Happy Independence Day.
While a lot of people will be exhorting you to remember the sacrifices other people made to make this country what it is (usually so you will shut up and stop disagreeing with them for five minutes), I would like to exhort you to remember to be independent.
You are not your religion (or lack of it).
You are not a political party.
You are not a company or a job.
You are not even a family or a relationship. You aren't your parents - you aren't not your parents. Or your kids.
You aren't tallness, you aren't shortness, you aren't healthiness, you aren't illness, you aren't wealth, you aren't poverty, you aren't happiness, you aren't sadness.
You aren't a sexual orientation. You aren't manhood, womanhood, or anything in between.
You aren't an unhappy childhood. You aren't a privileged childhood.
You aren't where you live. Or where you grew up.
You aren't failure. You aren't success.
People try to tell other people they are these things, that they should do things based on who they are. "You're a ____. You should do _____." I, for one, find myself doing it all time (e.g., "You're a conservative. CONSERVE.")
But it's exactly that kind of thinking that leads to the ends justifying the means - Christians killing abortionists, gay people making fun of "breeders," out-of-work fathers killing their kids so they don't grow up hungry (and never grow up at all), environmental activists supporting biofuels that cause farmers to chop down rainforests, Libertarians who sell their liberty to corporations (to keep Liberty away from the Government), people who let their families fall apart because they can't walk away from the jobs they took to support their families.
So take a step back from your ideals and ambitions today to smile more often, listen more, laugh at jokes, and do what you love (and not what you should do). Don't put your nose to the grindstone. Don't make sacrifices. Don't be noble.
Taking it all with a grain of salt is also part of what makes this country great.
7.04.2009
6.25.2009
Growing like a weed.
Ray's getting older. For better or worse, she's grown away from the sugar sweet innocence of babyhood. She isn't sour, but she's tarter - wittier - able to stand just the tiniest bit back from the events happening around her and see them from her own perspective, not just her parents' or friends'. It's still hard for her to keep that eye of distance on her friends, but that's as it is.
She's getting to the point where she wishes things were different (i.e., perfect). If only our yard were like everyone else's, full of grass and flowers and a swimming pool and...
Honestly, it's a little discouraging.
But I have to stand just a little bit back and see things from my own perspective, too. I spent two summers pulling gravel out of the back yard to get even this far. Today, I spent a couple of hours pulling weeds out of the yard - first, I watered and admired the strawberry patch - and under the big clumps of weeds are patches of tiny, silken grass shoots. My patch of dill and basil is starting to sprout, even after the heat we've had the last few days. My next project is to put bird netting over the strawberries - which may or may not do anything about the squirrel that runs across the top of the fence next to the patch. I put some old leaf mulch between the rows of strawberries today. I didn't plan it - I just ran across a pile of rotten leaves and was inspired. "Perfect," I said. "Nothing's growing in it."
I'm finally able to stand back from the sweltering gravel pit of imperfection that is my back yard and go, "Ah. That part's nice."
It's not a big part. But it's nice.
Part of me is an editor, a perfectionist, a rules lawyer, a perpetual teenager whining about how things aren't fair. And if I didn't have that part of me, I wouldn't have a job, and I certainly wouldn't have pulled weeds tonight for two hours. But that part of me can't appreciate anything I've accomplished. It tangles me up: don't bother starting if it isn't going to be perfect.
Part of me is a daydreamer, a living non sequiteur. If I didn't daydream, I wouldn't be worth being around. I wouldn't be able to understand other people, let alone give a crap about them - I wouldn't be able to put myself in their shoes. But that part of me will start a million projects and never finish anything. It always gives up.
But when they work together - when I just leave them alone to do what they do best - it's better. I don't give up - but I occasionally stand back and admire my work.
Maybe I can get a kiddie pool this year, if I put it where the worst of the weeds are instead of where the baby grass is growing. The pool will have to be rigid plastic, of course, or the gravel will tear it up.
A surprise for when Ray comes back from South Dakota, in July, from visiting her grandparents. Unless she reads it on the blog first - she does that sometimes.
On the one hand, you want your kid to be well-adjusted. Well-rounded. Happy. Perfect.
On the other hand, it's the little pieces of craziness that both give your kid individuality and talent. Who would I be if I hadn't obsessed about books and words my entire childhood? Or if I hadn't spent so many years tearing myself up about how things weren't fair? I wouldn't be me, had all my wrinkles been smoothed out too soon.
So here's to my daughter - growing like a weed - in a protected corner of our garden, where I won't trim her too much, until she can find the place where she isn't a weed anymore. Hopefully, she'll come back and visit after she uproots herself.
She's getting to the point where she wishes things were different (i.e., perfect). If only our yard were like everyone else's, full of grass and flowers and a swimming pool and...
Honestly, it's a little discouraging.
But I have to stand just a little bit back and see things from my own perspective, too. I spent two summers pulling gravel out of the back yard to get even this far. Today, I spent a couple of hours pulling weeds out of the yard - first, I watered and admired the strawberry patch - and under the big clumps of weeds are patches of tiny, silken grass shoots. My patch of dill and basil is starting to sprout, even after the heat we've had the last few days. My next project is to put bird netting over the strawberries - which may or may not do anything about the squirrel that runs across the top of the fence next to the patch. I put some old leaf mulch between the rows of strawberries today. I didn't plan it - I just ran across a pile of rotten leaves and was inspired. "Perfect," I said. "Nothing's growing in it."
I'm finally able to stand back from the sweltering gravel pit of imperfection that is my back yard and go, "Ah. That part's nice."
It's not a big part. But it's nice.
Part of me is an editor, a perfectionist, a rules lawyer, a perpetual teenager whining about how things aren't fair. And if I didn't have that part of me, I wouldn't have a job, and I certainly wouldn't have pulled weeds tonight for two hours. But that part of me can't appreciate anything I've accomplished. It tangles me up: don't bother starting if it isn't going to be perfect.
Part of me is a daydreamer, a living non sequiteur. If I didn't daydream, I wouldn't be worth being around. I wouldn't be able to understand other people, let alone give a crap about them - I wouldn't be able to put myself in their shoes. But that part of me will start a million projects and never finish anything. It always gives up.
But when they work together - when I just leave them alone to do what they do best - it's better. I don't give up - but I occasionally stand back and admire my work.
Maybe I can get a kiddie pool this year, if I put it where the worst of the weeds are instead of where the baby grass is growing. The pool will have to be rigid plastic, of course, or the gravel will tear it up.
A surprise for when Ray comes back from South Dakota, in July, from visiting her grandparents. Unless she reads it on the blog first - she does that sometimes.
On the one hand, you want your kid to be well-adjusted. Well-rounded. Happy. Perfect.
On the other hand, it's the little pieces of craziness that both give your kid individuality and talent. Who would I be if I hadn't obsessed about books and words my entire childhood? Or if I hadn't spent so many years tearing myself up about how things weren't fair? I wouldn't be me, had all my wrinkles been smoothed out too soon.
So here's to my daughter - growing like a weed - in a protected corner of our garden, where I won't trim her too much, until she can find the place where she isn't a weed anymore. Hopefully, she'll come back and visit after she uproots herself.
6.22.2009
Bad Jokes.
So this kid tells his father a bad joke. And his father tells me. And I, admittedly not the best joke teller (or rememberer; I only have two long jokes and two short ones at hand most of the time) in the world, tell my daughter.
Here's the joke:
"An actor wants to get a part as a pirate, so he cuts his leg off. But he doesn't get the job. Know why? He cut off the wrong leg!"
She's sitting in the back seat of Lee's Jeep. She looks at me like I'm an idiot.
Okay, okay, I'm a bad joke teller. Fair enough, I'm thinking.
She says, "Mom, everyone knows you have to cut off this leg [points to right leg] if you're going to be a pirate."
Duh.
Later, she says, "Mom, do you want to hear a joke? My friend [friend's name redacted] told it to me."
"Okay," I say.
"A boy, it's his first day of school, his very first day, his teacher asks, 'What is your name?' and he says, 'Buttcheeks.' And the teacher says, 'If you say that one more time, I'm going to send you to the principal's office. Now what is your name? And the boy says, 'Buttcheeks!' [Giggles]
"The teacher sends him to the principal's office and the principal says, 'What is your name?' and the boys says [more giggles] 'Buttcheeks!' And the principal says, 'If you say that one more time, I'm going to send you to the cop, and he will shoot you dead. Now, what is your name?' And the boy says, 'My name is Buttcheeks!'
"The principal sends him to the cop and the cop says, 'What is your name?' and the boy says [she has to stop to catch her breath] 'My name is Buttcheeks!' and the cop says, 'If you say that one more time, I'm going to shoot you in the head. Now what is your name?' And the boy says, 'Buttcheeks!' So the cop shoots him dead.
"The boy's mother comes to the police station and says to the cop, 'Oh my poor Buttcheeks!' And the cops says, 'You can sit down if you want.' But the woman says, 'Buttcheeks was the name of my son!'"
[Complete loss of cool. Apparently, that's the end of the joke.]
Nobody believes kids, you know. It's a shame.
Here's the joke:
"An actor wants to get a part as a pirate, so he cuts his leg off. But he doesn't get the job. Know why? He cut off the wrong leg!"
She's sitting in the back seat of Lee's Jeep. She looks at me like I'm an idiot.
Okay, okay, I'm a bad joke teller. Fair enough, I'm thinking.
She says, "Mom, everyone knows you have to cut off this leg [points to right leg] if you're going to be a pirate."
Duh.
Later, she says, "Mom, do you want to hear a joke? My friend [friend's name redacted] told it to me."
"Okay," I say.
"A boy, it's his first day of school, his very first day, his teacher asks, 'What is your name?' and he says, 'Buttcheeks.' And the teacher says, 'If you say that one more time, I'm going to send you to the principal's office. Now what is your name? And the boy says, 'Buttcheeks!' [Giggles]
"The teacher sends him to the principal's office and the principal says, 'What is your name?' and the boys says [more giggles] 'Buttcheeks!' And the principal says, 'If you say that one more time, I'm going to send you to the cop, and he will shoot you dead. Now, what is your name?' And the boy says, 'My name is Buttcheeks!'
"The principal sends him to the cop and the cop says, 'What is your name?' and the boy says [she has to stop to catch her breath] 'My name is Buttcheeks!' and the cop says, 'If you say that one more time, I'm going to shoot you in the head. Now what is your name?' And the boy says, 'Buttcheeks!' So the cop shoots him dead.
"The boy's mother comes to the police station and says to the cop, 'Oh my poor Buttcheeks!' And the cops says, 'You can sit down if you want.' But the woman says, 'Buttcheeks was the name of my son!'"
[Complete loss of cool. Apparently, that's the end of the joke.]
Nobody believes kids, you know. It's a shame.
6.21.2009
Burnout, slow recovery.
The last few weeks have been rough - too many projects going on, too many possibilities. Too much editing.
So instead of trying to accomplish it all as fast as I can, so I can fit more in (my usual mode of operation), I've been trying to (face it; something in the back corner of my brain has been forcing me to) slow down and take things one step at a time: I worked on a strawberry patch instead of trying to fix my entire back yard (it needs it). I've been working on my murder mystery game, instead of my game and my novel rewrites, and a short story I have in my head, and doing research, and volunteering for Pikes Peak Writers, and coming up with RPG material, and writing blog entries, and and and. I took a few evenings off to just read or hang out with my family.
Part of me is gnashing my teeth. I didn't get enough done! But part of me is saying, "What you did do, was valuable." The thing is, I get down when I'm not accomplishing something, and I'm afraid of wrapping myself up in the idea that I have all the time in the world to do what I want to do. What if I forget something important? What if I spend too much time doing nothing?
So instead of trying to accomplish it all as fast as I can, so I can fit more in (my usual mode of operation), I've been trying to (face it; something in the back corner of my brain has been forcing me to) slow down and take things one step at a time: I worked on a strawberry patch instead of trying to fix my entire back yard (it needs it). I've been working on my murder mystery game, instead of my game and my novel rewrites, and a short story I have in my head, and doing research, and volunteering for Pikes Peak Writers, and coming up with RPG material, and writing blog entries, and and and. I took a few evenings off to just read or hang out with my family.
Part of me is gnashing my teeth. I didn't get enough done! But part of me is saying, "What you did do, was valuable." The thing is, I get down when I'm not accomplishing something, and I'm afraid of wrapping myself up in the idea that I have all the time in the world to do what I want to do. What if I forget something important? What if I spend too much time doing nothing?
6.16.2009
Rachael at Nosh.
I took a floating holiday on Wednesday. That morning, I tried to do edits, but realized I still didn't have a plan on how exactly to fix something, so I used the morning working that out. I hate rebuilding plans during editing time - it works much better to brainstorm during meetings. But I couldn't move ahead without it, so there you go.
Ray and I left for Nosh about eleven.
On the one hand, eating at restaurants really isn't important. It's all calories. On the other hand, it's vital - humans aren't built to eat the same thing, day after day. And we are what we eat, both in our choices of what to eat and how our choices affect us, physically and otherwise.
Nosh is a good place. High-quality ingredients prepared simply but well, in reasonable portions and proportions. Good ambiance, with the far side of the main dining room lit by skylight, the walls covered with giant koi, and the floors made of bamboo.
Friendly, foodie staff. Reasonable prices. An eye for world cuisine and twists on familiar flavors. Not the best food I've ever had - but that was a conjunction of excellent good, ambiance, and company not to be often recreated or surpassed.
We arrived early, so we got a little carton of sweet potato fries, dressed with salt and pepper and served with a sweet sauce with red peppers, maybe.
The waitress asked how the fries were and got a thumb's up.
Ray scanned the menu. I said, "You should have the calamari."
"What's that?"
"Squid."
"That's what I'm having."
And she did. She wandered the restaurant and decided the giant goldfish wallpaper was a good thing. She chatted up the waitresses and figured out our table number.
I ordered the tomato bisque and crabcakes with mango-cilantro salsa.
It all arrived quickly, perfectly prepared.
I don't like going to restaurants that serve food that I can cook better than they can. I'm pretty sure I can make everything on the Nosh menu without too much hassle. I just can't pull it off as well.
So we sat, and talked, and ate, and laughed, and it was good. And that's something I would like to have be a part of my daughter's life.
Then we went to Fernando Botero at the Fine Arts Center. And after that, the park: everybody looked weird: too thin...
Ray and I left for Nosh about eleven.
On the one hand, eating at restaurants really isn't important. It's all calories. On the other hand, it's vital - humans aren't built to eat the same thing, day after day. And we are what we eat, both in our choices of what to eat and how our choices affect us, physically and otherwise.
Nosh is a good place. High-quality ingredients prepared simply but well, in reasonable portions and proportions. Good ambiance, with the far side of the main dining room lit by skylight, the walls covered with giant koi, and the floors made of bamboo.
Friendly, foodie staff. Reasonable prices. An eye for world cuisine and twists on familiar flavors. Not the best food I've ever had - but that was a conjunction of excellent good, ambiance, and company not to be often recreated or surpassed.
We arrived early, so we got a little carton of sweet potato fries, dressed with salt and pepper and served with a sweet sauce with red peppers, maybe.
The waitress asked how the fries were and got a thumb's up.
Ray scanned the menu. I said, "You should have the calamari."
"What's that?"
"Squid."
"That's what I'm having."
And she did. She wandered the restaurant and decided the giant goldfish wallpaper was a good thing. She chatted up the waitresses and figured out our table number.
I ordered the tomato bisque and crabcakes with mango-cilantro salsa.
It all arrived quickly, perfectly prepared.
I don't like going to restaurants that serve food that I can cook better than they can. I'm pretty sure I can make everything on the Nosh menu without too much hassle. I just can't pull it off as well.
So we sat, and talked, and ate, and laughed, and it was good. And that's something I would like to have be a part of my daughter's life.
Then we went to Fernando Botero at the Fine Arts Center. And after that, the park: everybody looked weird: too thin...
5.31.2009
Book Reviews.
A Betrayal in Winter, by Daniel Abraham.
The Collected Ghost Stories of E.F. Benson, edited by Richard Dalby.
So far on the Gene Wolfe Solar Cycle...
---
My only complaint with A Betrayal in Winter was the fact that most of the action (all but the epilogue) occurred in SUMMER. SUMMER. I think this is a valid complaint.
The second book in the high fantasy The Long Price Quartet, I find the book not quite as striking as the first - the first book introduces the idea that a poet might physically lock an idea into place, after all. And the characters' choices weren't as wrenching as in the first book - I'm sure other readers would argue with me, but I just couldn't empathize with the choice in this book. I kept thinking, "What you call for will come," and sure enough, it did.
But. I enjoyed reading this book more. The storylines were stronger, less disorienting. I actually liked some of the characters, instead of standing back and admiring them from a distance. The book may be a little further away from brilliance, but closer to clarity.
I recommend the series for anybody who remembers liking high fantasy but can't pick up the typical, mass-market high fantasy books (e.g., Robert Jordan) anymore. Mature, sophisticated - the kind of books that only in retrospect you recognize as being a retelling of the "chosen one saves the world" story.
---
E.F. Benson is one of my favorite old-school horror writers. "The Room in the Tower," "Mrs. Amsworth," and "Caterpillars" will stick with me until I die.
This collection of his short stories, however, shows his weaknesses rather than his strengths. By collecting pretty much every ghost story Benson ever wrote, I saw the repetitive nature of a lot of his stories - themes that never evolved, characters that never changed, horrors that lost their insidiousness due to their humdrum recurrence.
I really didn't read anything that met the level of the stories I'd read already, sad to say.
---
My project in reading the 12-book Gene Wolfe Solar Cycle (which starts with The Shadow of the Torturer) continues. May was The Urth of the New Sun.
TUotNS was a coda to the first four books, The Book of the New Sun, apparently written to clear up the mysteries of the first four books, at least to the extent that Wolfe was willing to clear them up. Ahhhh, says I. TUotNS made for easier reading than the first four books (I only have about 50 vocabulary words to look up for TUotNS, instead of 250 or so for each of the others), but it was less satisfying. Too clear? Too many mysteries revealed? Too easy, the way breaking into the local bank is too easy after you've successfully ripped off Fort Knox?
Nightside of the Long Sun is next.
The Collected Ghost Stories of E.F. Benson, edited by Richard Dalby.
So far on the Gene Wolfe Solar Cycle...
---
My only complaint with A Betrayal in Winter was the fact that most of the action (all but the epilogue) occurred in SUMMER. SUMMER. I think this is a valid complaint.
The second book in the high fantasy The Long Price Quartet, I find the book not quite as striking as the first - the first book introduces the idea that a poet might physically lock an idea into place, after all. And the characters' choices weren't as wrenching as in the first book - I'm sure other readers would argue with me, but I just couldn't empathize with the choice in this book. I kept thinking, "What you call for will come," and sure enough, it did.
But. I enjoyed reading this book more. The storylines were stronger, less disorienting. I actually liked some of the characters, instead of standing back and admiring them from a distance. The book may be a little further away from brilliance, but closer to clarity.
I recommend the series for anybody who remembers liking high fantasy but can't pick up the typical, mass-market high fantasy books (e.g., Robert Jordan) anymore. Mature, sophisticated - the kind of books that only in retrospect you recognize as being a retelling of the "chosen one saves the world" story.
---
E.F. Benson is one of my favorite old-school horror writers. "The Room in the Tower," "Mrs. Amsworth," and "Caterpillars" will stick with me until I die.
This collection of his short stories, however, shows his weaknesses rather than his strengths. By collecting pretty much every ghost story Benson ever wrote, I saw the repetitive nature of a lot of his stories - themes that never evolved, characters that never changed, horrors that lost their insidiousness due to their humdrum recurrence.
I really didn't read anything that met the level of the stories I'd read already, sad to say.
---
My project in reading the 12-book Gene Wolfe Solar Cycle (which starts with The Shadow of the Torturer) continues. May was The Urth of the New Sun.
TUotNS was a coda to the first four books, The Book of the New Sun, apparently written to clear up the mysteries of the first four books, at least to the extent that Wolfe was willing to clear them up. Ahhhh, says I. TUotNS made for easier reading than the first four books (I only have about 50 vocabulary words to look up for TUotNS, instead of 250 or so for each of the others), but it was less satisfying. Too clear? Too many mysteries revealed? Too easy, the way breaking into the local bank is too easy after you've successfully ripped off Fort Knox?
Nightside of the Long Sun is next.
Restaurant Review: Curry Leaf
The Curry Leaf restaurant in Colorado Springs is tiny, but it's good. Sri Lankan comfort food turns out to be a cross between Indian and some colonial European influences, and it was comfort-food yummy. A lot of curries with rice - and pastries and flan for desert. The coconut sambol (a salad) was too spicy to gulp down, but I wanted to. Otherwise, the dishes weren't terribly spicy.
It's hard to imagine the tens of thousands of people supposedly killed in the class between the Sri Lankan Government and the Tamil Tigers - in a country a quarter the size of Colorado, but there you go.
It's hard to imagine the tens of thousands of people supposedly killed in the class between the Sri Lankan Government and the Tamil Tigers - in a country a quarter the size of Colorado, but there you go.
Pueblo trip - weekend of May 23
I can't recommend going to Pueblo, although I had a good time, which says more about me and my capability for amusement than it does about Pueblo. And more about how much more easily Ray and Lee get along, how they cope with changes in the routine. The trip was a belated birthday present: there's a limit to how much I can cope with being spoiled, okay?
The Sangre de Cristo Art Museum is an odd construct - an arts complex in which more enjoyment and attention is devoted to the kids' museum than the one for adults. The kids' museum wasn't as fun as the one in Santa Fe, but the one in Pueblo was still very nice.
The Pueblo kids' museum focuses on art, naturally enough; the focus both defines and limits the place. For example, there was a free kids' pottery class over in the adults' building, an area filled with blocks to make mazes out of, little tables with exercises in color, shading, etc. - but no 'what ifs.' What if you take a square frame and try to blow a giant bubble with it? Will it be round or square? What if you have a pendulum with a marker on it, and you shake the paper underneath it? Art without some science always comes across as a little dry. Frivolous. (The reverse seems tragic.)
My favorite part of the museums was a kinetic sculpture with heavy balls (like pool balls), a heavy-gauge wire track, a motor to pull the balls back to the top, and various doodads to spin and dance when the balls hit them.
The museum for adults was well-built but small, and the art inside not really compelling. (Something I've had to learn lately in writing is the difference between "interesting" and "compelling." The art in the adult side was "interesting.") The art tended to modern art of the stuff-hanging-on-a-wall or sitting-on-a-pedestal type. Being modern art, this was no excuse - the best modern art pieces are stuff-you-might-play-with, not overbred dalmatians waiting to have their pictures taken. Modern (and following) art should have a quality of eliciting, much the way fluffy clouds on a sunny day do, but with more emotional and intellectual impact.
All of which is to say, I found some things I liked, but nothing I loved.
Afterward, we drove around, looking for the Pueblo Riverwalk (we must have passed it four times before we found it). The river itself sits past the railroad tracks and is quite restrained and unlovely, although I squealed with delight when I first saw it, because the cement embankment that separates the railyards from the river was painted with gigantic murals, graffiti higher than a house, and all of it a bit mad. Pictures of saints, pictures of weird cosmologies. Across the river was some kind of historical district filled with the most depressingly derelict houses - good houses gone multi-unit, unmown, unloved.
We recrossed the river after being harassed by a number of one-way streets and stopped at a reassuring shop filled with Southwestern-style furniture, tin-framed mirrors, ceramic crosses and lizards, and wall tiles with the motto "Mi casa es su casa." The owner revealed the riverwalk was only a block away - and that, due to the thickness, in the fifteen years he'd owned the store, there had never been a problems with any of the sandstone tables.
The riverwalk is a tame section of stream (a rivulet of the river) along which one may promenade. Part of the walk was blocked off for a wedding, but otherwise we walked the whole damned thing. I was hoping for rain - it was perfect weather for it, warm and still.
The riverwalk was almost, but not quite: not enough people for a gorgeous Saturday night, not enough boutiques (i.e., none), not enough goofy art, not enough vendors with irresistibly greasy street food, not enough length: tame.
Downtown was odd. For one, it's a huge area, all filled with brick buildings. And no section has been "fixed" or set up as a place for people to wander about and spend money and see things that are nice to look at while one eats snacks and drinks coffee. I don't remember seeing a single Starbucks downtown - and a downtown without a Starbucks, nowadays, is a remarkable thing. The only coffee shop we passed was closed, on a Saturday afternoon.
We ate at Fifteen twenty-one, a small restaurant built into what looked like the only consecutive row of open shops in the entire downtown area. The ambiance was simple and unobtrusive. The food was superb. How to crust a leg of lamb in herbs and salt without the salt becoming overwhelming - the crust wasn't removed - I will have to consider. Lee had escargot. "Gorgonzola was the right way to go," he said. But the place was almost abandoned - us and one other couple. The owners should have picked a different location - or else they should be getting free rent.
Afterward, we went to Tinseltown and saw Star Trek. I cheered at the end.
The next morning I sat in the breakfast area of a chain motel, watching people in t-shirts request omelets from the complementary chef. A chef. In a motel. But only for breakfast.
From a steel town of no attraction for years and years (or so I've heard) to some half-assed effort to acquire a predictable type of appeal, failing in its lack of (like wine) terroir. If only I could pick up that restaurant and bring it back to the Springs with me.
The Sangre de Cristo Art Museum is an odd construct - an arts complex in which more enjoyment and attention is devoted to the kids' museum than the one for adults. The kids' museum wasn't as fun as the one in Santa Fe, but the one in Pueblo was still very nice.
The Pueblo kids' museum focuses on art, naturally enough; the focus both defines and limits the place. For example, there was a free kids' pottery class over in the adults' building, an area filled with blocks to make mazes out of, little tables with exercises in color, shading, etc. - but no 'what ifs.' What if you take a square frame and try to blow a giant bubble with it? Will it be round or square? What if you have a pendulum with a marker on it, and you shake the paper underneath it? Art without some science always comes across as a little dry. Frivolous. (The reverse seems tragic.)
My favorite part of the museums was a kinetic sculpture with heavy balls (like pool balls), a heavy-gauge wire track, a motor to pull the balls back to the top, and various doodads to spin and dance when the balls hit them.
The museum for adults was well-built but small, and the art inside not really compelling. (Something I've had to learn lately in writing is the difference between "interesting" and "compelling." The art in the adult side was "interesting.") The art tended to modern art of the stuff-hanging-on-a-wall or sitting-on-a-pedestal type. Being modern art, this was no excuse - the best modern art pieces are stuff-you-might-play-with, not overbred dalmatians waiting to have their pictures taken. Modern (and following) art should have a quality of eliciting, much the way fluffy clouds on a sunny day do, but with more emotional and intellectual impact.
All of which is to say, I found some things I liked, but nothing I loved.
Afterward, we drove around, looking for the Pueblo Riverwalk (we must have passed it four times before we found it). The river itself sits past the railroad tracks and is quite restrained and unlovely, although I squealed with delight when I first saw it, because the cement embankment that separates the railyards from the river was painted with gigantic murals, graffiti higher than a house, and all of it a bit mad. Pictures of saints, pictures of weird cosmologies. Across the river was some kind of historical district filled with the most depressingly derelict houses - good houses gone multi-unit, unmown, unloved.
We recrossed the river after being harassed by a number of one-way streets and stopped at a reassuring shop filled with Southwestern-style furniture, tin-framed mirrors, ceramic crosses and lizards, and wall tiles with the motto "Mi casa es su casa." The owner revealed the riverwalk was only a block away - and that, due to the thickness, in the fifteen years he'd owned the store, there had never been a problems with any of the sandstone tables.
The riverwalk is a tame section of stream (a rivulet of the river) along which one may promenade. Part of the walk was blocked off for a wedding, but otherwise we walked the whole damned thing. I was hoping for rain - it was perfect weather for it, warm and still.
The riverwalk was almost, but not quite: not enough people for a gorgeous Saturday night, not enough boutiques (i.e., none), not enough goofy art, not enough vendors with irresistibly greasy street food, not enough length: tame.
Downtown was odd. For one, it's a huge area, all filled with brick buildings. And no section has been "fixed" or set up as a place for people to wander about and spend money and see things that are nice to look at while one eats snacks and drinks coffee. I don't remember seeing a single Starbucks downtown - and a downtown without a Starbucks, nowadays, is a remarkable thing. The only coffee shop we passed was closed, on a Saturday afternoon.
We ate at Fifteen twenty-one, a small restaurant built into what looked like the only consecutive row of open shops in the entire downtown area. The ambiance was simple and unobtrusive. The food was superb. How to crust a leg of lamb in herbs and salt without the salt becoming overwhelming - the crust wasn't removed - I will have to consider. Lee had escargot. "Gorgonzola was the right way to go," he said. But the place was almost abandoned - us and one other couple. The owners should have picked a different location - or else they should be getting free rent.
Afterward, we went to Tinseltown and saw Star Trek. I cheered at the end.
The next morning I sat in the breakfast area of a chain motel, watching people in t-shirts request omelets from the complementary chef. A chef. In a motel. But only for breakfast.
From a steel town of no attraction for years and years (or so I've heard) to some half-assed effort to acquire a predictable type of appeal, failing in its lack of (like wine) terroir. If only I could pick up that restaurant and bring it back to the Springs with me.
5.27.2009
5.23.2009
Hooray!
Hooray! It is raining and too wet to do anything with the front yard!
Hooray! I'm eating the last of the cereal!
Hooray! I'm going to Pueblo today with Lee and Ray and there will be pretty food and tasty pictures!
Hooray! Yoga will be over soon!
Hooray! I have an extra day to get caught up on edits this weekend, especially if it keeps raining!
Hooray! No rejections in my inbox this morning!
Hooray! I put down a book yesterday that I don't want to finish, because life is too short to read books that are no fun! Even when I paid for them!
Hooray! I didn't pick up Ray's clothes and stuff all over the house! So she's going to have to!
Hooray! I have an artichoke in the fridge the size of my daughter's head! It's going down, baby!
Hooray! I'm almost done with my book! In the larger scope of things anyway!
Hooray! What a good song!
Hooray! I had a great time with my family back in South Dakota! Thank you for letting me screw up on Rock Band! I sing in the car more now!
Hooray! Doyce told me I had to watch My First Mister, and it was good! The girl reminds me of me (chewing the fingernails) and my sister Betsy (who is even more sarcastic than I). Hey stupid girl! Carol Kane is your mother! Get over it!
Hooray! I'm going to stop avoiding my edits now! Later!
Hooray! I'm eating the last of the cereal!
Hooray! I'm going to Pueblo today with Lee and Ray and there will be pretty food and tasty pictures!
Hooray! Yoga will be over soon!
Hooray! I have an extra day to get caught up on edits this weekend, especially if it keeps raining!
Hooray! No rejections in my inbox this morning!
Hooray! I put down a book yesterday that I don't want to finish, because life is too short to read books that are no fun! Even when I paid for them!
Hooray! I didn't pick up Ray's clothes and stuff all over the house! So she's going to have to!
Hooray! I have an artichoke in the fridge the size of my daughter's head! It's going down, baby!
Hooray! I'm almost done with my book! In the larger scope of things anyway!
Hooray! What a good song!
Hooray! I had a great time with my family back in South Dakota! Thank you for letting me screw up on Rock Band! I sing in the car more now!
Hooray! Doyce told me I had to watch My First Mister, and it was good! The girl reminds me of me (chewing the fingernails) and my sister Betsy (who is even more sarcastic than I). Hey stupid girl! Carol Kane is your mother! Get over it!
Hooray! I'm going to stop avoiding my edits now! Later!
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