She's A Brainiac, Altair

Last week, my friend Reya over at Blog Gold Puppy was talking about the luxury of time, and how she often tries to slow things down to enjoy them more. I wrote back, telling her how I try to stay in a "patience" zone and absorb the moment when I am doing those things she described. I always felt my late father was rushing through his life, with each event being hurried along. The first to arrive at a party, (and positively antsy to get there,) then once there, he couldn't wait for it to end.

I told Reya that I listen and watch a lot to what is going on around me, trying to understand what it means and stay sensitive to it; seeing the big picture, as it were. A few years back, I read an article about animal's "rhythms" and how their heartbeats were slower than humans, so it helped to move more slowly around them in every way. I tested it out and I found dogs, cats, horses and squirrels very responsive to it. It even worked on crows who are incredibly wary around humans. They tend to scatter when you are near, and for a few years I was able to study crow behavior--and, I would add, they are highly socialized, community driven birds.

Older people respond to slowness, as well. The only contrary thing I would add is that you have to speak louder, but still slowly. Slow and loud. I've been caregiver to some seniors, and I've been working on the estate of one who died last year. Once again into the fray of emptying out a house and handling once loved possessions, not without it's own sadnesses. I'll be writing an oddball story about one such moment later this week.

The other day I was doing a drop at the library book depository. Recently, they had added medium sized rocks between the curb and the sidewalk, and I had made a note to myself what a treacherous bit of land this had become; especially involving feet, ankles and knees. I had twisted my right ankle the other day (thinking with relief when I did so, "Whew...that was a close one,") only I must have sprained it, because it remains weakened, and I am still wary of it, not giving it full weight, so I was carrying around my own slowness.

There was a minivan parked in front of me with it's side door opened, and I thought "Soccer Mom," only a little old lady was inside, removing her books to return. She was dressed rather nattily in black Bermuda shorts and a pressed cotton top, but her legs were skeletal; that cliché of skin and bone. I watched her cross the rocks and saw how her feet tilted unsteadily, so as she made her way back to her car (and I practiced "stillness" in standing, waiting--wishing not to startle,) I said to her, "These rocks are highly impractical in terms of crossing them to get to the sidewalk."

She looked into my eyes for the longest time. Then she said, "Would you mind repeating what you just said to me?" So I did. Another pause. Another long stare. At this point I had the sense I was gazing into the innards of a dated computer: watching synapses firing, seeing lights bounce. Point A to Point B to Point....then she said, in a very formalized, very slow voice, (but well ennunciated) "I concur with your assessment."




I had to stare back, thinking, "There is your future." I held back while she returned to her car, wondering how she even maneuvered such a heavy vehicle. While I waited, I took out my camera and shot a picture of the shrub next to the book depository. For some reason, it struck me as "brain like" in it's appearance. I shot a close-up of the brain shrub, as well. After all, I was in slow mode and waiting my time through this event. I don't know why, but those branches were like a symbol of what I had just experienced.

A few days ago, once again at the book drop, I got out of the car and saw this:

Destination: Titivation

I have this longstanding habit of hearing about an author, then pursuing everything they've ever written. There were times, when I had full access to the Library of Congress, that I could request the writer's entire body of work, have the books delivered to me bound in newspaper and string, with no time constraints in their return. I would place the books in chronological order for my reading, and the norm was to have a stack of 50-something next to the bed. I can tell you, writing this in retrospect, that I never took that privilege for granted and knew how rare it was. I remember how shocked I was the day a 16th-century edition of Suetonius accidentally made it past the Rare Book Room into my hands. The Loan Division Director and I both stared at it in awe. And "no," I never set down Coke cans on the books or turned pages with Cheetoes orange fingers. An aside. Since Suetonius had been mistakenly delivered to me, bound with other books, I did take it home that night, but I opened the book wearing white cotton gloves, so the oil from my fingers wouldn't touch the pages, and I returned it promptly the next morning, wrapped in a white cotton sheet. I had the oddest sensation looking at it. It was like falling through centuries.

Often I find that a writer's skills improve over time. Sometimes not, and that is always surprising because you expect growth as part of the process. One habit I've noticed with some young writers (and some older ones that continue to preen) is that they pursue a more filigreed,whatchamacallit word; dropping it into their text, which has me running to the Webster's Unabridged that I keep on a dictionary stand in my bedroom.

Recently, I heard about a mystery writer named Ruth Rendell. Critical raves. Five stars. The best. Agatha who? Well. To quote my late mother, "Not my cup of tea." I am much more of a George Pelecanos-Dennis Lehane-Raymond Chandler-Dorothy Sayers kinda girl. In reading one of Rendell's book published in 1975, I stumbled onto the word "titivating," and headed to the Websters for it's defined meaning and learned she had used it in another sense.

Titivate: (verb) Perhaps from tidy plus vate as in renovate; to dress up (as by making small additions or alterations in attire); spruce up; smarten up.

I had to laugh about titivate because here we are, more than thirty years later, and we've gone from titivation to sprucing up to tweaking our threads. And yes, while I was online at urbandictionary.com I found this:

Molcing: The act of dressing up in a vegetable costume and fornicating with another person dressed in vegetable like attire. Being a furvert wasn't enough? Now it's got to be vegetables? I will never look at the Fruit of the Loom guys in the same way again.

"Was it good for you?"

Chum: To be on terms of intimate friendship; to share quarters: room together; chopped fish, vegetable matter, or small live fish thrown overboard to draw fish to a fishing boat.