Tag: inspiration

Nooooooo!

 Two cinnamon rolls. Did you ever notice how Princess Leia's hair looked like two cinnamon rolls on the sides of her head? Just in the first movie.

The theatre was crowded for the opening night of Star Wars. The auditorium was big, but the only available seats were in the first five rows. When the lights went down, we needed to throw our heads over the back of the seats to take in the monster screen. After reading the famous scrawl–you know a long time ago, far away galaxy–the blank screen was slowly, and most impressively, filled by an enormous space freighter. The subwoofers emitted low rumbles as the ship took over all of the space above my thrown back head. It was thrilling. But that wasn’t the most breathtaking.

No. It was the moment when Luke and Han “rescued” Leia and she realized they didn’t have an escape plan. When she grabbed Luke’s blaster and blew through a grate to create an exit, covered herself to get to the chute and led her “rescuers” out of their foolhardy self-trap.

She took charge. She just needed to be released. God, I was totally in love with her. From that moment.

A few movies later a masked operative came into the bad guys’ lair to rescue Han Solo. I’ll never forget the reveal–it was Leia. Whuh? Really? Her? Yay! Here’s my favorite hero. The brave, competent hero who a few scenes later strangled her captor. Yeah, she killed that enormous muther-fukcing slug. With her wits. And her bare hands. Baller.

While Star Wars doesn’t pass the Bechdel Test (there’s not a single scene in any of the first three movies in which two female characters have a conversation about anything at all besides men), it was a liberating experience. Princess Leia was a hero in her own right.

In a Rolling Stone interview last month, Carrie Fisher said

I like Princess Leia. I like how she was feisty. I like how she killed Jabba the Hutt. That’s my favorite thing she did.

Carrie Fisher, who was Princess Leia. Carrie Fisher whose jilted bride character carried a rocket launcher to off her former fiancé Jake Blues, this was after she set explosives to blow up his apartment. Carrie Fisher whose gal pal to Sally who met Harry would not put up with that horrid wagon wheel in her house. Carrie Fisher who brilliantly reprised her role of Leia, but this time as a rebel general and a heartbroken mom.

Carrie Fisher who was funny and honest. Who was a terrific author and one of the best script savers in Hollywood. Carrie Fisher who told us all about her struggles with addiction, depression and being bipolar with authenticity and wit.

I liked Carrie Fisher. I liked how she was feisty. I like how she killed Jabba the Hutt. But the favorite thing she did? She blasted a path by showing us what it’s like to be herself. She worked on a script for me to embrace myself at all of my ages. I am sorry that she left us so soon. I would have liked to see her as an old lady.

Peace, General. And thanks.

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Holly and Jolly

My feet. In front of the Christmas Tree. The tree is lit.

So tonight we had a Christmas Party. It’s a party that we’ve thrown more often than not in my lifetime. This means at least two things. First, that we’ve had this party for many, many years. And second, my adulthood is now told in decades.

I was challenged by a friend last night, during someone else’s holiday soirée, to look good. So I put on my most fabulous red dress and my princess shoes. I didn’t name them princess shoes, I had a contractor on staff a different set of years ago who named them. His designation wasn’t wrong.

Anyway, I really do not want to miss writing a post because we had a party. On the other hand, I used up all of my creativity making a party. Well, maybe used up is wrong. Creativity is unlimited, so it can’t be depleted. It’s more like exhausting, as in being tired. If I really, really, really needed to be creative, like to save a life, I could do it. It’s there. But to be more easily available, it needs to have some regeneration time. I used alot today.

So there were people here. Some were little people who played tag in and outside and who were sorry that The Beast was not running around with them. They don’t know that he is a great party foul perpetrator. Like he’d eat that cookie from their hand. Without aggression, mind you, but also without remorse. That’s just who he is. And is also why he is isolated during parties. He’s now resting his heavy head on my shoulder. Very calm once we’ve move past festivities.

There were some big people here, too. And returning to the decades thing, I introduced a friend of twenty years to a friend of thirty. I guess they are both old friends. Some people drank red. Some drank white. And some hit up the keg. It’s always fun to have a keg at a party. That’s why we do it. And The Spouse likes having alot of beer.

Speaking of alot, there was the Ham. We always have the Ham. It has been known to flip new vegetarians back to meat. Sadly, for at least one, their second slip was a double mcCheeseburger. The Ham was also partook by a guest who doesn’t eat pork. Since this was a guest, I did not correct her. She was enjoying herself. And, for the knowing meat eaters, suffice it to say that it is enough to keep them coming back. Year after year.

Someone asked if I made the most amazing dessert of the chocolate thing on top of the mini pretzel. First, the dessert snack offering was brilliant. And second, I don’t make dessert. It is either bought or brought. This one was brought. If I new the elf who made this simple ambrosia (where ambrosia=food of the gods), I would kiss them on the lips. So, it’s likely they are happy to remain anonymous.

Last, and apropos of absolutely nothing, the Big Guy gave me a Baby Ruth, after everyone left and the remaining scraps of food were refrigerated and I was sitting on the couch trying to scratch out this post. I ate the entire candy bar. Even thought it’s very late. I’m now going to brush my teeth and turn in. Okay. So that’s it for tonight. And a good night was had by all. I hope yours was a good one, too, Loyal Reader.

 

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I Await A Guardian

The patronus of Severus Snape. It's a doe. It's pure love.

As the 2016 presidential campaign drags on

An intense cold swept over them all…The cold went deeper than his skin. It was inside his chest, it was inside his very heart. . . .He couldn’t see. He was drowning in cold. He was being dragged downward, the roaring growing louder.

Right. The damn dementors.

“They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. Get too near a Dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of you. If it can, the Dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself — soul-less and evil.”–Remus Lupin from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

This is starting to sum up the emotional drain of this campaign. The swirling cold coarseness, the frigid hearts beating hate, the hijacking of all that can be good in our country and in our political system–yes, I feel my civic soul being sucked out. I must stop it before I am left with only the cynical soullessness of us-versus-them party politics.

I need a political patronus. Something to bring light to the darkness and to protect me from the shrouded rattling of the dementor breath and the stench of the race to the bottom.

First things first, I need a happy memory. A single, very happy memory.

I’m thinking about the times that I would vote with my dad. We’d go to the gym at our elementary school. Our school was named Norman Rockwell Elementary School. This is true.

One time in particular, I remember us waiting a very long time in line. The voting booths were big–to me anyway–metal contraptions with a curtain that’d close behind you when you pulled a big stick in the center. Your vote was secret. You would move small levers to mark your vote. They would register in the back of the machine on a counter when you moved the big stick back to open the curtain. It made significant mechanical noises and the curtain caused a little breeze. There was a little practice booth that I played with as we waited our turn. Dad let me go into the real booth with him. He picked me up after he made his choices and let me pull the curtain open. He told me I voted. It was cool. I participated in picking a president, a governor, a senator and likely members of the school board.

This is a happy thought. I am holding and concentrating on that first vote. I’m trying to conjure the charm I need to protect me from political misanthropy. I made a spark, but there is not enough joy to make a corporal patronus.

I was very happy, nay ecstatic, another time when I stood in another long line to vote. This was in 2008, and the line to vote at my local elementary school was blocks long. In Washington D.C., 75% of the electorate registered as Democrats. It was clear that this year, as in every year, the District’s three electoral votes were going to populate the “win” column for the Democratic candidate. Yet people stood in line so that they could cast their vote in a historic election for Barack Obama, our first African American president. Everyone in line was jubilant, with shared smiles and high-fives all around. People radiated hope.

Now let me work my patronus with this most happy thought. Sigh. Not much more than a spark. Still not enough. I need to dig deeper.

Let me go for a more recent happy political memory. I’m closing my eyes and feel the  joy at the dedication of the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History & Culture. There was so much work over generations to get the museum authorized and then opened. When former POTUS George W. Bush took to the podium, there was another rush of emotion. Of camaraderie and of warmth to the president who insisted that this museum would be on The Mall. Guaranteeing that the history of African Americans would be a part of the main promenade from Lincoln at the west end to the Capitol on the east and next to the big exclamation point of the Washington Monument. An important part of the fabric of America. And the current President (D) and the former President (R) came together with thousands and thousands of Americans—representing the amazing diversity of America—to celebrate.

I’m holding this memory tight and trying to get it to spark my patronous. There is the fuzzy outline, but no, not a full protective charm. Ugh. Don’t I have a pure, happy memory?

I’m smiling now. I’m standing next to The Big Guy for early voting. We had an errand, and I stopped to vote. He pulled out his wallet and registered on the spot and voted for City Council. And he studied the voter guide for the next election and cast his vote a second time. And he voted again in 2012, his first Presidential election. And I’m thinking about the future and about Baby Bear attending a political rally and calling his buddies out for not voting. They care about what happens. They care about our democracy. They think that they can do something, and they are right.

Expecto patronum. Google translates that from Latin to “I await a guardian.”

I see my patronus now. It is bright and shiny and protecting  me from the apathy and discouragement of political dementors. I look at it, and see that the guardian is me and every other American. It is the image of America. Now, time for my chocolate to complete the cure.

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Muse

Feet and Beast at beach.

Sitting on the couch, next to The Spouse. Tragically, he either refuses or is incapable of giving me a decent idea for a post. I only say refuses because the concepts he has provided displayed a lack of operability.

Seriously, his offers were more like an SAT essay prompt. Or a sickly question for Miss America. (Do they still do Miss America? Do they still ask her about world peace?)

I wondered if The Spouse has ever read the Doctor Of Thinkology. A regular reader would know that it is rare that the Doc is difficultly thoughtful. I mean, I POST EVERY STINKING DAY. Most posts are going to be short or glib. Sometimes I hit a home run. But if I’m asking for inspiration, rest assured this will not be a high scoring game.

I do appreciate the support. I really do. Throwing out ideas shows that we both take this seriously. And there is no reason on God’s green earth that The Spouse should. Yet he does.

While I am grateful that my quixotic quest to write and publish every stinking day is encouraged and endorsed, sans idea there is no post.

The Spouse asks me to stretch out so he can rub my feet.

Seriously, why is it when someone puts their hand on your foot and squeezes, or presses their fingers along the spine of your foot, or works through each of your toes, you’re just done? Done in a way that is perfect. Done in a way that the sensors in the balls of your feet which are directly and immediately wired to a spot in your brain, at the back of your head and above your right ear, deliver a breathless, “ahhhhh.” And a melting of the foot into the magic hand, begging for more. Because that is what happens. Foot massages are crack.

The Beast crawls up on the couch and drapes himself over the right side of my body. As he works to find his most comfortable–and comforting–spot, I take the laptop and move it around his huge shoulders, his huge head and his hugest snout. He settles in with his heavy head on my shoulder and his skinny legs folded underneath him. His sigh disperses a forceful wind of hot air, delivered with just a huff. At the end.

The hand on my foot absent-mindedly continues to sometimes apply pressure to bones and sometimes to just run along the distance between heel and toe. Whatever the technique, it lights up the dopamine receptors and all is right in the world.

So, what will I write about? What is my inspiration? Thank you, Spouse. You done did good.

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Mockingbirds

a sample of a format for a handwritten paper

Dear Miss Harper Lee,

I know you’re dead, and therefore unlikely to read this, but I write it nonetheless, because it’s a letter not just to you. You are welcome to read it, though, if that is such a thing given your current state.

I wanted to thank you for my favorite teacher, Mr. Davidson. He loved your book so so so so very much. He made me love it, too. I bet he made other students feel about it, as well.

He taught us the word empathy via your story. I remember that day. I was at Carter Jr. High School.

He was a beloved teacher who tragically lost his young wife who I think also taught at the school. I knew that his wife died because there was a memorial to her in a glass enclosed garden at the school. I don’t know when it happened. It was before my time there, and as a 12-year-old anything 3-4 years prior was the equivalent of olden days. Also this was just something we “knew” and didn’t ask questions about at that time. Like Scout knew some things she just knew.

This is just background, though, because this thing we “knew” was just, you know, background. I don’t have any inkling if he was a different teacher before, since I didn’t know him before.

He didn’t bring his personal loss into the classroom. But, as you wrote, we all bring all of us into every interaction. I’m sure it impacted him, and therefore us, but that’s something I didn’t realize until many years later.

Yes, I still think about this English teacher who taught me to walk around in someone else’s skin before passing judgement (or was that you?). Trying to understand someone doesn’t make what they do “right,” but it acknowledges the other’s humanity, and that makes us more human, too.

I was a bratty smarty pants–not as smart as Hermione Granger but equally annoying. I would read ahead and do my assignments ahead because I was engaged. The class slowed me down. I bet my class participation included spoilers. Mr. Davidson let me write my final paper early. Then he had to do something with me as the class plodded through your novel.

He gave me my first book of poetry to read and sent me off on independent study in the library. I was to write a paper about Edna St. Vincent Millay. I didn’t realize at the time that he was encouraging me to keep my own independence and follow my dreams. Something else I realized many years later when I reread her and about her.

When he handed me back my paper, he looked at me very seriously. Me, Hermione Granger-esque, figured that I was in for it. I really didn’t understand poetry, and maybe I misinterpreted like everything.

He apologized to me.

He said that he was sorry that he was unable to challenge me enough. I heard this at the same time I saw the A+ on the top of the page.

I learned right in that moment that it wasn’t enough to do well or even excellently. Although that remains an ambition. In that exchange, I learned that it was important to stretch yourself as much as you can and to seek out people who will make you reach.

A few years later, I was in the high school gym watching a basketball game. Mr. D. was there and I hadn’t seen him for a long time (3 years which had become less like “olden days” but still a long time). I don’t recall the specifics of the dialogue, but I do remember what he said at the end.

He admonished my high school cynicism–translated to 2016 that would be the unending teen irony. He also told me that a cynic is simply an idealist. In that sentence, he created a space for me to be both.

I finally met up with Mr. D. in his office at the school three or four years ago (which in today’s time frame seems like just yesterday) after decades apart. I thanked him in person for his encouragement that I still draw down from. It wasn’t enough, but I brought him a coffee and a donut.

Thank you, Miss Harper Lee, for being a connector. And for your wonderful book.

Your loyal reader,
Doc Think

 

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