Tough luck (I can't come up with a better title)

What a dilemma - On the one hand, I want to be honest about my life and to have an honest conversation with you, whoever you are. On the other hand, I know people don't like grumpy and miserable people. And if I start posting too many depressing entries, it's likely you won't come back for more. Who wants to hear it?

But if was to start censoring myself in order to provide readers with a sanitized and more fun aspect of me, I might as well go the whole hog, scrap this blog, and start a new one which would certainly have a bigger readership. Here's some possibilities: One Happy Thought for the Day, Happy Project of the Day, Everything's Interesting But Not Everything Will Cheer you Up, Pain and Depression: So What?

That's enough of that. Y'know, sometimes I want to do this. Most of the "let's get happy in spite of ________ (put your malady in the blank) websites and blogs have an awful lot of Christian advice, or are written by people like the guy who wrote "Chicken Soup for the Soul", who I don't think ever had more than two seconds of self-doubt in his life. I'm not even giving that book a link. Isn't he rich enough yet?

So, I was thinking about Susan Sontag, and how, despite being an extraordinary thinker and even writing "Illness as Metaphor" could not cope with her cancer and mortality.

Then I realized that'd I never actually read the book, which is a huge oversight. I've read many of her essays. Her "On Photography" is an extraordinary book.

After checking in on Amazon, I discover that Sontag had serious issues with the idea that we cause our own illnesses. Of couse, there's a direct correlation between smoking cigarettes and lung cancer, a high-sugar diet and diabetes and things like that. She doesn't disagree. But, as I noticed earlier today, when thinking "since I am unable to attend my meditation retreat and am feeling so badly, there must be something that I am supposed to be learning from all this pain", I was desperately trying to impose meaning on something where there probably is none. In that process, I fall prey to guilt. I must have done something wrong or not paid enough attention to something. Or at least, I have to learn the lesson of being able to be okay with not being able to function some of the time.

The last bit is true, but I don't believe that karma or something in the universe imposed itself on my body just to teach me a lesson.

I'm sorry, but I just can't believe in things like this, though it's easy to. My mother wasn't killed by a guy running a red light for any reason other than she was killed by someone running a red light. I learned much from the aftermath of that event, but it didn't happen so I could.

Those who believe in an afterlife can feel better because those who die are now "at peace." I'm happy they believe that. It's quite comforting.

I suppose all I'm saying is that accidents happen, and sometimes come in the form of non-accidents. Luck comes in the form of the bad, as well as the good. It's not even luck - it's just life. A hell of a lot of it is a crapshoot.

Painting note: Francisco Goya
Duel with Cudgels 1819-23
My inner dialogue.

Dumb Survivor lists

Something TMC wrote about the show "Survivor" made me start writing these lists a week or so ago. I needed a new blog entry, feel overly serious tonight, and so, to remedy that, I present the following:

Ten reasons I can't be on Survivor
1. I'm a lousy swimmer.
2. I don't look good in a bathing suit.
3. My teeth aren't white enough.
4. Eating fish makes me want to throw up.
5. I don't know how to employ feminine wiles to bend men to my will.
6. I don't tan.
7. I don't know how to dive.
8. I'm not soppy enough. If given the choice "Would you rather read a letter from home or have a big meal and a spa treatment?", I'd go for the latter and wouldn't give it a second's thought.
9. There's something wrong with the Achilles tendon in my right foot.
10. They seem to like having peoples with tattoos, but some of my tattoos are just too scary for primetime TV.

Ten reasons why I'd be perfect (not this week) for the never-to-be-made Survivor: Northern Alaska (a show that won't happen because people would rather see mostly-naked bodies than folks in down jackets).
1. I know how to dress for the cold.
2. I know how to build and maintain a fire.
3. Don't mean to gross you vegetarians out, but I know how to butcher a deer.
4. I like the dark.
5. Being cooped up inside a small space doesn't bother me (which I presume we would be most of the time).
6. I could entertain the others with silly stories. After all, we wouldn't be doing all that much. They'd have to keep me around for that.
7. I know enough about dangerous cold and ice not to do something stupid (like pick up a kettle with my bare hands when it's -24 degrees).
8. I know there are lots of things one can do with snow.
9. I am good at making up games. Another reason to keep me around to stave off boredom.
10.I built an igloo when I was a kid. I guess that's more of #8, but I couldn't think of ten things.

Photo note: "Created entirely from ice and snow, igloo hotels cater to adventure-loving guests spending one or more nights. Overnight rates generally include thermal mats, sheepskin rugs and sleeping bags. Guests can weather the experience in winter clothing."

Revisiting Cristalle, again

Only because I was too lazy to go upstairs, I reached for a bottle of Chanel Cristalle. This is one of the very few full bottles of scent that I own. It was exactly one year ago that I purchased this for myself, as a birthday gift (three more days to go, in case you're wondering).

Before I moved to Maine and gave up wearing scent, almost twenty years ago, I had a small collection. Here's what I remember of it: Chanel Cristalle, White Shoulders, Hermes Caleche, YSL Paris, and Ralph Lauren (his first fragrance). There were probably others, but these have made it through the ravages of time and memory. The YSL was much too much rose intensity for me to wear, but I loved to sniff it now and again, and it had such a pretty bottle. Caleche was my first love, Cristalle was my second, and White Shoulders, the stuff you can now buy at Walmart, was the third.

These have all been reformulated since.

My first reaction to the "new" Cristalle was disappointment. It also gave me a small headache. So, my bottle sits in its box, unused.

I'm wearing some now, and it smells delightful, much more flowery than I remembered. My nose is a bit stuffed up, so I may be missing quite a bit of it. It is decidedly feminine, but lately I've been so taken with woods and incense that anything else would probably scream "feminine" to me.

This is very strange. I remember reading someone describing Cristalle as the smell of money. I smell that - the scent of new money, crisp bills with a band around them, never touched by anyone before, never used. . .and here it is, the whole image: A huge round glass vase bursting with flowers, no single one standing out, but overflowing, and beside it, a neat pile of new bills. The white tablecloth that I envison ripples slightly from the sea breeze that enters through the open French doors. The white cloth looks bright against the backdrop of the deep blue ocean and the cloudless blue sky. I see a woman near the table, tanned, and quite fit. There are sounds of quiet laughter and ice cubes in heavy glass tumblers.

This is not a scent. It's my fantasy. Actually, it's an old neighbor's living room (but without the pile of money on the table).

Sitting here with my cat beside me, still in my bathrobe, listening to the pop and crackle of the woodstove, I am far away from the place that Cristalle takes me to. It is certainly not summer. I do not live on the ocean, nor am I fit and tan. You'd be right if you said my sudden imagery was a stereotype of a certain type. That woman would not be writing this. She'd be sitting down to dinner right about now, or at least in the first course. She'd also wonder how anyone could live with a woodstove. Sure, it's quaint, but all that wood and ashes leave a terrible mess. A fireplace is acceptable, and creates a nicer ambiance, don't you think?

Well, my woodstove heats my house. I sniff my wrist. Such a pretty scent. It just doesn't match my life at all. Does it matter?

Photo note: I googled "all white living rooms." This is pretty close to what was in my mind. Not only that, the house is on Peaks Island, right here in the state of Maine. The article? "A Life in the Clouds" from Cottage Living. The window treatment is all wrong for this room. I can't even think of the nicer term for those venetian blinds. Those things always make me think of Brooklyn, not the new hip version, but the Brooklyn where my grandparents lived, with venetian blinds and plastic slipcovers for everything.

Secretly (as if it's an awful thing!), I've always fantasized about having an all-white living room. If I lived alone, I could pull it off. I suppose that side of me who likes this is the one who likes Cristalle (and Cristal, too).

Addendum: Cristalle is cloying after an hour or so. I'm thinking of scrubbing. . .

Addendum II: For the record, I don't like the living room that graces the top of this post. When I said it was "my fantasy", I meant it was where I envisioned my imaginary Cristalle wearer to be. I dislike this room so much, that when I've revisited this post to respond to a comment, I've bristled. So, here's an all-white living room I like, and a link to lots of photos from the Country Living home tour:

We are all connected

I just discovered that Tania Sanchez, the co-author of "Perfumes: The Guide", participated in this year's National Novel Writing Month. This makes me happy. I'm not sure why. Tania, if you happen to stumble onto this blog, did you write about perfume? My book has not a single word about the subject. And, of course, congratulations for making it to the finish line!

It occurs to me that discovering that Tania Sanchez, whom I adore from afar, was participating in the same activity as I was during the month of November makes me feel like we are close in some way. I don't mean "close" in some creepy, stalking way, but close in that knowing she did NaNoWriMo, too, makes her more of a real person to me. Of course, I knew that she was (and is) a real person, but there is something unreal about celebrity crushes.

Everything I write makes me sound like a stalker. I've written about Tania's husband, Luca Turin, in my post "I finally found a hero of sorts". I got a thank you e-mail from him, which was most gracious.

So, these are real people, living their lives, just like the rest of us. They certainly have a larger collection of perfume in their household than the rest of us. And neither of them, I'm sure, judge scents with phrases like "I dunno what this smell is" or variations of "I don't know much about perfume but I know what I like" that are inherent in many of my assessments.

Then again, maybe even the finest nose has "I dunno" moments.

Painting note: Amazingly, I've just spent fifteen minutes trying to find out who painted this portrait of Catherine de Medici, with no luck at all. I obtained the jpg on Wikipedia Commons, where it said nothing. Google searches supplied me with more pics, but no info. Most odd.

I'm glad I went on this search, for I wound up at a delightful site, The Racous Royals, where I learned we can hold Catherine responsible for corsets and high heels.

I was trying to remember why I wanted a painting of Catherine de Medici at the top of this post and couldn't. It was only this: I Profumi di Firenze says that they were "inspired by original 16th century secret formulas commissioned by Catherine de Medici."

In limbo, with stats (Bonus feature: Conversation with a demon!)

I expected to be on a meditation retreat today. I'm not, and I'm sitting here in my bathrobe. I haven't done anything of any real use for days. My largest interest is "When will the phone ring?" I've left messages and spoken to receptionists at doctor's offices. Won't anyone call me back in a timely manner? I suspect that the answer is "no". After all, it took four months to find out that one doctor would not take me on as a new patient. More on suspicions about why that was so will be forthcoming.

Yeah, I feel guilty for doing practically nothing. I've watched a lot of excellent documentaries, but they all run together in my mind, for I've fallen asleep during every single one of them.

Feeling unwell seems to destroy most of my control over neuroses I've thought I had gotten rid of. Guilt, for one. I seem to feel guilty about nearly everything. Not working. Not being able to concentrate on schoolwork. "Is that really true or are you just lazy?" asks my inner critic. Not making the bed. Oh wait, I didn't sleep in my bed. I slept on the sofa. Never mind that one.

Other shades of something like guilt: feeling like an lazy idiot. Didn't I mention that already? Yes, I have, calling myself lazy. And I am, at the moment. Two weeks ago, a stranger asked me if I ever slept, for I was being so productive. The inner critic sneers at me and tries to scare me with lines like "You'll never feel decent again!" and "You've wasted your life!" The inner critic taunts me, "People with life threatening illnesses have more energy than you do. What's wrong with you?!" Yes, some people with life threatening illness do indeed have more energy than I do. What can I say? People are different. The inner demon (I mean critic) says, "So you say people are different, do you?" and I cower a little. I mean, I'm talking to myself, and should be able to hold a decent conversation, but I'm intimidated by my inner bully, who reminds me that, "Yes, people are different, but you, well, you're a loser. Always were and always will be."

I had thought I'd conquered this miserable demon, but whenever I'm sick, he (yes, he) shows up and throws a party.

Comparing myself to others is a futile way to fight these messages. Comparisons are hopeless. They're traps. We use them when we don't have a solid inner gauge of what's right. I thought "Well, that's what you think!" Of course it is! I wrote it, didn't I?

Take the simple scenario of feeling sick and wanting to stay in bed, nap and read. Some people would say that's a good idea, some people would say "get to work" and others would say it depends on too many factors to give an opinion or "what's the big deal?!" I feel guilty so I'm trying to figure out what others might do or think. That's quite unusual for me. I usually don't care what others think. I know how I feel and where I stand, and that's that. End of story.

But when I get sick (and as I write this, beads of sweat are dripping down my face, so I really am ill), I lose all my grounding. I am suddenly an insecure 10 year old kid (with a slightly bigger vocabulary). Why I can write halfway coherently is beyond me, but I can (albeit more verbosely and tangentially than usual). I'm doing it because. . .I might need to.

What is this post about? Oh, look above. What's the deal with the stats? I totally forgot! Here's the "win statistics" for National Novel Writing Month:
2001: 14%
2002: 15.6%
2003: 13.7%
2004: 14.3%
2005: 16.6%
2006: 16.2%
2007: 15.1%
2008: 18.2%
Yep, I'm one of the 18.2% I wonder how many of these "novels" will be edited. Will even one be published by a major publisher?

Okay, the ramble is over. Will I post it? Maybe I will, and take it down later. Ah, life. It's interesting.

Lust

You see a picture of a bed. The title of the post is lust.

And what do I lust after? That bed. Nothing risque here. Move along, nothing to see!

Not that medical insurance makes any sense, but in the long run, it would save on doctor's visits and medication if people who have arthritis, fibromyalgia and similar ailments were helped with the expense of having an appropriate bed. But, then again, there's the fact that I can get an eye exam, but I have to pay for my glasses. I can understand that insurance companies don't want to pay for Armani frames, but if one can't function without glasses, isn't it a medical neccessity?

I suppose if everyone had a good bed, then the pharmaceutical companies wouldn't be selling as much Ambien and whatever else they promote for insomnia and pain.

I don't think it's a conspiracy, but it could be. Maybe we will discover that Big Pharma and Big Mattress are in bed together (no pun intended, but there it is). I bought a supposedly excellent mattress six years ago and after one year it was kaput.

It's awful, but I look at my bed and think "There's my personal hell." One reason I stay up late is so I can put off getting up in the morning. It doesn't make sense, 'cause no matter what time I go to sleep, I have to get up the next day, but these are the kinds of nonsensical things that people do when they're hurting. I'm not the only one. I've heard it all at fibromyalgia support groups. That's why I only went to two meetings.

When I did a google search for wool mattresses, I found an awful lot about "the ultimate luxury" embedded in between the information on why wool mattresses are healthy and comfortable. It occurs to me that the original target audience (pain sufferers) probably weren't supporting these companies well enough to keep them in business. I discovered that some upscale hotels now have rooms with these beds for clients who need them (and I'd bet that a night in one of these rooms costs nearly as much as a mattress).

Well, we all know that rich people can afford to take better care of their health. Before I moved to Maine, I thought dentures were only for elderly people. Not so! My rude awakening was when I was having a conversation with a girl in her twenties who had sparkling white teeth. I complimented her on them; they were so sparkly and nice. She said, "Oh, you can have them, too. All you need to do is have your teeth pulled!" Gulp. Toothless and twenty-something.

I grew up surrounded by wealthy people. My family moved to one of wealthiest communities in America when I was about seven years old. Before that, we lived in a housing project, where I was a fairly happy kid who loved to jump rope, read, draw and explore. After we moved, everything changed. Suddenly, I was in a world I didn't understand. I was teased for wearing the wrong clothes, or the same dress more than once in a week. I was confused by all sorts of things. Nobody came out into the street to play. The women I thought were mothers turned out to be maids. Silly me thought little Jane Doe had a black mommy who wore a funny outfit every day!

Oh, how I came to hate that town and everything I thought it stood for - greed, lording your good fortune over others, treating people badly simply because they're less fortunate than you. . . .this is one subject that I can't write about at all. Not with any coherency, that is.

And this post started with my desire for a mattress. My lust. Or is it covetousness? Whatever. I just want. Really, I should be grateful for the riches I have. A roof over my head, a car, plenty of food, a computer with the world at my fingertips! And my sofa is pretty darned comfortable to sleep on. See, I have a sofa! Some people live in tin shacks and sleep on dirt floors. Lots of people do.

Maybe I am much more of a typical American than I think I am.

Addendum: This is one of those times I'm thinking "should I delete this post?" Am I a sniveling whiner? In my line of sight is a magazine with a picture of Michelle Obama on the cover. Seeing her makes me think of how hard some people work in order to achieve. And their work and achievements aren't for nothing. They're for their children, their communities and, sometimes, for the world.

In the town in which I grew up, I saw many people who had attained wealth but who had little education. They only had the desire to make money and then, once that was achieved (though that work is never finished, it seems), they liked to show it off. People who couldn't pull themselves up by their bootstraps were losers and deserved their lot.

As much as I intellectually disagree with this idea, it is something I can't quite shake off. I do not believe that we are all born equal. Some of us are born into poverty. Some are born into wealth. Many talents are inherent. So are the things we consider deficits. Some kids can never learn to read or write and others will go on to get advanced degrees in physics, write or paint a masterpiece, or rob a grocery store.

My society tells me that I'm a failure at life. If I can't afford that bed in the picture, I should work harder. I've lead an odd life, I'd say, with ups and downs financially. Mostly downs.

I'm embarassed when confronted (in my own mind) with the success of my relatives and people I've known since I was young. I have more than a few talents. Why haven't I flourished?

I think back to a summer when I had a booth at the Full Circle Fair in Blue Hill, Maine (not your ordinary fair). I wove tartans at the time, beautiful heathered tartans made of Maine wool. Not only were my blankets beautiful and well-woven, but I had tags, brochures and all sorts of materials that were painstakingly designed and, yes, lovely. I can say with no false modesty that I had a great product and a great presentation. I sold nothing. Zero.

Down the aisle from me was another weaver, who was selling plain white blankets with a thin stripe of color in them. They were perfectly fine blankets. They had a brochure that was perfectly fine, too. But, here's the thing: they were taking orders for these $300 lap blankets like you wouldn't believe. I kept going over there and eavesdropping. The wait time they were projecting to buyers kept going up and up as the weekend went by. I got more depressed as I listened.

There was no sense in this. Objectively, I had a nicer product. I was nice and friendly (though I may been glum by Sunday late afternoon). In all likelihood, the other weaver's success started with a piece of luck: a single buyer who brought friends, a group of maybe-buyers who all arrived at once or the fact that it was a particularly hot weekend and the plain white blankets looked refreshing in the sun.

Now, I did become quite depressed afterwards. I was sure that the reason I lost money was that there is something inherently wrong with me. My childhood told me that I was a loser and life has given me plenty of proof that this is indeed true.

I fight against this idea every single day. It's a hard fight, that's for sure.

Phew. Long addendum!

"The most helpful critical review"

Now that I'm getting books from Amazon to review, I'm thinking about what a review is for. Most of the books and DVDs that I've reviewed on Amazon were highly subjective matters and I made a point of saying so. A dance instruction DVD has music I dislike so much that I can't listen to it may be someone else's sheer delight (those poor deluded fools).

According to Amazon, 88% of people who bother to click the little buttons on the screen think my reviews are helpful. I just discovered I have the most helpful critical review of Stephen Cope's "The Wisdom of Yoga". I like Stephen Cope and have found his previous books and projects to be of great value, so I was hesitant to write a "bad" review of anything he did, but if you read the review, you may see why I felt something of an obligation to do so.

Reviews are rated themselves, by "helpfulness". I have often thought that this helpfulness vote was really a vote for whether or not one agreed with the writer of the review. When the Wisdom of Yoga first came out, those who said my review was unhelpful was much larger, more like 70% of the responders. The fact that this ratio has gone down makes me wonder. Maybe because I now have this official "The most helpful critical review", it gives someone pause before dismissing my opinion.

I still am not sure what reviewing is "for". Now that I have to review a certain amount of books, I'm flummoxed. I've never written fiction reviews. I figure that like music, we all have such different taste. I don't like "chick lit" or romance novels, but others do. Why should I put in my two cents?

When I read a review, I want to know two things: 1. Personal opinions, just to get an idea of the range of reactions, and 2. Whether the product, whatever it is, delivers what is promised. If I had to write a review of a romance novel and discovered it was a book of science fiction, I'd say it didn't do its job. Fair enough (but an unlikely example).

Before I conclude, I thought of a third thing I'd like to know from a review. This would be applicable to food, or perfume (and other things I can't think of at the moment, I'm sure). Whether it's truly, objectively awful. If a fragrance smells like dog poo, please tell me. I mean that literally. People bandy around the phrase "That was sh*t" or some such, and the fact is, no it wasn't. Here's a case for using a little less cursing. Shucks. I never thought I'd hear myself say or write that (nor did I ever say or write shucks - maybe it's the fever talking).

Addendum: Since writing the post entitled "Lust", above, I've really wanted to read Malcolm Gladwell's new book, Outliers, in which he says luck and priviledge have much more to do with success than other factors. On Outlier's Amazon page, I just read one of the longest negative reviews I have ever read (leaving out the dead tree variety).