One of Them

Yesterday spun out of control. After a week away, unanswered emails totalled 97. Add in 17 unreturned calls and three telephone meetings on the schedule and voila -- an outline of the work day. The tyranny of the urgent was upon me, punctuated by a small mountain of undone laundry, dust galore and a nearly-empty pantry (which would be another great blogrant because what most of us consider an empty pantry would constitute a feast for 2/3 of the world!)

In addition, yesterday was the day appointed to install new tile in the laundry room -- the freshly painted laundry room, thanks to my wonderful, handy-man-husband. In the last several months we have become quite the do-it-yourself-ers... well, he has anyway. In my case it has been more the 'watch-it-happen-while-he-does-it-himself' with the occasional 'hand-him-the-_____ (wrench, pliers, light bulb, paint brush)' role. But back to the tile-- the tile installation was to be my small contribution to the gradual transformation that he is accomplishing in our home. We finished about 7:00, all but the crooked crannies, which were his, upon which to wield his magic.

At 7:30, it seemed as though we might need food, so I bundled up and headed into the night -- hunting and gathering on my mind. Realize, dear Reader, that this red-headed-rick-rack-girl has always, always been concerned about the way things look. Clothes, hair, shoes -- the total package communicates many things from respect to style (or lack thereof!). It is rare to leave the house without at least a thought toward appearance. (And there are reasons for that, having been in Public Life where the smallest wardrobe infraction is subject to critical comment.)

But last night was different. Last night was about one tired out gal jumping in the car, dashing into the store for supplies and rushing back to the refurbished nest in hopes of throwing in a load of laundry before pumpkin-time.

It was at the check out counter that the most egregious of errors was noticed. Dropping the car keys and reaching to retrieve them, my heart skipped a beat as my eyes focused in on the toe of my... bedroom slippers. Oh dear! I have become one of Those Women. Bedroom Slippers In The Grocery Store. Things have gone too far. My white-gloved Grandmother would have swooned. I died a thousand deaths in that moment -- face burning with a stealthly look around to see if Anyone Had Noticed.

Hmmm... no one was looking. There was one person in line eyeing my purchases, but otherwise no interest. Slipping out to the car, glad for the cover of darkness, I unloaded my cart and headed for the safety of home.

It is a downhill slide from here. This morning found me at my desk by 8:45... in a track suit! Yesterday the slippers, today sweat pants and who knows -- perhaps pj's tomorrow. And flip flops! What is the world coming to -- or should I say, to what end is the world coming? Isn't it nice to know that No One is Looking? Isn't it refreshing that the inside matters more than the outside? Isn't Life Grand?

Currency of the Heart

some spend wildly,
lavishing descriptors to purchase
attention.
some hoard wealth,
privately counting the cost of the meanest
expenditure.
some watch and wait,
measuring the return before
investment.
squander,
simper,
sequester,
words are the currency of the heart.

La Pintura de Dios

Perched above the Pacific this afternoon, light lingered over the water as waves beat steady time on the shore. Silence raised her head between the surround sound of surfers and seagulls. Time suspended, except for the in and out of breath.

Walking back from the beach through a maze of casitas, a blue and white message was baked into pristine tiles..."La pintura de Dios es el mundo."

Strolling through God's gallery, is there anything better?

Poems

Love words. Love poetic expression. (Although my mother would remind me, one cannot love inanimate objects or abstract ideas. Oh well -- she is also the person who with disgust, corrected me for using the word 'fun' too much... but that is for another blogrant.) Began writing poems at the age of 12 -- really bad ones. Continued through the years -- hopefully better ones. This one was written in April 2006 and posted on a poetry blog I'd started. Became friendly with some of the other poet bloggers. Then I noticed that one person had 'borrowed' some of my poetic expressions -- flattery or thievery? Not sure which, but bothersome. Finally came to the place where I learned to let go of my little wordchildren and fling them out there, regardless of the result.


Inblognito

fling and furl
words
out into the great
cyber abyss
capturing consciousness
describing destinations
finding feelings
poking at pasts
testing tomorrows
meandering through meanings
what do all these
rants
really represent
except
a way of writers
traveling
inblognito
known only
through the
random reactions
of resonating readers
who
ooo, aah, argue, exclaim --
new definition
of community
a bringing together
in this
falling apart world

Ordinary Genius?

Last night while perusing the aisles of a local book store, The Einstein Factor by Win Wenger and Richard Poe caught my eye. The first chapter begins with the simple question, "Are You A Genius?"

"Each of us does indeed possess a thinking machine vastly superior to our
feeble conscious minds. The mathematician John von Neumann once
calculated that the human mind can store up to 280 quintillion -- that's
280,000,000,000,000,000,000-- bits of memory...Estimates of the brain's
speed of operation have ranged from 100 to 100,000 teraflops ( a teraflop is
1 trillion flops, the standard measure of computing speed.) Compare that
speed to the world's fastest supercomputer... which clanks along at an
arthritic 100 gigaflops or 100 billion flops..."

Wow John von, I've heard of a gazillion, but had no idea about a quintillion (much less 280 of them). And teraflops, well the concept of 1 trillion flops is one with which I can identify!

The book goes on to discuss Einstein and his early life -- he was considered a slow starter and learned with difficulty, had poor language skills, suffered from dyslexia and in his mid-twenties "seemed destined for a life of mediocrity."

Apparently, his ability to freely imagine, "unrestrained by conventional inhibitions" was what enabled him to develop his brilliant theories.

Surely, we all have untapped intellectual resources hiding within... but could it be (as the authors propose) "that geniuses are little more than ordinary people who have stumbled upon some knack or technique for widening their channel of attention, thus making conscious their subtle, unconscious perceptions."

Could it be?

What an intriguing thought.

Bought the book.
Reading it now.
Storing up a few quintillion bits that may increase my teraflopping... but the jury is still out.