This is a song about Alice.. remember Alice?

We had a conversation the other night about masculine and feminine traits. I told him what I 'like' what I 'look for'. He never really got back to me about his side of things-- but I think he was planning on graphing it. At any rate, at one point I told him it was more important that he is what he is instead of what I 'like' or I 'look for'-- works out fine because he falls primarily in both categories as he is. He asks me what if one day I wake up next to him and he's turned into a turtle, then what would happen? Then he could say "I told you so." Or, he reminds, more like "IIIIII tooooold yoooouuuu soooooooo."

A set of memories, in no particular order:

I am very young, sitting on the right side of the last third of a yellow bus that is waiting to pull away from the school. I am looking out the window, and for some reason I have to constantly remind myself that I am a young girl, sitting on the right side of a school bus, looking out the window. "I am me." I repeat to myself, "I am me."

It is Tuesday. My dad is fixing dinner and I am reading a trashy vampire book. We are listening to Jonatha Brooke Live. We later talk about an old radio drama he has been listening to on the quiet nights in his apartment called Moon Over Morocco. We talk about love, people, relationships, cholesterol, and movies.

My father and I are walking the dog out in the woods near our house has has picked up a branch to use as a walking stick, I am slightly behind them, watching them crest a hill. I don't recall why I wanted to remember this moment, but I do remember telling myself never to forget it- so far I haven't.

I remember this song.

I am looking out the window of what would become my room. The walls are pink and there are taxidermied animal heads on the floor near the wall as you come in. I can hear my mothers voice through the door as she talks to the realtor. She enters and asks me what I think of the place, I point out the window to a tree that sits in the middle of the yard- I indicate to her that I like it. I would later take a year to strip the wallpaper using vinegar and hot water, line the room with blue Christmas lights, and occasionally leave the window open so I could sit in it and watch the snow fall in front of that tree.

My parents used to send my sister and I to bed when they would watch "grown up" movies. I had come downstairs to get a drink of water and seized the opportunity to lurk a tad and possibly catch a glimpse of what the big friggin' deal was. They were watching what I would later learn was Conan the Barbarian, and were at a part that involved a vat of water and some snakes. Forgetting myself I ask, to no one in particular, "Why don't they just step on them?" Cover blown, I am escorted back to bed. My mother related this tale to me not too long ago from her own point of view (seems that it stayed with both of us), explained that what I had read as incandescent rage on their part was actually that I had, unwittingly, scared the ever loving christ out of them. I suppose I can see that, small, groggy, fuzzy-headed-but-practical-girl in nightgown, backlit by dim-kitchen-light asking unexpected questions. Terrifying. Sure.

We are driving around the back roads of Winterport, the three of us, after watching Wayne's World at a friends party, after playing hide and seek until the small hours. The hours are getting slightly larger, I have to get to Bangor to meet my grandparents for breakfast. We are listening to this song, very loud. As much as I like Rage, I think of it ironically at the time. I think they would too.

I have made an elaborate robot out of legos. I bring it upstairs for reasons unknown, I drop it before reaching the top, it flies apart on the way down and I yell "Shit!". Upset not only about my destroyed masterpiece, but also about how angry my mother is about hearing me swear passionately at volume at such a young age, I become inconsolable.

It is springtime and I am sitting on the concrete steps at my grandparents house with my sister. We are playing with a neighbors cat. We have named it 'Tiger'.

I am sitting on a concrete wall under a bus stop on Mass. Ave, waiting for the 77. It is early afternoon and I have a long black bag leaned up against the wall next to me, it is full of weapons I may be tested on later that evening. This is playing in my headphones as I have just arranged all of my 90s Billboard hits into something that qualifies as listenable and nostalgic. One of my managers at the paper store is standing, looking at me, and probably has been for a few minutes-- I had been lost in the light and the music. We exchange greetings, she leaves and I continue to wait for the bus.

End set.

One holiday comes and goes. I wonder if my increased moodiness has to do with the season, or the circumstances. I only hope that something remains stable enough for me to cross it off the list of probable culprits. Maybe by springtime I'll have a clearer picture. Maybe not.

I ask him if he thinks I'm thinking about this too much.. he gives me a hug and tells me she needs someone to think of her.

kung fu is difficult.. but it isn't hard..

Dennis, my old manager, used to ask me what I wanted to do during the day when given a list of things that needed to get done. Sometimes the synapses wouldn't fire correctly and I'd take a little too long to answer her. She would ask me at that point if I wanted an easier question. I miss that.

When I answer the phone at work I usually have to take a few moments to make sure the right thing will come out of my mouth. This is about as close as I can come to describing about how tricky it is to tell exactly what I'm doing these days. Sometimes I'm kind of like that guy in that movie who doesn't have any short term memory.. except I don't have "find him and kill him" tattooed on my chest.

Sometimes I like to think I'm good at things that I'm really not. Mostly I find I'm a pretty honest-with-myself type gal. For example I've never once told myself I'm good at tennis, I cannot, no matter how hard I've tried, learn how to play poker, and I would never subject anyone to really having to listen to me sing. Sometimes I think I'm good at things that I'm not, like picking out movies that my sister likes, grocery shopping, and writing e-mails.

For example I sent out a distress-beacon of a one liner a week or two ago that completely backfired. Backfired, sideways fired, up fired, down fired.. fire all over the place.

And still I charge forward.

Sent out another one the other day, in fact.. not as bad, the results, but still lives as evidence of my foolishness.

Though heres the thing:

The person reading the e-mail can really put whatever spin they want on the thing, depending on the mood they're in, what they expect from the situation, or who they know the person writing it to be.

For example the e-mail in question could read:

"Hello. How are you? I noticed it was raining outside, did you get the umbrella I dropped off yesterday? X Smooches!"

Consider it could be an exchange between people who like each other a lot. People concerned for the others state of dryness and comfort. People who would say things like "smooches" to one another.

Now consider it is an exchange between people who can't stand each other- people who would leave an umbrella covered in dog pooh on the others doorstep after the recent passing of their family dog, Smooches.

I'm bad at e-mail. I get it.

My friend Mr. Toast said that e-mail and other forms of electrical communication were so easy because usually when writing them, you are entirely alone. I can appreciate that, the security that comes with that is appealing, for sure. That and for a long time I was filled with a debilitating anxiety when faced with the task of calling certain someones-- e-mail doesn't usually have that effect. These days I simply find myself in a position where I can't get many words in. It's tricky to interrupt an e-mail. Though it is possible to combat the entire thing and just not read it.

That's just not playing fair, says I.

I think sometimes that I may be witnessing what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. This usually only when things are sensitive, which they have been for a few days (weeks?) now.. one thing after another, and I own it just as much as anyone.

Speaking of things I'm bad at, I went grocery shopping today. I remember once, looking down into the basket some years ago and seeing the following items: carrots, peanut butter, jell-o, frozen peas, seaweed and muffin mix.

... I think I might still have the muffin mix.. somewhere..

I just deleted a big long thing about groceries, what I buy mostly, and what I do or do not do at the grocery store. Possibly that I even deleted that small tirade should tell me I have nothing to say and I should go away.. and I probably will..

I had a conversation the other day that completely blew my mind. Like, blew it. All over the place. Like one of those sneezes that renders the blower temporarily useless 'cause they have to run and find a tissue. Blown.

every word is nonsense but I understand..

"You look like a very pale spider," I say, as he crawls towards the beside table, shimmering in the pre-morning dark.

"I have to blow my nose," he replies.

So. What's new?

No wiggle room. Wise words, those.

True though, very true.

What used to be here was some longish piss and moan session about.. crap that no longer really seems like it needs a place around these parts. This crap was small fry.. weak sauce.. the universe has since decided to throw much worse stuff out there these days.. which also doesn't really need to be here..

Also the above nose blow has no connection to the higher above nose blow.. yeah.. hope you follow that..

he's a funny guy.

Exchange between my father and I after I told him my bike was stolen, m= me d=him:

d- well you know there's an instructional video on how to get your bike back if someone steals it.

m- yeah?

d- yeah. It's called "Pee-Wee's Big Adventure."

Funny thing about people is that they generally just look like ordinary people when you meet them.

I forget sometimes that the term "white belt" doesn't mean much to most people.

Let me weave you a tale about what it was like when I was a "white belt".

I am unable to erase certain parts of my memory-- and this is not a complaint. I like being able to recall in stunning technicolor detail, the events of the past.

The first time I met my Instructor we talked a little bit about what some of my goals were and why I wanted to train in Martial Arts. I told him that it was something I had always been interested in, I also remember implying that he would know immediately, with his superior and mystical knowledge, where I stood physically, and be able to determine a few things from there. I implied this information in a nervous kind of joking way.

ll- me

if-him

ll: You'll know, right? Like, you'll be able to tell what I can do, right? -nervous giggle-

if: Excuse me..? -his hands go behind his back, Wong Fei Hung style-

I had never met a real life martial artist before and didn't know how to behave around one- I believe at this point all I have gained is perspective. I still screw up sometimes, but now instead of feeling like I've been blind sided by a train, it's more like watching myself fall down the stairs.

At this point I know better.

At this point I try only to be honest.

Stern, he thinks I'm messing around with him, I'm sure. Little does he know, I'm serious and totally believe that this is possible-- I am not mocking him, but I think he thinks I am. Either way, with these two words, he is able to communicate to me that he is not one with which to fuck. I stammer over a serious explanation of what I was getting at, and he becomes pleasant again.

The above was to be the first in a long line of misinterpreted statements between the two of us- mostly involving me trying to joke with him, and he being unavailable for it. What can I say, my timing isn't always great. Many of these [failed] interactions are fondly recalled, if not all that fun to go through at the time they unfolded.

A late night phone call:

if: Hello, Assistant Instructor Lindsay, are you awake?

ll: Yes, are you?

Silence on the other line. I become alarmed..

I realize these failed jokes could be because I'm just not that funny..

Tra laaa..

All seemingly flip comments about my Instructor are made out of a familiar affection, by the way. A tiger is, in it's own way, cute- but it is still a tiger and must live it's way. Because he is an unrelentingly accomplished human being who takes himself very seriously, for whom I have nothing but love, admiration and respect, I must find some harmless way to pick on him, because that is my way. Thems the breaks.

I went through my first lesson pretty convinced that I had just entered a war-like environment, survival being at the forefront of my mind. I find that when talking to people about Martial Arts training, no matter when someone signs on, the training is always far more grueling, painful, and impossible a few years before the newbie shows up. Hard is hard is hard. Learning to walk isn't easy- what most people forget is that when they start in about how "hard things used to be" is that the time they are talking about is probably around when they were in a time of some heavy learning and development.. which is, duh, HARD. Of course it was harder then. If the teacher is worth their space in the classroom they'll be sure to make it hard again, because real goddamned martial arts training isn't easy.

I had initially intended to write about my very first test in this entry-- I suppose I still could.

I remember coming in late to the lesson having been across town without my bike on some lame 'date' with some lame 'guy' who my friend Jay nicknamed the 'windmachine'.

This is a hilarious nickname, by the way. The guy had long hair and rode his bike without a helmet, leaving his hair to drift along behind him, but the possibilities for further interpretation of said name are [almost] endless.

I had done very little 'studying' for said test, believing that I could leave it to chance and get the most accurate picture of what I knew if I didn't. I recall during the very beginning movements blowing something out of my nose that stayed on my upper lip a few moments before I was able to remove it. I remember lifting the wrong foot during a particular short form and heading incorrectly for the wall. I remember interpreting a 'side kick' as 'kicking to the side'.

At the end of the test my Instructor asked me some questions about the school and why I train in it. He asked me what the most important thing I was learning was. When I hesitated he gave me a hint, said that there was a really famous song with the same name that started with an "R". I was tempted to say "Rapture", but instead went to the obvious "Respect" which is, you know, TRUE. He also asked me what my understanding of Kung Fu was, and I gave him some canned sass-pot answer that I had read off of the schools website, unsure what he was looking for and feeling that I wasn't in any position to free style with my limited exposure to the art. Did the same thing with Qi Gong, but I think I did slightly better with this question. He asked me what I thought of when I was holding positions-- I told him I thought of numbers, songs.. plans.. he started to shake his head. I asked him if he wanted what I actually thought of or what I should think of during holding- these being two different things at the time. I eventually gave him the better answer and we moved on.

I held a horse position while he graded the test in the office.

He came out and told me I had passed and gave me the scores, the self defense being the lowest.

I tested for 2nd Degree on August 31 2010.

I sat in a meditation position while both my Instructors graded the test in the office.

They came out and told me I had passed, but we would go over the actual scores at some later date-- I am sure the self defense will be the lowest.

My first section test was easily as hard and stressful as my 2nd Degree test, though naturally the circumstances had escalated appropriately. Instead of doing simple punch and kick combinations for a few seconds, I was doing forms while not actually attached to the ground (to be read any way the reader likes, I'm sure all interpretations are true). Also, there is much more hinging on my 2nd Degree than my first section.. obviously.

Maybe I'm a little more serious now, though I wonder if any more serious than I would be if I hadn't been training for the last 5 years.

5 years? September 2005 to September 2010?

That would be only 5, wouldn't it?

Not long at all.

Like it was yesterday, but also like that 'yesterday' was a million years ago.

That is 365 million days of gratitude.

Bend Your Front Knee.

I just tried and failed at making rice burgers.

Heres why:

A little while ago I bought 20 pounds of rice.

Heres why:

I've been trying to design and fabricate a durable and inexpensive 'weighted vest' for lack of a better term. I have also kind of failed at that. I came up with the exact design of this thing while on the bus back from New York after a conversation with Mr. F that left me inspired and unreasonably fired-up for the four hour long bus ride. As soon as I got home I measured the thing out and started to cut up some bed sheets in order to later sew and fill with, you guessed it, rice.

This object has now mutated into a sad pile of thick, rice filled, rope-like appendages. The one honest love of my life has decided to affectionately refer to this 'weighted vest' as my 'sock project.'

No socks have been used in this process.

The thing isn't heavy enough, when it's on- probably only like.. 7 pounds or something. Not really what I'm looking for at this juncture. It is, however, just floppy, long and awkward enough to cause a a great fuss when trying to put it on-- which is it's second strike. It's pretty much just a long strip of.. stuff.. with ribbons on either end and connecting two segments. It's meant to be wrapped over and around the shoulders and then around the waist and then retied in some boyscoutish fashion to keep it in place. The design isn't the problem. It was the execution. Mr. F tells me he used a fishing vest and put lead weights in the pockets. I ain't gut no fishin' vest. Or lead weights. Sock project, including the rice, cost me about.. 9 dollars to make. It gets expensive when you consider the amount of time sewing, stuffing, etc.. sock project required.

Which brings me to my failed rice burger attempt, which is cooking, at this moment, on ripped tin foil, because I can't get it together to buy a damned cookie sheet.

They wont stay together, the burgers, and I'm not all that upset about it. They smell ok. The continued adventure of trying to make ones that DO stay together will, I hope, eat up the 13 pounds of rice I have left over from sock project.

I have used bananas as a binding agent before, made some vegan banana bread using this method. I am reluctant to try them in this context. The bread that I made held it's shape for about three seconds once sliced. Beyond that it wasted no time redefining itself as a very small desert.

By the way I'm sure most of you are dying to know what DOESN'T stay together when it comes out of the oven, so I'll just go ahead and tell you: Ripped Tin Foil. Ain't no banana on the planet gonna keep that thing from falling apart. Only half of them hit the floor. Small comfort.

I saw the new Karate Kid movie yesterday. Another letter:

Dear The Kung Fu Camera Man:

There is no need, The Kung Fu Camera Man, to move the camera so fast as to make the viewer sick. No need. Because, you know what? Those cats? Are fast as lightening. In fact it was really annoying, all of the blurring, the weird flipping, the shaky crap. Look, The Kung Fu Camera Man, cut the shiz, yo. If I'm going to watch Jackie Chan beat up a bunch of 12 year olds, it'd better not be all fuzzy.

Also, I thought that Ralph Macchio was far more sympathetic, hopping around the ring, at the end of the movie.

Loosely related to sock project; I did an internet search for some appropriate training t shirts to wear around the school so I don't funk up my uniform, but so I can also come off as respectable enough to sign someone up. I became confused and alarmed when I checked my top right search box and it read "under armor dicks," right there, unashamed.

Le sigh.

On my way to the school yesterday I was almost ended by a cab driver. He was dropping someone off, and I was.. you know.. riding my bike to school, you can see where our interests clashed. He didn't really think it was necessary to signal or anything when he was pulling over, or to give me enough room/time to clear his outside edge and let him go about his business. My right handle bar clipped some parked cars' mirror, thankfully I was going slow enough to not be much affected by this. I made angry Johnny 5 noises at him for a moment while he decided what he was going to do- speed up or stop or whatever. I also left a trail of rubber on the road where he decided to just STOP right in front of me. What a kidder.

My recent facebook activity, I realize has been particularly daffy. Here is more evidence to support that state of mind.

I have adopted a cucumber plant, it lives on my porch with it's adopted friend the squash plant, some chives, and until recently, a jade plant. The cucumber plant has produced two large, lovely cucumbers over the last month, and has, beyond that, decided to use it's energy to take over the balcony. The squash plant has taken to leaning WAY out of it's pot and throwing flowers at the cucumber plant in protest. The jade plant, situated between the two, wasn't doing so well, so I brought it inside away from the conflict. At first I was suspicious of the squash plant, and favored the cucumber who had yielded such fine produce. Now I question my preference. The second cucumber stabbed me (yes.) (stabbed.) and though I used to find it amusing to watch it's vines creep around the porch to follow the sun, the death gip it now has on the railing is nothing short of unsettling.

And of course, there is so much more going on, but none of it so domestic and useless. I will, maybe, tell you sometime.

Until then,

Zhenren.

Copycat.

A while ago I came up with a really good analogy involving Hyrule and A Link to the Past. I don't remember what the analogy was specifically, though understand that every time I make an analogy in conversation, there is part of my brain that remains dedicated to that particular instance. Every time I draw that seemingly unrelated but clarifying parallel, part of me is charging my sword and hunting for rupees..

Back to the flies, because I'm sure you are dying to know.

When I got home a few days ago my window was basically covered in very large houseflies. The proper term for buggies like this is "filth flies" and (as my sister researched, having run into a similar situation living above me) they live in dead things and are used to declare the time of death based on their arrival-- also called "flesh flies". I spent a good amount of time separating the ones that were merely caught between my screen and window from the ones who were actually in my room. These more urgent situations were caught under cups and flung outside-- the others left to hang out in limbo until they either found a way back out or bellied up on the windowsill. The critters had discovered a third option, which was to shimmy their way into my room.

2am EST, the killing began. More detailed accounts of how this is done can be found here at my sisters blog. I was not so impassioned with my delivery, but you get the idea.

I have an interval timer.

I use it sometimes.

Yesterday I was going to use it to do a 5 minute paylgae.

I had made the emotional, spiritual, and mental commitment to do this early in the day. I went through some preliminary movement to cause some heat that would carry me through to the afternoon. Started the adventure about 2..

I got to the fourth position, starting to feel out the best way to breath and relax, and who should come around the corner but some old guy and his gas powered push mower, ready to spend the next hour mowing the small yard I was standing on. A man came out from the building across the way, and actually started to try to have a conversation with the guy mowing the lawn OVER the noise of the lawnmower. They remained stationary at one end of the yard, screaming at each other while I weighed my options. In spite of my drive to conquer time and space that afternoon, I decided to heed the direction given to me not twelve hours earlier, and find a healthier environment in which to practice.

Anyway. I've planted the seed. I will do it-- probably more than once. Just not sure when.

We've been having some scrummy lightening storms lately. I'd just as soon be out in one of those.. .. .. than not..

I get to be a real jerk when I get bored, by the way. Mostly in an educational environment, where I don't think I'm being challenged, I don't feel welcome, or more specifically, I feel that my time is being wasted.

I had a professor at MECA who was probably much dumber than a bag of hammers, who taught a Generic World History class. He kicked off the semester with the information that the US Constitution and the Bill of Rights were the FIRST and ONLY documents that outlines the rights and responsibilities of the people at that time. Bullshit, says I. I'm not going to give loads of examples here to illustrate what kind of smarty pants I am-- it doesn't really matter what I know about this. What does matter is that statement is SO not correct. He earned my distain pretty early on by being slightly racist and classist in his lectures, so I rewarded him with snarky hand raising and ironic (but frustratingly correct, over achieved and always polite) test answers. I recall one test at the end of the whole affair that had a bunch of true/false, essay, and multiple choice questions of which we only had to answer 50%. Because I'm an ass, I answered 100% of the questions in 50% of the time it took the rest of the class (art school), some of the answers were as described above. For the vocabulary part of the exam, in the "Synchronicity" slot I wrote down "a connecting principle linked to the invisible" (a là The Police-- which is.. a right answer, kind of) and for "Umma" I wrote down "the first side of a Pink Floyd record". Because it is.

I am only slightly less juvenile about these things at this point in my life. Though usually I don't put myself in a position to have my time wasted. The mind boggles for a while, and then it wonders. If it is not led to boggle at first it merely wonders.. I can't help but daydream sometimes that certain acronyms must be really good at doing the robot, or certain others may enjoy singing karaoke, wearing funny hats, playing the.. tuba? poker..? ddr..?

I was told once (jokingly?) while running the school in Portland that spies from down south were a possibility. Because I am completely irreverent about such tremendously useless, dishonest, and disrespectful activities, all I could do was picture a HB, full uniform, leaning on a street lamp reading a newspaper. He would be well equipped with false facial hair (placed over already established facial hair of similar form but probably of different color), possessed of dark glasses, a sombrero, probably leading an elaborately saddled donkey from stake out to stake out. All this in downtown Portland.