagine disdain or at least discomfort with meaningful travel. Modern travel is a status symbol. The suburbanite has already arrived; there is no need to travel anywhere for greater purpose. Travel means something to post on Facebook, making […]

via Pilgrimage — pamandjanet

The Road to Nowhere

Come on a ride (Talking Heads).

Midlife can be  a road to nowhere, the clock running out, a thousand ideas and no idea. A race to reach what?

I heard a story on NPR-a 53 year old journalist took up bicycle racing while studying midlife experiences. She commented in the story that midlife has few markers compared to the early adult years, which are often full of courtships, graduations, purchases, births. Then the endless middle chapters, with the center of the story shifting to first words, steps, schools, teams..the story of the adored little ones.  The journalist suggested a goal to structure the passage of time, for her, both the book and the bicycle race.

Subtract the narrative of the little ones, soon the young adult ones..and where do we find ourselves? In a morass, fertilizing the grounds of midlife confusion and crisis. Somehow the solution of making a goal or two seems perfunctory, a coda or two after the symphony is over. You can try a return to early striving, invent something new, but the energy is not quite what it was, and the rewards at the end of the race don’t glow as brightly. The naiveté that kept you moving is gone.

And the pressure of time running out..what is the race best run?  Have a better relationship? Paint? Write? The senior games? See the world? And what is to be let go of? The house? the marriage? the job? the view of yourself ?

I know one person who has given up trying to make a difference. Just doing a good job is enough for her. She does that and faithfully, but has given up on the idea that anything will change through her efforts. You may imagine that she is disheartened, but I think she is past that turmoil. Her inward consistency leads to her stability, she is in alliance with her values. It doesn’t matter that the world changes, what matters is that she is who she wants to be.

I do not have her stability, her pyramidal shape and personality, her faith in herself. I believe I was better suited to earlier life, while she told me once she had trouble as a younger person, sensing herself an old soul and in a holding pattern until that moment arrived. She has arrived. I’ve run a race and I’m shocked it’s over. But I’m also not ready to stand still. So I spin round and round and wonder if I’m on a road to nowhere.

Solitary

I’m learning what solitary is.

Aloneness pounces on you.  There is a profound feeling of solitary, of not exactly loneliness, but separateness.  I gave a gift to my sweetheart, one that was received with excitement, and a week later, it is decided to be not the thing. He saw someone wearing something similar (he says the same thing) and he mentions his impression that the individual who wore it is effeminate.  He decided he cannot wear it. It’s not his style now.

I see.  What I see is too much, and perhaps I fall into over interpretation. There is so much separateness. I can see that I am the person who stretches, who looks for something new and challenging, almost to a fault, to the point of distraction, if the moon was always in reach. I can see the years that separate us, separate me.  He prefers comfort and reminds me how much things have changed for him in order for him to join me in a different state, a different neighborhood, far away from the familiar. I try not to take it to heart. It was his choice and he could have refused. He claims that love is enough.

He tries not to judge but he grew up in an era where men knew that is was a horror to be considered gay or queer.  While he would  welcome anyone, it is too far for him to go to consider that someone might make the wrong assumption about him.  So the shirt can’t be worn. It’s not him.

It’s not a big deal.  He should have the Christmas present he wants.  That is how I would want it for anyone.  We are all separate in our style of receiving and giving.  I adore my sister in law, who will tell you up front and quickly if something doesn’t suit her. I struggled with my ex husband’s family, who you could never trust in their gratitude. Everything was perfect, and all the children were trained to say nothing different, for fear of hurt feelings.  It made for a sense of unquestioned family unity, and separateness was never faced, until I blew up the  family and found myself in my true state, alone and relating as best I can from my own heart.

I’m still deciding whether I got what I wanted for my lifetime. My boyfriend? partner? sweetheart?  He will return  the gift.