Xerography

X is for xerography. Couldn't manage an x-ray, thought XL a bit of a cheat, no xylophone around. Xerox becoming outdated.

X is a rather sad letter, a negation in English, an ex-whatever. As an initial, it holds so little space in the dictionary. A leftover from Greek, now homeless. Used to cross out, or admit illiteracy, or shorten longer words, a redundant letter now that K and S have reconciled. Or said like Z when it makes it to the front of a word, afraid of losing it's place.

Cross your fingers and wait for Xmas.

Watches

W is for Watch.

I've worn a watch since I was about 12, always liked knowing what time it was. Rather like having a map, keeping myself oriented to time and space, at least approximately. If I had no say in where I was or how long, at least I could strive to collect data and try to comprehend.

I did think digital watches were a pretty neat idea. Had a very cheap one, easy to read at a glance, in Basic a necessity and requirement. Durable thing on a plastic band that lasted me years, until I left it in the sun one day. Still worked, but reading the half burned out LED numbers was a bit of a puzzle. D and I had identical ones, bought at the PX at the same time, on the way to Gulf War I, which could be made to beep on the hour. So we synchronized watches, and while away from each other on our duties, the hour chime would remind us that the other would be chiming too and we'd think of each other. Together, we'd beep the hour, and giggle.

Aunt Evelyn, being a very independent soul, kept her watch wound (before the era of battery run watches) after she shattered her elbow, by using her teeth. Worked pretty well for a while, until the watch stopped, and she had to have a jeweler take it all apart and clean it to get it working again. Uncle Ernie had given it to her a lifetime before.

Never got how a cell phone could replace a clock on my wrist. Don't need a pocket for a watch, just turn my hand and I can always check the time. Besides, I no longer carry a phone, not for years. (Never really used it enough.) But a good, sturdy watch, with a date, ah, a constant companion. I stick to analogue these days. I've been through a few, I'm hard on 'em.

D tried to discuss something with me this morning, and couldn't figure out why I kept laughing and getting distracted. Well, when both of them are looking at me so intently, the sense of being watched got to me.

Violet

V is for violet.

One of my scarves, from when I bellydanced. Just a great excuse to indulge in lovely fabrics and bangles, appealing to the seven year old in myself. Always including the variations on purple, indigo, violet, grape. Dark jewel tones that pull in the light and reflect back a tinged dark, shimmering and shadowy. This makes me want to put on my coin belt and every scarf, crank up 3Mustafas3 or Gogol Bordello, to roll and swivel and swing to. I don't want to lose this inherent rhythm, the one that moves to violet.

Umbrellas

U is for Umbrella.

I've long had a soft spot for plaid umbrellas. I had an old one that I found in the Unitarian Church annual rummage sale, a necessary item in Detroit, where the rain is cold and heavy. It eventually wore out, but I kept it for it's intrinsic beauty long past it's function. This is one of several we accumulated living in Boston, where they are sometimes less that helpful, when the rain is horizontal, or the rainfogmist comes up from the ground. Still, much used. Here in high desert, I rarely get to walk under a steady rain with an umbrella.

Umbrellas hold an otherworldly feel for me, as though I could carry around my own reality surrounded by the patter or roar of rain.

U nearly got to me, and I regretted using the Ukulele already. I thought of uniform, but how to picture that? Uvula would have been disgusting, and this camera might not have been able to show mine. Umbilicus? No, I've shown that before, and I don't want to show any more body parts. While musing in the shower, the obvious came to me, and I shouted out "Umbrella!" Which confused D.

Teapots

T is for Teapot.

My lovely cobalt blue version developed a serious handle crack, and is now a water dish for Moby. I could only get white in the 2cup pot with strainer type that I've used every day for years and years. Well, white is a good color as well. I turned my nose up at yellow and brown, although I've had brown teapots. One had a lovely side handle, a sort of grey brown matte finish, but it was a bit small.

I consider a teapot to be an essential, like a kettle. Although I've done without when only teabags and immersion heaters are available. But to have a home and kitchen, and not be able to make loose tea, a sad - and in my case temporary - state of affairs. Still, I have friends who have neither. That's when I bring my own bags and find out where they keep their smallest saucepan, possibly my own mug as well.

Seem to be coming down with the sniffles, so I'm more interested in drinking hot tea than writing about the pot.

Snaps

S is for Snap.
There really is something satisfying in a snap. I had a cloth book full of fasteners, zipper and laces, buttons and snaps, that I enjoyed to shreds. The only point to hard dolls for me, was to take the clothes off and on and off. I learned how to sew on buttons and snaps probably before any other needle tasks. Snaps used to always come loose, shoddily sewn on at best, so a very necessary bit of knowledge. They make a nicely firm sound to confirm their effectiveness, as well as a subtle notice of giving way. Unlike velcro, which silently closes, but announces it's failure loudly. Buttons give way without notice, and wander off never to be found. Laces untie themselves and try to trip one up. No, snaps have a certain prim polite propriety.

This particular snap is on the pocket of my lovely wool jacket, found at an outlet store at the proverbial "steal*" price. Got me warmly through a February trip to the Oregon coast. Can't really credit the snap, but it's a good one all the same.






*No, I didn't shoplift. It was $15.

Rings

R is for Ring.

Both ting and chime, as well as circle around the finger. Eternity in a bit of silver.

Very early on, D and I discussed marriage. Well, we both knew, even then. And one of the first issues D brought up was not being able, or really willing, to buy a ring. I was confused, this is a problem? Never had any interest in the standard ceremonies, never even liked diamonds, knew from experience that function does not follow form. A good wedding in no way makes a good marriage, and I suspect there may be an inverse effect. And diamonds are a scam, they are not rare, should not be expensive, and all involve exploitation. Carbon, coal with attitude.

D found a pretty silver ring at the PX in Ft Carson, and I wore that for years. Lost, sadly. We took a trip to Green River right before the legal wedding, and he found a kokopelli ring, and I found a set of silver rolling rings, for the ceremony - knowing D would never wear them any other time. He liked fidgeting with them, though. I lost that wedding ring, in the OR. Got scrubbed in quickly, put it in my scrub pocket, got nauseated and had to scrub out, went home, then realized the ring was gone. Never found it. A couple of years ago, we found a near match at a Lava Hot Springs souvenir shop, and I've worn that ever since. Mostly, this is just because I rather like wearing a ring, and D plays with it when he holds my hand. All these rings together never cost more than $50.

All of these were, for me, just decoration, a sort of durable toy, a gift too, of course. The idea of it being intrinsically expensive would just worry me. To lose the equivalent of a month's pay, just lose it off my finger, would be a nightmare. Anything I can't wear every day would be even more of a waste, since I so rarely do anything dressy.

Rings do not a marriage make, nor diamonds eternity.

Queens

Q is for Queen.

Pretty good hand, depending on the game. Not so good in 500 or Euchre, but great for Rummy. Card games were the focus of my family's sociability. I can't actually remember first learning to play, although it was a process to teach me how to hold my cards properly and get good enough to be expected to play. I liked a fast game of Euchre, and got to be a pretty good 500 player. Some evenings, especially when it was just Granny and my parents, and I was the mandatory fourth, I would intentionally throw the game in sheer irritation and obstinacy. Which brought on later retaliation from both. But with a lot of aunts and uncles and cousins around, and not having to play, I enjoyed the games and relished my competence - as well as being treated as an equal.

When my oldest brother married a suburban girl, my parents and brother attended a barbeque at the in-laws house. Lots of people, and a game of cards. So, I wanted to play. What I didn't know was that it was a betting game - like rummy, but with real money. So when I was given the 50¢ ante, I figured at the end of the game, it would be returned, just like the rubber counters and pennies we used at home. When the quarters were lost, and would not be given back, I felt cheated, a victim of theft. Probably a very cheap way to poison my mind against gambling, at the age of seven, a lesson not to be forgotten. I also deeply resented that I was so easily given that money for such a stupid reason, but couldn't just have been given it for my own use, as I saw fit. All seemed terribly wrong.

Solitaire, several versions that I know, kept me calm and occupied through much of my time in the Army. Soothing and meditative. I love the feel of the cards. One of the packs sent To Any Soldier was from a casino, with a neat hole in the middle. Great pack of cards, like it was made of cotton, a pleasure just to shuffle. I can sometimes tell when I'm very stressed, because I will play solitaire almost compulsively.

Seems a shame that my group of friends doesn't play card games like that. Sometimes I miss the almost ceremonial sense of the game, the structure around the randomness, the speed of a fast game with good players spooling out the odds for the fun of it.

Picks

P is for Pick.

Guitar picks in this case. All belonging to D, who loves to go into guitar shops and ogle fittings, identify pick-ups, and fondle necks. Always has. Downtown Colorado Springs had a couple of guitar stores in 1990, when we were obliged to be at adjacent Fort Carson. And I would be introduced to the finer aspects of the electric luthier's art, part of a series over 19 years. As an act of loving attention, I carried a pick with me in my wallet, so that he could play if we found ourselves in the company of an irresistible instrument.

I've likened living with D to having a Christmas tree around, good to look at, smells nice, very pleasant, but you keep finding shed picks/needles all over, all year long. Rarely have I taken out a load of laundry and not found a pick or two. This is not a complaint, merely an observation.

Getting ahead of myself here, but that's alright. So good to need a sweater and wool coat to walk to the library today.

Extra

Sunday extra.

Escape from the Alphabet!

Oranges

O is for Orange.

One of my attachments to the Little House books had to do with the Christmas stocking, simple candy, maybe a toy. Those little items in my stocking were my favorites - in no small part because that was the stuff from Santa which required no weighty, mandatory gratitude. And in the toe, always, at least, even in the thinnest years, an orange. And I most loved that sweet/sour bit of fruit.

Nineteen years ago, D and I spent our first Christmas together in the barracks at Ft. Carson. The regular army, not too pleased to have National Guard folks there, even if we were on our way to the gulf, didn't tell us when the mess halls would be open for the holiday, until after they were done. So the two score or so of us who had not gone home for the holiday, having taken our leave the weekends before, were left hungry. The cabs didn't run on base, no pizza or Chinese delivery that day. Only the care packages sent by family, and the liquor brought out by the Irish chaplain. All the food was heavily sugared. I was not drinking at all, and wouldn't without real food anyway, D never drank, and we were both miserably hungry and sick of sweets. Sometime in the afternoon, oranges appeared like a Christmas miracle, and we each snagged several, and scurried away to feast together.

Our only requirement for holidays is that we have enough solid food that day. This week I got a bag of Clementines, sweet and easy to peel. One of our anesthesiologists at the Former Hospital would fill one wall of the lounge with cases of them, each year, this time of year. And the staff gobbled them joyously, gratefully. His generosity, especially in contrast with all the candy, seemed to me always so nurturing.


Off subject, I want to lead you off to a librarian blogger that deserves more readers - Shushie. I think of her as the punk librarian, because she once stated that libraries are punk, and for reasons I cannot articulate, I utterly agree with her.

Nickels

N is for Nickel.

Even Big Ones, and I have seen the Big Nickel in Sudbury, one of those family day car trips to large tourist traps. Despite motion sickness, I loved those outings, a chance to run around and see new stuff, as well as the particularly pleasant sleep - lying down on the back seat, or leaning against an older brother, as the night rolled me back home.

Often, being a border town, Canadian change leaked through. Nickels and pennies were not a problem, easily passed off. But quarters, even dimes, would incur rejection, at least when the Canadian dollar was down from the American one. And they never worked in any coin-op machines.

Never liked nickels, clunky and ugly metal slugs. They have a smell, too. They've done some commemorative ones lately, like for the unique state quarters, but it doesn't help.

Still 5¢ is 5¢.

Music

M is for Music.

They Might Be Giants once had a T-shirt that said Music Self Played is Happiness Self Made. I can sing, in time, in tune - a good enough choir voice, it mixes well. I dance pretty well, as long as I don't have to obey choreography. But I have never gotten more than a simple melody out of an instrument. Violin, flute, penny whistle, organ keyboard, ukulele, all tried, none accomplished. D is the musician in this home. I love hearing him play. So does Moby.

They Might Be Giants are always worth the effort, although I tend to forget until the moment they start playing. They came to town last Friday, at a club with a dance floor and balcony around. Earnest folk singing duo for an opening band, sadly dull. But TMBG, after all these years being the tallest midgets... excuse me - the biggest independent band, still tear it up with gusto. I like to think they make a good living. Their music is still fresh and raw and full of humor and energy. To the point that I still have to listen to the new stuff for a while to decide I like it, and after a little longer, it's another favorite.

Just listening to their recordings, it's a bit hard to tell that They are a great dance band, rock 'n roll, joyously odd. Memorizing the lyrics appeals strongly to those of us who always go to hear them, making their shows a bit of a sing-a-long. The two Johns have such an easy camaraderie after these couple of decades touring and recording together. Great melodies, still experimental, musically interesting, not just loud. But loud too. With a confetti cannon.

They are geeks who've found a way to keep themselves in gear. High quality sound system, lighting, video screens, especially for a venue that is just a club. They sing about elements and obscure painters and presidents, Mesopotamians, - and the lyrics matter. They put on a puppet show. Avatars of They sock puppets, to a camera, projected large. Educated silliness.

They played all the songs off Flood, their only BIG album, from 25 years ago, each with a fresh approach. Frequently announcing "Escape from Flood!" and playing another song they liked. Real advantage to having just a handful of "hits" and an enormous repertoire. Or a complete inability to Stop Writing Songs. (One tour, they wrote Venue Songs, one per stop.)

Their audience has both aged with them, and picked up stragglers from every year along the way. They do children's shows, since they do excellent kid's albums that do not nauseate adults. Apparently, Utah is They Might Be Giants country, no doubt in part because there is little offensive in their shows, allowing a way in for many. The shows here have always been more intense than the one we saw in Boston. But we stay involved because of the quality, our appreciation brings them back. D and I will always find the time to see They when they come to town.

And they keep current. When they found out that the old song about the sun that they've covered is not up to date with scientific thought, they wrote an addendum. The Sun (Is a Mass of Incandescent Gas), followed by The Sun is a Miasma of Incandescent Plasma. These are cool, smart guys.

They shot off the confetti cannon a second time, making it all the way up to the balcony where we watched. I saved some, they assured us it was biodegradable, if poisonous. (A worry, since some got in their coffee cups.) Threw it in the air for Moby. He seemed to like it. Probably not, actually, poisonous.

Libraries

L is for Library.

Which has more words than I can muster this evening.

Added on Friday:

My story goes that I have been going to libraries from before I was born. My mother loved to read, and libraries were her refuge as much as mine. She read sea stories, Great Lake's shipwrecks, polar explorers, preferring factual stories over fiction, and classic fiction over pure fantasy. She never made a point of directing what I read. Although I knew if I brought anything home of a lascivious nature there would be trouble, so I read those books at the library. She read the books I brought home quite often. Which was good, but carried the implication of censure. So I knew any book that gave me a hot burn in my stomach, I needed to memorize the Dewey number, and read it on subsequent visits.

Shelved for many intermittent years at local libraries, while going to school, making ends meet. Campbell Branch, Burton Hysterical Collection, Salt Lake City Main Library, gathering bookdust and papercuts along the way. Reading anything that caught my eye. Nursing school wore away my ability to read with such pleasure, but it's slowly growing back.

We have a library of our own now. It's largely come with us, over the last five years of too many moves, dropping leaves along the way, mostly intact.

Keys

K is for keys.

One of those symbolic words, archetypical. Especially for an item in one's pocket. The secret, the magic word, the trick, authority, keys to the kingdom, holder of the keys. And the item in this modern word most readily mislaid.

"Where are my keys?"

I've been trying to remember when I first had keys, since someone was always home. My mother had been a latchkey kid, and tried to keep that from me. Sadly, because I'd have loved more time alone, more independence and autonomy. I do remember the key ring, with a leather tab with Woodstock, a broken egg, and the motto "You crack me up." Not exactly the height of wit, but maybe it helps with the dating. Not younger than eight, probably more like 12, maybe later than that. The image wore off quickly, leaving me with a leather fidget that fit my hand perfectly. I was terrible with unlocking doors, always struggled with making them work. May have had to do with old doors and old locks therein.

I loved having a lot of keys when I was young. Keys to apartment, work, car, mailbox, made me feel responsible, adult. Later, I only wanted to thin down the keys I had to carry. I've had various keyrings over the years. The knotwork bob I currently carry came to me on Breed's (Bunker) HIll on Bunker Hill Day in Cambridge. We'd gone to see the USS Constitution, only as we started seeing way too many uniforms did we find out about the holiday. Stayed for the parade.

Three keys. Seems plenty.