Click publish

Sometimes it seems there are too many ways to express the self, including this mode, le blogger, and we have to choose which method for which situation, which place in time, which people will see which thing, how those people might react in their particular places and times, the fallout or repercussions of those reactions or potentially the lack thereof, a silence that speaks to being ignored or worse, never seen, never heard, our lives a vacuum in which we are talking to ourselves but pretending otherwise, until the word "vacuum" reminds this particular self that I forgot to vacuum the dining room rug earlier, and now it is too late in terms of those who are awake versus those who are asleep, and whatever fell off a certain someone's high chair tray will just have to stay there, and my shoulder hurts and hoisting the vacuum wouldn't be a good idea anyway, and the movie we watched half of, "An Education," was rife with people about to act on bad ideas presented in a suspenseful fashion and I'm eager to watch the rest of it, now I am writing as "I" and not "this self," I am getting closer to saying something, maybe what I want to say is that I like distance and this mode of expression begs for assumed closeness and I want to assume as little as possible, that we (me and you, whoever you are) would share the details of our weekend around some sort of beverage cart (because really, water coolers? They are expensive enough, apparently, that they are removed from certain offices as cost-cutting measures), and I am about to backspace over all of this, just unpave the whole thing, and I see that button below, Publish, and this isn't really all that interesting, why should I click publish, or why NOT, as a little counter-argument, arguments about counters, granite vs. laminate, both heavy, and seriously: my arm and shoulder feel like they're about to fall off, and here seems like a good venue for that discussion instead of there, which would turn into "Wot happend?" and "Aww poor baybeeee" and "what did u do?" and even typing in that fashion makes me want to massage my eye sockets with a pencil eraser, and what happened was carrying a heavy but adorable baby, and yoga, and moving furniture, and being old, oldER, shall we say, if we're continuing our beverage cart chat, because this is what (wot) we do: share the mundanity of our lives, and twenty to forty-five times a day I think of doing so, sharing, and usually don't, but the mundanity is where the meaning is, the walk after getting ice cream (birthday cake flavor), the stretch of my hamstrings, listening to the baby learning to say "Uh oh," the weather today so perfect and sunny with a slight breeze and blue skies and the feeling of, Why can't every day be like this? Like Sunday, as Morrissey wondered, like grilling out for dinner and a walk down the block and calm, calm, calm, a day so lovely you almost can't believe there was a hurricane on the east coast, Irene, when you're just going about your business, and at 11:11 when I make a wish (always), it is for myself or my child or my husband and almost never do I use my wishes on strangers, and almost always is the wish the same thing, a version of the same idea, and I am close to telling, I am this close to telling, so I either unpave what I've written or click publish, and you know what? 11:11, make a wish.

Dissonance

I have spent the last two weeks talking, teaching many classes. I used to think I was an introvert, and Myers-Briggs even said it was so. But teaching has turned me extroverted. Truthily. The last M-B personality test I took placed me squarely in the "E" category. Who knew?

Hectic as summer programs are, I had a blast. But boy am I sick of the sound of my own voice.

Let's listen to other people for awhile.



I'm reading Bob Mould's autobiography, See a Little Light.



I sung a few bars for my husband. He thought I was singing something by this band. I wasn't, but it's always nice to revisit the 90s.



Looking forward to the new Feist album, Metals, in October. The 4th, says the knowledgeable staff at LUNA Music. I'm-a gonna get it for the baby for his birthday, which is the 5th. Almost one! Who can believe it? Not I.



That was kind of dreamy. Speaking of, awoke with this in my head...



Better than getting Rick-rolled, which just happened when I clicked on a YouTube video a minute ago. But was secretly pleasing, also.



Enjoy the random, the general specific. The happiness of the guys in this audience. One beard, two beard, red beard, blue beard.

Close to Home

The Indiana State Fairgrounds are a mile-and-a-half from our house. We can walk there, or run past on the Monon Trail. Saturday night, we were at home, not at the fair. We were on the couch, enjoying Mexican takeout and a drink and the Colts game interspersed with The Dark Knight, enjoying the fact that the baby was sleeping so we could do all of the above.

We were not at the fair. We were not there when the storm rolled in just before Sugarland was about to take the grandstand stage, when gusts of wind caused the stage to topple, when four people died (and later, at the hospital, a fifth) and dozens were injured, when concertgoers were evacuated, with people far and wide wondering whether their loved ones were all right.

We can hear muffled versions of State Fair concerts from our house, but not this night. The wind drew us to the porch, and we watched the enormous trees behind our neighbor's house sway. I moved the potted plants from the table to the porch floor. The plants are nearly dead from the heat and my neglect but I didn't want the pots to tip and shatter. The power surged briefly, then came back on. The baby slept. We went back to watching The Dark Knight, and created a hand gesture/gang sign to indicate hash tags, basically the new air quotes (#HolyHeathLedger). I thought of the tall trees in our own backyard, outside the baby's room. The biggest one's trunk veers in two different directions. We had it cabled for stability last year, I reminded myself. The wind had already died down. Just some rain now. Midwestern spring and summer storms can be wicked. We would hear the tornado sirens if it came to that, and we'd grab the sleeping baby and retreat to the basement in time to be fine, if it came to that.

When we'd had enough of TV, I logged onto Facebook. That was how I heard about the catastrophe at the State Fair, which dominated my news feed. Initial reports said four dead, at least a dozen injured. No names of victims yet. I had been about to post an update about our relaxing, fun evening staying in, but I didn't. People were dead a mile-and-a-half from my house. Mexican food and the Colts and Heath Ledger were no longer relevant. The baby sighed in his sleep over the monitor. He does this sometimes, his thoughtful way of reminding me that he's still breathing. Sugarland. A band I knew from students who recommended their music, who said their concert was the best experience of their summers.

Were any of my former students at the concert? I hit refresh, willing the list of names to appear. They didn't. (Not until midmorning Sunday: Tammy Vandam, 42, Wanatah, Ind.; Glenn Goodrich, 49, Indianapolis; Alina Bigjohny, 23 Fort Wayne; Christina Santiago, 29, Chicago; Nathan Byrd, 51, Indianapolis. People I didn't know, won't know. Rest in peace.)

I looked up Indianapolis Star music critic Dave Lindquist on Facebook and read his reports from the scene. I scrolled the feed to read about friends who updated that they were all right, and so were their friends and family.

Then the power went out. It was about 10:30 p.m. We gathered the flashlight and candles, discussed whether the baby would be too warm without air conditioning. How long the fridge and freezer contents could last without spoiling. Tom went to the store for ice, grabbing extra bags for the neighbors. We went to bed, and the power came back on around 1:30 a.m. Our food was fine. The baby's bottles were fine. Minor inconveniences. A mile-and-a-half down the road, people clutched at each other as they ran for their lives. I wasn't there. I saw the pictures.

Today we went to the zoo with our friends, and it was like being on vacation. The place was packed, perhaps in part because the State Fair was closed today. Rain clouds came and went. If there was a storm, it was meant for somewhere else. The drops mostly missed us, just a few on my face. I picked up the baby and shielded him the best I could.