Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
I hate moving house. I really, truly, absolutely hate it. I don’t think anyone actually likes it, but on the hatred of moving scale, I have come to the realization that my hatred registers on the high end.
Maybe it’s because the pain and suffering from my last move hasn’t yet subsided. The memories of that ordeal are still vivid. If I’d known I would be going through this again just two years after that process I would have, well, not moved into the compartment. But no one told me. As small as it is, and even with the Zydeco (which has ceased because my upstairs neighbor has already moved), I basically liked the compartment. I didn’t love it, but, it was conveniently located and for all intents and purposes the building itself is very nice. Not nice enough to justify the hassle and money involved with staying there for another year, but nice. It’ll make a nice condo building. Of course hardly anyone who currently lives there can afford to buy a condo in the building, but that’s not the point. The point is to sell small compartments at exorbitant prices and charge very high assessment fees to generate income for the owner and management company. Housing is a business. And the point of business is to generate profit.
I digress. The condo-izing of my compartment was beyond my control. It's a done deal and there's no point in giving any thought to whether or not I liked living there. There's no looking back because unless I get a lot of money there is no going back. People keep asking me if I would buy a condo in my building if I could afford it. The honest answer is: Probably. But it's a moot point. I cannot afford even my compartment sized condo. Apart from those with a hefty income, two incomes or a huge trust fund, no one can afford them.
I keep surprising myself with feelings of melancholy about leaving. I’ve spent time crunching numbers and budgets and trying to figure out a way to afford to stay another year. But alas, I’m simply not earning enough money to afford the luxury of staying in my compartment. Period. Even without my and the Furry Creature’s medical expenses there is no realistic way I can afford the increased rent and fees being charged to tenants who choose to stay another year. And the fact is, if I don’t do this now I’ll have to do it within the next year. So. Even though I’m potentially homeless in about a week, it’s now or later, might as well deal with this now.
I cannot speak of the real estate transaction at this time because I have an animal depending on me for crucial health care. Speaking of the real estate transaction causes me to enter an altered state of mental derangement. The frustration, stress and anxiety caused by speaking of the real estate transaction has reached a level of intolerance. I can no longer use polite words when I speak of the real estate transaction or House of Mirrors (HōM). And even my usually low blood pressure elevates noticeably when I speak of the real estate transaction. What remains of my mental and physical health is crucial because I need to be able to a) perform my job and b) take care of my cat. Therefore I cannot speak of the alleged real estate transaction. I may, or may not, have a place to live at some point in the next three weeks. Never mind that I have to be out of the compartment on or before the 31st. Never mind that I have a very ill cat who needs a lot of care and a warm, comfortable and safe place to spend what are looking like his final days. Never mind that I have some really intense, time consuming, brain power consuming projects at work. Never mind that I have already dropped a ton of money on this endeavor – an endeavor I endeavored because I qualified for a low income mortgage, meaning, obviously, I don’t have a lot of income and consequently a lot of money to spare or waste on real estate transactions that are difficult or don’t come to fruition. On the plus side, I have a great lawyer who ensures me that should this all go wrong, I will get almost (operative word, almost) all of the money I’ve invested into this endeavor returned to me. I’ll believe it when I see it in my bank account. And even then it will be small consolation if I have to spend even one night as a homeless displaced person.
Urrrrgh.
Anyway.
Moving.
No matter what happens with the real estate transaction, I have to once again box up my life and vacate the place I’ve been calling home. I hate moving. Hate it, hate it, hate it. And I’m surprised by that. Moving never used to bother me this much. I’ve moved a lot in my life. It’s never been fun, but it’s never filled me with this much contempt. I suppose it’s the circumstances. This move was not by my choice. My plan was to stay in the compartment a few more years. I wasn’t even remotely considering moving house. And yet: Here I am, once again sorting, discarding and packing up the physical possessions of my life. Fortunately I haven’t had money (or space) to accumulate anything since I moved into the compartment. And I’ve been constantly sorting and discarding since I moved into the compartment. And now I’m doing that at a hyper speed. Contemplating packing something in a box and paying someone to move that box is the best and fastest way to make difficult and harsh decisions about “toss or keep.” Unfortunately the decisions I am stuck with this time around are all over sentimental objects. I have downsized to all but the things I “love” or truly want to keep, but that’s still not good enough. I have to purge more. If I am homeless I’m going to have to store this stuff somewhere, and storage space goes for a premium price. Which means I have to eliminate stuff. The fewer boxes the better. If, by some freakish miracle (and I do not believe in miracles) the real estate transaction happens and at some point I move into the House of Mirrors (HōM), it, too, is small and the need to eliminate stuff is crucial.
I realized one of the reasons why I now hate this process so much is that at this point in my life if I move it should be to a larger home, not a smaller one. (and seriously, how much smaller can it get than the compartment? Don’t ask. It can get smaller.) I have a lot of resentment and, well, other negative feelings about this move. First and foremost because it was forced upon me, but almost equal to that is that the “here I go again on my own” factor. Another temporary place to live.
I never in my worst nightmares could have imagined that this is where I’d be at this point in my life. Not that I had lofty ideals for my life, but I certainly didn’t anticipate living alone in teeny tiny little hovels the size of dorm rooms.
Speaking of dorm rooms, my building has taken on the feeling of the last day of the semester when everyone is packing up and leaving for the Summer. Abandoned stuff everywhere, people posting notices trying to sell stuff, people bargaining for boxes and freight elevator time. (Both of which have become precious commodities. I booked the freight elevator for a charity pick-up and someone actually offered me money to switch times with them.) But instead of the carefree woo hoo! it’s Summer break feeling, there’s a pall of dread and tension. I am not the only one who hadn’t anticipated a move right now, and I am not the only one resentful over it and uncertain about where they’re going to live after next week. Three large rental buildings in a five block area have gone condo in the last year. I estimate that’s approximately 2,000 renters who have been displaced due to condoization. Sure, some of them can, or will find a way, to afford to buy one of those condos. But my guesstimate is a third, at best, can or will actually buy. Consequently the anxiety is palpable and the tempers among tenants are flaring.
And in a weird way, that’s helping ease my inner turmoil about yet another move. I don’t want to move, yet I don’t want to stay under these circumstances. Even if I had the money to stay another year, I do not want to give it to a management company or building owner who cause so much trouble, expense and stress to so many people. I may be homeless, but it’s a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done…
But there have been some less pride filled moments which have been difficult. In anticipation of homelessness and the need for a storage facility, I donated the few larger items I have to a charity who agreed to handle the pick up and removal of the items. I have, well, had a really comfy couch. Okay, sure, recently one end of the couch was less than comfy, but still, it looked decent enough and provided a great place for the Furry Creature and I to relax and snuggle. I liked that it was long enough for me to fully stretch out on and sleep on if the occasion warranted. But that length is bad for storage or a small compartment. So, just like that, it’s gone. As is my table and an oversized bookshelf. And a lot of my books. And a set of dishes. (who needs dishes if you don’t have a table, or a kitchen for that matter?) And a ton of other donate-able items. I did it like taking off a bandage. As quickly as possible and without looking. Rrrriiiip! Ouch! Toss! Gone.
The only things I have left are items given to me, some heirlooms, some sentimental things I will use or really like, clothes for work, a few paintings (also given to me), a few favorite books, some blankets and towels, a television (also given to me), my computer junk, a desk, a mattress and that’s about it. The contents of my life reduced to some boxes. Good for my soul? I dunno. Tell my soul that when I’m looking at a “to throw away or donate” pile of boxes and bags which is larger than the “to move” pile. I’m not a college student and I shouldn’t be forced to eliminate the stuff of my life. And yet, here I am.
I suppose in the Shaker or Buddhist sense this ridding of possessions is good for the soul. But. Um. I’m not actually a Shaker or Buddhist. Nor do I want to be. I want to be a professional in a capitalistic society, a consumer in a comfortable home. Fortunately for my soul, I guess, I can’t afford to be a consumer in a comfortable home.
But above and apart from all of that is the uncertainty involved with this move. Time marches forward to March 31st, and even though it's possible the House of Mirrors (HōM) might come through in the 11th hour, and I have some contingency plans (a few friends with couches or spare bedrooms and a willingness to take on not only me but a sick cat), there are aspect of life which require, well, an address. Mail, for instance, needs to be forwarded. So I've rented a post office box. Because I have to do something about my mail and the post office requires a week's notice to get the change of address in the "system," and as of right now: I have a change, but no address. A PO box? Me? Well, I guess it will come in handy if I ever finally get that porn distribution company I've been wanting to start off the ground.
Phone service? Internet? These things take time and these things require an address. If you don't have quite enough stress in your life, call the phone company and tell them you will be leaving your current address but do not wish to transfer your service because you do not have a new address. You'll be met with a) confusion "No new address does not compute...does not compute...does not compute..." and eventually b) a Super! Happy! Service! Associate! who will try to sell you on all their "special" rates and plans, but once again, the concept of no new address will result in confusion and the does not compute routine. The end result is that my phone is going to be on temporary hold until I get my life together and have an actual residence requiring a phone. If I simply cancel service I will have to start from scratch when I do get an address. And starting from scratch costs more money than simply transferring the service. Apparently most people know where they're moving and have a new address to which they transfer their phone service.
I used to be one of those people. I used to be a person who had a forwarding address. I had at least that bit of certainty in my life. But now I am NFA. No. Fowarding. Address.
And that is why I now hate moving house as much as I do.
1:55 PM
Monday, March 19, 2007
I don't Myspace or Adsense, but I do Squidoo.
Why? Because it's for a good cause. By clicking the Squidoo link you're making a contribution to the ASPCA. I don't pimp out the blog for a warped perception of popularity or ad revenue.
But I will pimp it out for a good cause. And animal rights is a good cause.
April 10 is ASPCA day. By the way. Maybe you, too, would like to Squidoo. If not for the ASPCA, for another charity or nonprofit of your choice.
