California Dreamin'

It snowed last night. Again. Grey skies, white ground, grey slushy roads. There was nothing else for it, I had to pop the Mamas And The Papas album into the car CD player and listen to "California Dreamin'" all the way to town and back. And I was going to moan, snivel and whine about this weather to you today, but then I realised that the more I think about it, the more depressed it's making me. So I won't.

Just yesterday, I heard a spring bird chirping outside my window. And the snowdrops are still going strong, with the crocus and daffodil shoots making an appearance just a few inches over from them, too. It seems winter and spring are really duking it out this year. Winter is probably trying to make up for its initial reluctance by excessive February tenacity. But, alas, it's a losing battle; winter is doomed. It's just trying to make me feel some of its gloom before it goes. So I'll look at my California pictures and blow a raspberry at winter, because I know the sun will be back eventually.

And then I was thinking about this phrase, "duking it out". Aren't there some kind of rules for boxing matches that were first written down by a duke of some sort? Queensberry Rules, I believe. Oh, no, wait, Queensberry was a Marquess. Wrong sort of aristocrat, one level too low for a Duke. But higher up in the ranks than Earl Grey and the Earl of Sandwich, whose inventions were far more useful to humankind than a set of regulations for which part of the body you're allowed to land a blow on.

Life, the Universe, Seasons and Sandwiches. I know which aristocratic inventions are highest on my list. Do you take milk in yours?

Lucifer and Ice Worms

The other day, my propensity for reading historic fiction prevented a potential accident. Really! I was driving down the road, listening to Felix Possak's warbling on the CD player. He's got a medley of a couple of World War I songs, which starts with "It's A Long Way to Tipperary", and then goes into "Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag" - and that's when I nearly drove off the road. You see, I'd never really paid attention to the words - have you? This is how it goes:

Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag
And smile, smile, smile,
While you've a lucifer to light your fag...

While you've a WHAT to light your WHAT?!? But then, with a lag of only a split second, my historic-fiction-reading filter kicked in, and I straightened the steering wheel with nary a twitch and we continued rolling down the road on our merry way instead of being marooned in the ditch as we might have been otherwise. "While you are in possession of a MATCH to light your CIGARETTE", that's what that means. Rather more innocuous than one might think.

Incidentally, my other favourite song on that CD is "When the Ice Worms Nest Again":


There's a husky, dusky maiden in the Arctic

And she waits for me but it is not in vain,

For some day I'll put my mukluks on and ask her

If she'll wed me when the ice worms nest again.

In the land of the pale blue snow,
Where it's ninety-nine below,
And the polar bears are roaming o'er the plain,
In the shadow of the Pole
I will clasp her to my soul,
We'll be happy when the ice worms nest again.

Ah, the romance! Ah, Canadian culture and folklore! Ah, the tender chirping of the ice worms as they nest in their charming arctic ice nests, gathering ice worm fodder for their little ice wormlets! Incidentally, the song ends with the singer being creamed over the head by his sweetheart with the ham bone of a bear because he stayed out too late and didn't come home to their igloo until half past two in the morning. Serves him right, I'd say.

Life, the Universe, Lucifers and Ice Worms. I suggest the reading of historic fiction to keep you safe on the road.

Snowdrops

This one is for Bonnie Heather, who was asking today if it's springtime yet. Look what's blooming beside my front door! Aren't they lovely? Yes, spring is on its way, even though just a few feet over from the snowdrops there's still a dirty patch of the white stuff that gives them their name.

I planted the bulbs for these little beauties last fall; I finally remembered to get some and actually put them in the ground. In the last few years, every spring I'd go "Gee whiz, I forgot to plant spring bulbs again!" but this year, I remembered. And then had to replant the poor things once or twice, because the cats figured that handy spot beside the front door, right against the wall of the house where it's protected from the snow, must be meant for a litter box for them. Grrrr.

I'm not a good gardener; really, I've always had a bit of a brown thumb. When it comes to remembering to actually look after the plants, it's usually something along the lines of "Oh dang, you're dead! I suppose I should have watered you before now..." (What does that say about me that I don't talk to my plants when they're alive, but only when they've gone to their lack-of-watery grave? Hmm...) But there are some things that I've managed to grow over the years, and, if I may say so, the fact that they're surviving against the odds (meaning "me", who is, admittedly, quite odd at times) makes them all the more special.

I'm especially fond of spring flowers; there is something so hopeful about them. So far, I've had crocuses, which are very lovely, but as I said, the snowdrops were a long-time wish. The crocuses are only just starting to poke up out of the ground (you can see their little shoots beside the snowdrops in the picture), so it'll be a good month before we see blossoms on them. They'll be the colourful harbingers of real spring, but the snowdrops are like a promise that winter is winding down, and spring won't be far behind.

Life, the Universe, and Snowdrops. Yes, Bonnie, it's springtime, or at least it soon will be.

Going Grey

I've been progressively going more grey. Actually, my first grey hair ever I found when I was 24 (which was, umm, some time ago). I pulled it out and carefully preserved it in my journal with scotch tape. However, that one grey hair was the only one for quite a while; the silver didn't start proliferating until a few years ago. My daughter one day, around Christmas time, said "Mom, you've got tinsel on your head! Oh, wait..." (That's a rather festive way of looking at it, isn't it?)

And then yesterday, I was in a conversation with someone, and he said something like this: "As we get older, we see more of the grey areas in life. And I think there is much, much more grey than there is black and white." That, gentle reader, is profound. As the greys on our heads multiply, we also (if we're healthy people) start to see more of the grey around us.

And grey, let me tell you, is an important thing. Remember that chiaroscuro I've been waffling on about some time ago? It's impossible without grey. You need the grey in between the blacks and whites to give shape and depth to your image. In art theory, it's called the halftones. What we call black-and-white is, actually, shades of grey; it's not often you actually get full-on black and full-on white in a picture. You can, of course, and it's very dramatic when you do, but you lose most of the shape and practically all of the depth.

And now I'm wondering: is there, perhaps, a connection between our society's insistence on women, in particular, colouring their hair, not letting the grey show, and a general unwillingness to see the depth and roundedness of life as a whole?

Life, the Universe, and Shades of Grey. It's all in the halftones.

Etymology

I don't usually post about what's on other people's sites, but today I have to make an exception. That's because in yesterday's xkcd comic, Etymology Man, I have found my new identity. Oh yeah.


Etymology rules. Here's one case where the internet has brought me the fulfilment of a long-harboured wish: an etymology dictionary. Back in the 80's, when I first conceived of that wish, they cost over $100, hardcopies being the only thing available; of course that was utterly out of reach for a perpetually-broke teenager. Now, thanks to the wonders of cyberspace, all I have to do is type in etymonline.com, and I have full access to all the obscure histories of all the obscure words my heart could possibly desire. Go ahead, try it: type "etymology" into the search box on the top of that screen, and see what you get. Ooh, for some reason the third thing on the list is "cockroach"- where does that come in? Ooh, rabbit trails...

And now I'm going to go make a pot full of marmalade (late 15c., from M.Fr. marmelade, from Port. marmelada "quince jelly, marmalade," from marmelo "quince," by dissimilation from L. melimelum "sweet apple," originally "fruit of an apple tree grafted onto quince," from Gk. melimelon, from meli "honey" (see Melissa) + melon "apple." Extended 17c. to "preserve made from citrus fruit."). And after that, go and read Marx (Marxist (n.) 1886, "devotee of the teachings of Marx," from Fr. marxiste, from Karl Marx (1818-1883), Ger. political theorist. The adj. is attested from 1897. The adj. Marxian (1940) sometimes is used (e.g. by Groucho) to distinguish the U.S. comedic team from the Ger. political philosopher).

Life, the Universe, and Etymology. I gotta get me a cape.

Voices In My Head

Yadda yadda yadda yack yack. My Master's program involves online discussions with other students. I have a feeling I'm being the jabbermouth of the group; they're probably all sick of seeing my profile picture pop up beside yet another post. And sometimes, I get really sick of hearing myself talk. Yes, I do hear it, even when I don't speak it out loud - I say in my head as I type. Does that mean I'm talking to myself? You bet it does.

It can be inconvenient, being a verbal thinker. Because there's always this voice jabbering on in my head, outside input can sometimes come into conflict with it. I can only have one conversation at a time, and because most of what I do involves having a conversation with myself, I can't necessarily talk to someone else at the same time. Or even just listen to them without needing to respond. Several members of my family are very fond of listening to audiobooks, but I usually ask them to turn off the book when I'm around. I don't even have to be following the story; having that voice generating words, and sending them out into the room, where they get into my ears and then brain and mess with my thought processes, is more than I can stand. It's like having a little kid tugging on your sleeve, going "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!" Doesn't make for very good cake-baking, that.

So I'm actually not a very good multi-tasker, when it comes to doing anything that requires thought. If the tasks are brainless, though, I can easily talk and work at the same time. In fact, then I need some verbal input - which is why I don't do things like knitting very much, because there isn't enough interesting jabber involved with it. "Knit - purl - knit - knit-two-together - increase one - knit - purl" does not make for very scintillating conversation. So whatever knitting I do do is usually plain garter stitch, or stockinette stitch in the round; when the thought process becomes "knitknitknitknitknit" I can tune it out and get other input, like the aforementioned audiobooks. I once lost a whole chunk of "Bleak House", though, because I had to turn a heel; by the time I was able to pay attention to the audio voice again, I had no idea if we were talking about Esther Summerson, Lady Dedlock, or the dastardly Mr Tulkinghorn.

Steve can't understand why I have these issues at all. He says his head is stuffed with fluff, and for the most part he thinks woolly cottony thoughts. Mumblemumblefluffedy. He's very restful to have around.

Life, the Universe, and Voices in My Head. I do wish I'd shut up sometimes.

Quitting

Well, the cold snap snapped out of it very quickly. After just a few days of blistering cold and snow, we're back to temperatures just above freezing, and the ice on the lake is turning to slush. They've even got the weed whacker out already! Yes, there's a lake weed trimmer. It looks like a cross between a barge and a tractor, and sails around on the lake, trimming the water weed down to manageable proportions. Usually, I've seen it out in the spring, but I guess winter is really a better time to go after the milfoil, which is an introduced water weed that, if left to its own devices, will happily take over the lake. The weed harvester had to do double-duty today as icebreaker, though, so I'm not sure they'll actually go through with it.

Which brings me to what I wanted to talk about today: quitting. Oh no, no, stop panicking! I'm not going to quit blogging (again). At least not right now. (That was what you were panicking about, wasn't it?) I'm also not talking about smoking, this time. No, this is a different matter. You see, I've gone back to school. Or, really, I'm staying right here in my comfortable computer chair, and am un-going back to school, as it were: I enrolled in an online Master's degree program. I started a couple of weeks ago, blithely getting myself into two full courses at once. And by the end of the first week, I was starting to panic.

Now, I've done online studies before; in fact, my whole undergrad degree was done without once setting foot in a classroom. I really like that method of studying. But, wouldn't you know it, grad school is harder than undergrad! Nobody told me that. (It's rather like when we moved from our mobile home to our nice big house - nobody told me that a house that's three times as big as your old one also takes three times as long to clean.) The nerve of them, leaving me ignorant like that! Well, actually, truth be told, they did tell me; I just wasn't ready to hear it.

So there I was, overwhelmed, stressed, and feeling like I was already falling behind, in my first week of studies. (Here is Steve, modelling what the overwhelmedness looked like.) And you know what I did? I quit. No, not the whole shot - I've waited so long to be able to take this Master's program, to finally get to play with the big kids, I'm not going to drop out! Not just yet, anyway. No, I just let go of one of the two courses I had enrolled in. The one that wasn't mandatory. It'll be offered again next year. And meanwhile, I'm going to enjoy myself in the one course I have left.

My pride had to take a bit of a hit on that one. I thought I could handle this - as I said, I'm well used to doing online studies. How different could this be? Besides, I don't have a paying job right now, I can really concentrate on studying. Most of my classmates do this stuff on top of full-time work. But, the fact of the matter is, I was getting stressed, and overwhelmed, and not liking it - and so, what's the point to keep on slugging away at something that's no fun, just in order to satisfy my craving for showing how much better I am than everyone else because I can handle this (with one hand tied behind my back, the other holding a mug of tea, and my nose doing the typing)? Forget it. I'd rather be happy than impressive. If I have to pay with burnout for satisfying my pride, it's not worth it. In fact, paying with anything for satisfying my pride is not worth it.

So I pulled up the form that said "Course Withdrawal" on the top, filled in my information (what's my student number again?), and hit "send". Phew. On with the course that's left. I'm determined to have fun with this.

Life, the Universe, and Quitting. I highly recommend it.