Monthly Archives: May 2012

internet cocktail party

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my head should be spinning as i grab a hold of this mesmerizing world of socializing through media, considering my advanced age.

but somehow, despite the consumption of time required and the challenge to come up with some intriguing content, for me, the biggest challenge is remembering all of my usernames and passwords!

now that’s something one of these whiz kids should invent an app for!

but back to the subject at hand.  social media.

first of all, i’m not a fan of that moniker: it isn’t very zippy or interesting.  it’s as drab a title (and as overused) as ‘the economy’.  as a creative with a bent for marketing and p.r., i say both of these could use some improvements.  look at how j c penney has gotten all cool as their mod thinkers have infused new life into an old brand with, among other things, a hip new logo, ellen and a hip monogrammed name.

so, social media, which for the purpose of this post, i will refer to as “icp” (internet cocktail party), seems to confound, confuse and trouble many people in the land.  how do i know this?  because this connundrum has spawned an entirely new education, conversation, publication, consternation, advocation!  a world of it’s own has landed firmly in our webby world which has the proven, decisive 1,2.3 steps that promise that elusive pot of gold at the end of the digital rainbow…or so they say.

for me, the few times i’ve delved a bit into some expert’s guidelines, i feel intellectually buried alive.  there’s a new way of language, something that is beginning to make me feel really uncomfortable: words that have absolutely no tangible reference, no sensory connection and to my left-brained audience, a strong feeling of disconnection. i just don’t seem to get the lingo!

it isn’t about technology.  i know that it all exists from magical wizardry involving northern california, a satellite, a bowl of chips, and the comcast man who comes by every now and then to replug and fiddle with the wires.

it isn’t about curiosity.  there’s a rich, vast, endlessly fascinating world literally beneath my fingertips (or voice, should i ever decide to start up a relationship with the girl who lives in my new iphone 4s).  digging like modern day, khaki-clad archaeologists, we all get to dig in like howard carter and the earl to make our own king tut-like discoveries.

it isn’t about affordability. i can manage (and would, if need be, go without food) to cover the cost of the wireless and unlimited data convenience so kindly provided by those conglomerates.

it isn’t about being ‘authentic’: for goodness sakes, who else would i be besides just me, myself, and my hair-brained who knows what i’m going to think or draw or say next self?

it isn’t about who’s on the other end of the line.  granted, we’re eons from the days of picking up the phone ala andy griffith or a good old british country manor mystery plot, tapping the line to get a hold of the operator in order to connect (ah, there’s an overused word for you!) to someone on the other side of wherever.  i like people, i love meeting them, staying in touch with them, communicating.  no matter what devices have come along during my lifetime, i’ll get accustomed to whatever buttons, bells and whistles are required in order to reach out and touch somebody’s hand.

no, what drives me a little dizzy is the assumption that anyone really needs to be taught how to do all of this socializing.

which brings me back to my icp approach.

we all know barbra’s iconic song, people, right?  we need each other, so the desire is there.  the gadgets are here.  rapidly piling up almost faster than we can say ‘alexander graham bell’, another zillion arrive at best buys, amazon and the apple store.  for me, ignoring the machination, and focusing on the people, is the only way to actually enjoy myself.

the icp is really a party.  it’s people.  scattered all over the globe.  there they are…out there somewhere.

my brain needs to visualize something tangible in order to make it through this vast electronic, digital world, so i have grounded the facts as follows:

each entity (fb, instagram, linkedin, twitter, tumblr, wordpress, et al into infinity) is really a collective cluster of eager, interesting guests gathered in a quite expansive lovely vintage hotel.  let’s even put it on the mediterranean.  anywhere you fancy, that’s where the party is happening.  up there on the mezzanine? it’s those cool cats from twitter, very few of them i’ve ever met, but gosh, they’re pretty insightful, have gobs of fascinating bon mots (they’re, none of them, long in the tooth), and i really want to catch their eye because they’re cool.  how to amuse them as they amuse me?  simple.  come up with a few of my own bon mots, too.

over with their elbows crowding around the polished mahogany bar?  it’s those wordpress guys and gals.  writers, lovers of writers, fans of writers, wanna be writers, expounding and dithering and emoting and i can just catch a few of the intriguing topics from way over here.  i’m compelled to hang out with them, too, but first, i don’t want to sound like dork, so i think i’ll share a witty little story of my own to draw them in.

outside, there’s a covered terrace looking out across the harbor, and crowding around a really big, ornate ashtray, i can just make out the faces of a few of the instagram shutterbugs.  always looking, snapping and sharing, there is a like-mindedness to this gang that gets what ‘composition, color and balance’ mean.  hey, i have a vintage pentax 35 mm camera…gosh, would i love to meet a few of them and swap stories.

see where this is going?

now, historically, i’ve eschewed ‘how to’ manuals of any kind.  my kids, just like me, don’t even know why manufacturers even bother including them with a shiny new product: we’ll just push a bunch of buttons until we’ve figured out how to work the thing.

in my world of writing, drawing, reading, photographing and socializing, i’ve never sought real guidance.  i’ve made my way, like poor audrey hepburn in the movie where she’s blind, hobbling along, feeling the walls around me, finding my way, getting where i need to be, for me.  comfortable, capable and content.

maybe it’s me: and i’m reminded of an exotic teacher who expounded to her design students, “there’s more than one way to get to marshal fields” (as, indeed, sadly, macy’s and history has left us with absolutely NO way to get to marshal fields!).  yes, there are countless methods, strategies, routes, transit lines to wind our way from here to there…to being a solo computer in a little room and somehow, floating easily and breezily on the internet highway.

call me stubborn, call me silly: but i’d just rather follow my gut and figure it all out by myself.

so, the trick is simply this: when you go to a cocktail party, put on a cute outfit, of course, then scour the room.  don’t be shy.  open up.  tell a story.  remember your manners.  say please and thank you.  pass the plate.  show interest in the people gathered and clustered and wandering about.  get to know them, listen and acknowledge.  encourage, laugh, enjoy, reach, share.

people, right?  people who need people…

now, refresh your drink and let’s hang out for a bit: this icp shows no sign of wearing down.

cliffhangers

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m wood grand central station

i say: hooray for the arts, all arts, any arts!

last night found us watching the wrap up of the ‘glee’ season and it’s senior class at mckinley high in lima, ohio.  it also pushed my cute daughter to the edge, crying out in plaintive exasperation:”these rollercoasters that our shows are putting us on!”

as a side note, we’ve suffered and wrangled our hands through the end of wisteria lane, the brutal murder of nice mike, the ghosts of all desperate housewives dead: what a zany trip down memory lane as we spied martha hoover, the evil pharmacist, rex and the whole gang of early demised fairview residents  somberly watching susan delfino drive off in her big jazzy car.

gossip girl sticks forlorn, aimless yet really beautiful serena on a train snorting cocaine next to some creepy dude, harkening back to jacqueline susann’s ‘valley of the dolls’ iconic opening and closing scenes aboard a new york metra train; blair and chuck gambling for love and money in monte carlo; dan and georgina off to rome to plot the ruin of the upper east side (working in tandem with nosy parker lola and her doppelganger, ivy)!

hart of dixie leaves ‘dr.’ rachel bilson ‘torn between two lovers’: nice bartender-country boy wade and stiff ‘he was a better actor in friday night lights’ lawyer george while poor lemon howls alone in the swamps.

parks and rec spelled victory for leslie as the new city councilwoman, though i’m really going to miss bobby rutherford…and tell me, is quincy jones’ daughter really going to move in with tom haverford?

revenge? say it ain’t so: did the white haired man really kill nolan? and since when are we feeling empathy for victoria? nice work of the writers, i’d say, to push us solidly on her slinky morticia-like side.

shonda rhimes killing off sweet little grey?  how on earth is that even fair? we still can’t talk about that at home.

it’s a lot to take, almost too much: stop the ride we have to get off!!!!  thank goodness summer is on schedule and books can calm us down with their sensible

…but back to glee.

yes, rachel weeping, shocked along with all of us, as finn sets her free to follow her dreams to new york and the bright lights of broadway.  we did not see that coming! a totally unpredictable turn of events, it alighted me on a floating raft of high emotion: sorrow and confusion, poor rachel! sweet gentle love, the entire gang gathered at the train platform to send her off!  heart pangs of love love love as finn runs alongside the train window to wave goodbye!  nail-biting worry, yet a growing sense of control and that it’s going to be okay, rachel singing on the train! poor simpering lass, it’s all happened so fast!

could there be, will there be, a turn, a lighter than air step towards that holy grail of happy endings, a feeling of optimism and euphoria?

in pure shiny hollywood this is why i love the arts, hats off to the creative genies who pull our heart strings, twist and turn them, amputate and resuscitate them all in one fell swoop: here comes that universally wonderous moment, a nod to funny girl, and her 70s contemporary clone, mtm, and all gals climbing those mountains: as rachel bounds out of the doors of grand central station in glamorous new york city, brilliantly clad in red pillbox cap and matching coat, her requisite white knee socks and some jaunty black strap dance shoes:

“I’m gonna live and live NOW!
Get what I want, I know how!
One roll for the whole shebang!
One throw that bell will go clang,
Eye on the target and wham,
One shot, one gun shot and bam!”
Hey, Rachel, here you are!

disco

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m wood sound phones

i’m readily, earnestly ready to admit that i’m the farthest thing from cool.

there’s this wave in culture and society, in the history of mankind, where a swoop of somethin’ happening gathers all of the ripe wannabes into a heroic crest of cool-est of all.  these winners of best of each categorical moment seemingly shine with little or no effort, and certainly no inner angst or insecurities: it’s a seemingly glorious floating above the rest of us minions who supply the avid audience.

so with disco, and that era losing it’s bonafide queen yesterday, i fall back instaneously to the throng of shaking, nervous watcher.  envying of course the ‘with it’ kids in high school and college who really knew those smooooooth moves and synchronized bump and wiggle maneuvers encouraged by earth, wind & fire, kc and his sunshine band and my personal favorites, those hairy brothers known as the bee gees.

in the little whitebread town where i grew up, formerly a farming land nestled along the train line leading to the big metropolis of chicago, there was only one hip place, one blotch in the seemingly utopian americana mom and pop shop established village.

each and every store, ‘tommy & terri’ with attire for tots, ‘bob & betty’, a must-go for underthings, first communion dresses and panty hose, ‘lipofskys’ for brownie uniforms and levi’s jeans, ‘the townshop’ for your morning paper and a milkshake at the counter…the list goes on, stamping each store front with it’s family-friendly placard, a 20th century version of every store to come before once the founders had “wrastled” the land away from the native american indians who used to roam here.

this otherworldly post, however, shook my senses into seeing that something was going on…the sign hanging above the door of that corner clothes shop, named simply, “the pants store”, showed an illustration of the back side of a hippy girl, and shocking my catholic school girl sensibilities, hip huggers were way low, showing just the topmost bit of her ass.

omg!!!

groomed and educated at the catholic grade school, i spent countless hours counting the buttons on the long black cloak-dress thingy that the old priest wore as he hobbled into our classroom to warn us of the dangers of sin.  my only naughty failing, in second grade, found two packs of ‘smarties’ in my pocket, lifted from the bins in ben franklin’s….and when i showed them victoriously to my friend, her eyes burst out and told me that stealing was a sin.

i threw the smarties away.  hell and eternal flames hardly seemed worth it.

my soundtrack in those dreamy days was a combination of the carpenters, barbra streisand, donny & marie, and that brandy, you’re a fine girl song.  my house in the country kept us sort of hidden from the bigger world out there, and i wrapped up my grade school years seemingly in a fog of being very much out of the cool crowd.  granted, i was happy to watch, offering a ready joke and a glad smile, but in no way was i ‘in’ with the groove of setting trends, much less feeling comfortable around those who did.  my records spinning, i daydreamed about silly, simple, straightforward things.

so with the seventies came high school and disco.  something wicked this way comes!

away with anything cotton (except for the requisite friday where we all wore jeans to school), and enter quiana and shiny clothes.  clinging slacks on boys, shirts unbuttoned to show what was going on underneath, chunky shoes on boys!  hair getting longer and puffier, facial hair, jewelry (again; on boys!): it was a funky kaleidoscope of happenin’ stuff that literally had my head swimming to keep up.

what a joke. i never did ‘keep up’, it was tooooo smooth for me.  but, as an anthropologist plunked down in the middle of a isolated civilization, i was happy to observe.

a phenomenon came to town.

word on the street one friday at school informed us that there was a….disco.

what?

sure enough, our fourteen closest friends set up the plan (involving 37 individual phone calls, carpools and outfit decisions) and all headed to the requisite first friday night stop: mcdonalds.  a shared bag of french fries and quick mirror check in the ladies room found us climbing back into our huge big cars to drive to the center of town, our own little ridiculous ‘studio 54′ had hit the scene and we were clamboring to be a part of it.

now, i did like disco music, i still do, in fact.  it’s on one of my pandora music mixes and when i’m in a mood to stay revved up and work really fast, i click ‘play’ and am transported to this very night each and every time.

what we discovered, in my fuzzy memory i’ll do the best that i can, is a side door to the ‘country cupboard’ cafe.  who even knew?  feeling like something sketchy had swarmed into the town while we innocents lay in our beds dreaming of the carpenters and ice cream cones, i followed my friends down the darkened steps.  with each close lower, i felt more and more out of my safe element and deeper into those flames of satan’s much-hyped world of boogie wonderland and it’s temptations.

it’s not easy to shake the parochial stuff so soon after leaving it’s chastity-belted doors, and i prided myself with enough of an adventurers spirit to keep moving along with the crowd into this pit swimming with teens, wild synchronized lights (i would later learn that this was a result of that iconic symbol, the disco ball), and a pulsing, rhythmic very very loud wall of music.

what a dork i was!

so, cramped into this firetrap with hundreds of quiana-clinging school mates, i watched a wave of those ‘in the know’ take to the floor (though i don’t remember it being delineated at all from the rest of the room) and begin to do these mysterious partner-dancing moves.  i was mesmerized, and also totally out of my element.

where did these people learn to do this?

as dork me stood back sipping on a tab (where were the profits for the proprietors, i thought), i watched this hip, cool, shiny, glossy crowd groove and dip and shake and twirl and spin and whatever else they were doing, in total sync with one another, and crowned myself, once more, as an observer to the throngs of everyone else who were in the know.

the good news is that it was a brilliant show.  i loved the music, the dancers all intriguing performers giving me a show of this new leap towards adulthood.  it was scary and alluring and intoxicating and sexy.  how far from that priest and his talks of damnation i was heading!  and right along with the best love stories of my existence as a professional in the world of unrequited love, i got a little weepy as i watched the cool ones end the evening wrapped around each other to the soulful cry of the soon-to-be crowned-queen’s anthem, ‘last dance’.

so after the cramped, loud, other-worldly night spent in the basement of the sleepy sunday-brunch corner cupboard cafe, i drove my allotted passengers off at their houses and aimed home in the saab.  i knew that something was changing, and i knew i was way way way behind the crowd.

what to do?

tuck karen, richard, barry and barbra away for a bit, and start spinning donna summer on my record player.

easy. 1, 2, 3….dip, turn…shake your booty.

bagpipes

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engineering + math + science = heartsongs

studying structure, design, architecture and all of that jazz comes in handy when i have to draw a bagpipe.  actually, for that matter, when i have to draw anything.

my scottish friend is celebrating a birthday today.  i love being able to say that, “scottish friend”…as in, a scottish fellow who lives in scotland.

so for today’s facebook special birthday m. wood doodle, it was a compelling task…either that or the loch ness monster.

now the fact that i even know this scottish fellow is because of a pair of john’s: hughes and belushi.  a forever fan of both “ferris bueller” and “the blues brothers”, somehow the windy, gritty city of my backyard compelled this guy to impetuously travel from the glorious green highlands to a grey november weekend in chicago.  fast forward to my being in town to, of all zany things, stand in line for the casting call to my matt damon movie. (notice it’s “my” matt damon movie…).

late that night, after a giddy evening of food and spirits, i wound up, on a dare from my pal, striking up a chat with the tall, dark stranger, smack dab in the middle of the packed crowd of the zebra lounge.  stranger things have happened, and they just keep on happening, in my life, anyway.  but the moment that the rolling vowels and consonants came rolling out of his smiling mug, i was hooked.  ”you have an accent!” was my immediate reply and the start of a great conversation and even greater friendship with this doppelganger-sean connery-sort of a bloke

since he’s a “stewart”, i did a bit of research, meaning, walked over to my mudroom to find my scottish wool scarf, featuring the scottish tartan, a deeply appreciated gift, used daily this past winter to keep me warm and cozy.

my cat watched me stroll past her food dish (set near the lovely display of wine, always at the ready for unexpected guests), and noticed, with a frown, that i didn’t stop to “top off” her kibble.

back at my desk, i took a look at a few photos of bagpipes in my “eyewitness” scotland book…then settled with a pen and paper to do the odd looking thing justice: transforming a blank piece of paper into a black line, color rendered birthday bagpipe sketch.

i had no idea that there were three alternating length wooden sort of handles, each stretch of wood clustered together by a toggle…that all of these moveable arms were tied together with a braided rope, gaily tasseled at the end.  how clever is that???

the fittings remind me of detailed working drawings when, back in the day, i was drafting elevations and sections of custom designed millwork for architectural projects: everything that is built by hand has to be fitted together somehow, and i love learning the ‘how’ of it all.

so, the cutest part of this bagpipe, which just suddenly occurred to be named aptly, as it is a bag with a bunch of pipes, is the little mouthpiece.  in a reverse trumpet sort of shape, the rounded end is fitted into the wool bag with, of course, a nice round fitting, and the tapered end is the little bit that the musician blows into.

in a reverse shape appears to be the actual horn.  i could be making this up, but i just drew the identical shape, only the tapered end is fitted to the bag (beneath a lovely fringe of wool), leaving the horn-like end unencumbered.  yes, i think that is where the shrill, ages-old, unworldly bagpipe cry escapes from.

that old argument, nature or nurture, comes to mind.  but i think the wordsmiths who came up with these catchy sayings left out one important factor: add in spirit, or ancestral genes to that and i will, one hundred percent of the time, vote on the side of the ethereal inheritence that, by nature of our stone soup dna, as having the strongest vote in how our heart sings.

i’ve spent my life loving the hypnotic strains and sounds, notes and chants, tunes and ballads from the portion of my ancestry that hotbed of history in the united kingdom.  great britain, for my history has taught me that, and ireland. yes, the french part of me swoons along to edith piaf and the accordian sounds of a parisian street cafe, but deep in my lungs, blood and soul, i’ve felt a yearning connection to the other side of the channel.

the little flute thingy, is that a flute or tin whistle?  a fiddle, stomping feet, angelic sweet voiced enya, clannad, the march of the constant single drum to carry the melodic scream of a lone bagpipe, the floaty waves of voices that conjure ghosts and centuries of life, stacked up one by one, layers of tradition, jigs, tartan, green, sheep, twinkles in the eye and a solid, sleepy march from one tried and true century to the next.  simple, unfussy, digging in the soil, loving in the technicolor green grass, fable upon fable, wink with a side of smile.

years ago, i was set to meet my waiter boyfriend in london and then discover all of england, scotland and ireland on a backpacking adventure.  the maps and plans were set, the british air tickets tucked safely beside my very first passport.  before our initial parting, whereby later i’d meet him for the start of our monthlong trip, we made the fatal decision to see “room with a view”….

strike the uk, give me italy!  helena bonham carter, dame judi dench, firenze, italy, italy, italy!

yes, my life has indeed had it’s share of distractions, and i’m a bonafide impetuous elf, time and time again.

after meeting in rainy, cold london (it was january….), we set off for the south, following the sun as it showered us with a roman holiday of our own, and a lifelong love of all things italian…saving england and it’s sisters for another day.

that day has taken twenty five years to come.

so the best of all, in this morning bit of side-tracked research, is that not only is my friend having a birthday today, but that, in a matter of a couple of short, busy, summer months, my children and i will be trekking to the mysteriously beautiful land of scotland itself to buy our pal a belated stout ale, wax and visit at the pub, and enjoy a personally guided tour of his beloved country, castles and all.

and on our list?  check out a highland game with the haunting soundtrack of a gathering of bagpipes, of course!  with a side of soul-nourishing everything else.

the garden plot

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m wood garden tools

by luck of a trade of talents, a crew of vigorous fellows spent a long day here murdering, exhuming, and eradicating the sea of nasty, menacing weeds that took over what once was a casually woodsy and wild flower garden bordering my country house.

to reward their hard work, i of course served them a tray brimming with sandwiches, cold drinks, spicy bbq chips and a trio of hershey bars.

to me, these fellows are heaven-sent!

the palette cleared of the obstruction of too many hours of dismal toil that i clearly am too old to do, i ran off to the nursery bright and early to fill the volvo with a first batch of perennials in yet another attempt to tame the wild earth. this is the view that sits just outside of my french doors, as in a daily view, as in a view that should inspire rather than reduce me to tears.

the day to plant was sunny and cool, and boy, was i inspired. i had chosen my tools with care…walking over to the red barn to fetch a long handled spade, a strong-tined rake, and my pretty bright orange edger.  i gave a little wave to my huge vegetable garden, letting it know that i’d be there soon enough…but first, i really needed to kick in some fragrant floral fun first.

the fun of a family compound is that there is always an avid audience.

my first visitors were a pair of white with black spotted pets: chin chin the cat perched on a few tumbled tree stumps (our idea of stepping stones, eschewing the too-tidy geometric ready to buy ‘stones’ that are frankly over my budget).  she seemed peeved and not too mildly bored.  astro, the really fat dog, dubiously guarded a spot of fresh soil where he had, the previous day, buried a perfectly good soup bone.  no worries, pal: it’s all yours.

so, my solo system of planting and garden design is simple: carry the goodies, one by one, from the back of the car, and plop them down in various positions on the beautifully fresh black soil of flower garden canvas.  standing back, i’d eye the groupings, rearranging pots as i saw fit, until i was satisfied with the families of color, texture and fragrance that were sure to burst forth in a few weeks of watering and sunny shiny days.

i’m sure my inspiration came from the saturdays of my childhood.  after spending seeming entire weekends at d. hill nursery, my parents would arrange to have a barn-load of trees and shrubs delivered.  building a house on a former indian river bed-cornfield-early settler farm, our property was ringed with old oak trees and ancient elms, and nothing in-between.

so, the fun part came when my parents would stride out to the huge yard and start ordering their five kids around.  as in, “lizzie, be the birch tree, go stand over by the pool…john, you’re the blue spruce, go over there by the kitchen door…matt and mary, stretch out your arms and go behind johnny, you’re the white pines…” and on and on we’d go, statue like, the wood children appropriately playing the parts of young trees that would soon enough be rooted and thrive on the five acres where we’d all grow up, my parents settle for their entire lives, and my children and i eventually build our own house to add to the family compound fun of generations on the same soil.

back to the task at hand, as so many of the moves i make here where i live mimic and conjure up incredibly vivid memories, i look over my tools and choose the pretty edger for both it’s lovely color, and also it’s handy handle…just the thing to help me get this job done.

digging away, i’d managed to plant half a dozen perennials before another visitor happened by.  settling cozily on my wide deck in an adirondack chair, a steaming cup of coffee at her side, my cute mom waxed on the loveliness of the scene.  quoting several poems memorized as a youth, she took a break to ask me, “wouldn’t you rather use a spade with a point?”.

i looked up and smiled, at this point, a bit winded from crouching amidst a pile of dirt, crumbling bits of it in my gloved hands, patting down the soil and tucking in my azalea plant.

“i’m good, but thanks”, came my speedy reply.

a few more poems recited aloud as i moved on to the “deer resistant” little low-spreading evergreens, squinting my eyes to envision their color and texture against a few of the round wooden tree trunk disks that formed a path through what would eventually be a lush gorgeous field of flowers and fauna.

out of the garage stepped my cute dad.  he had some chore of his own on his mind as he approached his car, but first stopped when he noticed his wife, my cat, my dog, and his daughter.  the latter: covered in mud.

“wouldn’t you rather use a spade with a point?”

i took a deep breath, chuckled to myself, looked up first at my mom who let out a great big laugh, smiled at my dad and answered, “i’m good, but thanks.”

it does take a village.  it really does.  one big happy village.