"Give me the music and food olive, oil else!"

Many, many times I do things for many, many reasons that confound me.  I then spend many, many minutes circling the space in my head trying to understand myself.  Many, many mysteries; many, many clues… not so many answers.

I have stayed away from In My Monet.  Sort-of on purpose.

I am an odd little creature; I accept this, but sometimes I defy so many concepts for the sake of scouring the territory of the topic myself, concluding my own opinion… that I often defy myself as well.  It’s as if I’m determined to not conform to anything- including my own desires or inclinations.  This, I used to call self-sabotage.  I claimed to be a self-sabotage artist- a good one, in fact.  But, I don’t want to be that anymore (if I ever truly was one).  Is it because I’m defying my own assertion?  Am I now refusing the label I gave myself because I am defiant and hate labels, or is it because I want what I want and don’t want to prevent anymore.

Circling.  Circling.

One other reason I may have stayed away from In My Monet is that I have been mad at January.  January is not to blame, of course.  I have been the reason my energy is ‘off’.  I couldn’t figure it out… it took all month.  What a waste of time, huh?  To figure out what is wrong constantly as opposed to trying a new approach.  What an idiot.  I kept thinking, “Why aren’t you itching to write?  Is it because of this organizational mode that's taken over my life?  Is it because I think I have to and that makes me not want to?”  Then, I realize that I am organizing my whole life because it is January and I want the year to be grande.  I’m getting things in order for enjoyment, that’s all.  And then, and this is basic… embarrassingly basic, I turned the music on. 

I have this environment that I’ve set up that I think reflects Nick and me.  It’s cozy for me, creatively inspiring and the energy is positive and loving.  Music is a huge part of that.  The music is often sad and tragic, but that makes me happy inside somehow and triggers a lot of what I write about.  Sometimes these sad songs show what can come out of hardship.  They were created from an experience of something sad and now exist as a piece of poetry that shows brilliant aspects of humanity.  Turning the music on and lighting my candles, staying in my home, those are the things I was missing.  It is so obvious I can’t understand why it took me so long to realize my setting was lost.

And, being fair and not so dramatic, it wasn't a huge thing.  It was the difference between things being great and things being spectacular.  That's fair.

But, I’m here now, having felt this itch in a major way.  February is winking at me.  Tomorrow the month of love begins.  It’s always been my favorite.  My mom always treated our birthdays as big deals and I love that she did because it feels so good.  Celebrating YOU.  “Yay, me!” you say inside.  People give you sweet wishes and sing songs on your voice mail.  I think birthdays are a big, big event and will continue that tradition.  I follow only the traditions I like.  That‘s one of them.

My mom used to tell me every year that she and dad brought me home from the hospital, after I was born on the 11th, on Valentine’s Day and that it was the sweetest gift they could imagine.  I thought that was so cool.  I was their box of chocolates.  I was their “dozen roses”.  No, not a dozen, I was their 11 roses.  I used to almost hold my breath through the story I was so thrilled about being the treasure.  I got balloons in elementary school with stuffed teddy bears serving as weights below them.  In kindergarten I got a birthstone ring of amethyst.  I still have that in my jewelry box.  I don’t understand it when people say they don’t want to celebrate their birthday.  It sounds like such a knock to the self.  I always think, “That’s too bad.  You deserve it.  What does “old” have to do with it?  Life is about so much more than young or old.”  I mean, really.  So, you turned 30… big woop… don’t be such a wimp.  Give yourself credit where credit is due.  30 is a fabulous accomplishment.  31 is a year better.  I’ll be 31 soon and I’m gonna tear it up!  Life just keeps getting better and better.

Nick called a bit ago, before I sat down to my lunch of a big scrumptious salad, and asked me what I was up to.  I said, “I’m petting my grapes.”  I wash, dry, and cut in half red grapes to put in my salad.  It is true that I pet them as I dry them.  I appreciate my food.  They are such a beautiful color, more purple than red, and are like the gems of Earth.  I have Amethysts scattered in my salad.  All fruit is that to me.  I feel like candy sucks in comparison. How can you improve on fruit?  The only reason people want candy and candy bars is because they are addicted to them.  Otherwise, they would realize that they taste like poop compared to a strawberry or a big naval orange.  What can top a raspberry?  Nothing.  No thing man makes can compete with the raspberry.  Oh, and the fact that they are good for the body, and don’t cause obesity and disease is the bonus feature.

As I was petting the grapes I wondered, “Do Americans realize they are killing themselves with what they eat?  Do they read the literature that is printed?  Do they feel the difference in signals from their bodies?  Do they even care?”  I found it ironic that so many parents take such care with their children, trying to prevent any harm from coming their way.  Yet, they hand them a Sprite or Coca-Cola with a hamburger & French fries.  It befuddles me.  I think, “It can’t be that they don’t care that the food they just gave their child is actually dangerous for their bodies.  It can’t be that they are too lazy to prepare nutritious food for their offspring.  What is it, then?”  To risk offense, my answer is Ignorance. 

Food is the most powerful drug you can put into your body.  It either creates or destroys once digested.  Look around if proof is needed.  The human race is starting to look weird.  In Wal-Mart societies, where Burger King and Taco Bell are the food source, people look strange.  And that’s not meant to be judgmental.  It’s meant to be purely observational.  The junk food is causing things like diabetes and cancer… and also morphing facial features, causing raspy breathing, and causing immobility.  Should so many have to rely on a zooming wheel chair with a basket attached?  No.  Those should be reserved for the unfortunate case of a disability like an amputee or something like that.  And it is not mean to say so.  This country is way, way too P.C.  It’s common sense and it’s disgraceful.  It’s no different than sucking on a cigarette, except it’s worse to me.  Eating junk constantly and slurping on a Big Gulp is more disgusting than smoking.  That’s a personal opinion.  Those addicted to Diet Coke, who just have to have one, make me cringe and I think “weak.”  Knowledge about food is what a person owes their body and their children’s bodies.  Prepping kids to expect a French fry and not a green bean… sinful.  The kids don’t know any better yet.  They are learning from their parents and watching their parents and expecting that their parents would only give them the best.  And, unfortunately, that’s not what is happening because the parent finds it more convenient to rely on fast food and is okay with being seduced by a commercial featuring a Whopper instead of learning about real food.  It’s The Ugly Truth.  And, one day the kid grows up and will either have to combat the damage done and start at ground zero with Food 101 or they start pill popping because the commercial right after the Whopper commercial featured some prescription drug made from some giant pharmaceutical company that instructs the viewer to ask their doctor for their brand pill.  “Do you have indigestion?  Is burping causing you to be embarrassed in a crowd?  Ask your doctor for Drug X!!”  Cue the small itty-bitty voice in the background as the newly burp-free lad skips through a field of grass, sunshine beaming: “ May cause depression, suicidal thoughts, hair loss, stroke and heart failure.”  It’s genius, really.  The junk food makes you feel awful, the Drug Company promises a solution.  Both kill you.  And they make big bucks from it in the process.  Works for them!      

Recently, I have noticed that some are expecting this epidemic to be cleared up by the government.  They are saying it should be illegal to advertise McDonald's to kids or to serve these foods.  I say, “Get real.”  WE should be smart enough to know better.  WE should want better for ourselves and eat better food on our own, not because it is forbidden.  It’s a cop out. 

I think, “You are entitled to everything you want in this life.  But YOU are responsible for making it happen for YOU.”  This is a liberating perspective.  At once, blame and guilt take a hike.  “It’s all up to me?  I’m the only one who is going to make me happy and healthy?  Oh.”

We are pathetic now.  We depend on others to tell us everything, not read and research for ourselves.  We are afraid to be offended.  We have contests and sports now that only have winners… as if children will crumble if they lose.  As much or more is gained from losing as it is winning.  We are facilitating all these things.  Kids kill themselves now if they are bullied at school.  They have no coping mechanisms.  They haven’t been taught how to be OK when things aren’t perfect for them.  Schools have shoot-outs now when some kids are treated as outsiders.  This is not normal and not invented.  This is because we baby each other to death in this country.  We are obsessed with pampering each other’s feelings.  No confidence can be gained when the world bends to every whim.  And we also teach that it is always another’s fault… “another’s responsibility to make YOU a happy, functional person.”  Excuse my language but that’s such a crock of shit.  We are letting down our kids and our society in general.  Personal responsibility went out the window and accusation & litigation came flying in.                     

I grew up in South Georgia so I know what it’s like to have the fast food alley and that’s about it.  I learned about food from Nick, who grew up eating in Tuscany, where even the idea of eating a cheeseburger will find you alone, pelted with tomatoes.  He exposed me to a world of natural and organic foods.  Thinking about the food, loving the food, and appreciating it like it’s personal art- this is what he gave me.  I picked it up from there and read a ton of material about food combining and basic nutrition and balancing a meal properly.  It has a huge impact on insulin levels and moods and well, everything!  Digestion, skin, mental clarity… it is all food related… rarely is it simply genetic. 

In Germany, I noticed the women.  I would jog from the hotel down the dirt roads cutting through fields and over wooden bridges crossing creeks.  I passed these older women on their bikes going to the market and then peddling back with their produce stemming from the baskets on their handle bars.  It was a beautiful thing to watch.  They really cared about fresh, wholesome food and put energy into making a wonderful meal for their family.  I passed them so often that week they started acknowledging me with a hello and a smile.  It was one of many things that changed my attitude toward food and its connection with my body and also my lifestyle. 

Fine food is a luxury in life.  And, fine food is sometimes remarkably basic.  Tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, basil… a noodle or two!  Not so many, many ingredients.

   

 

 

 

     

   

from sour to sweet in a one word beat

Font: American Typewriter Light. I like this one best and choose it every time I write; whether the blog post displays it or not, this is the one I like to see on the page. Size: 14. I punch it up a bit from 12 so that I don’t squint and exaggerate my already furrowed brow. Yes, it is still there. Won’t go away no matter what I do. I can massage them, I can meditate and yoga breathe into my facial muscles to reduce the tension… but the brow remains furrowed.

I have just stopped halfway through my ornament wrapping ritual to unload ramblings in my head. I realize I have been in a funk. “Why?” I ask. I can’t even bring myself to write. “Well, you are acting withdrawn and are maintaining a somewhat bad mood. You are trying to find thoughts in your head to write about that are sweet and upbeat and quite frankly- your mood doesn’t match.” I answer myself. “And this is leaving you blank. This is leaving you sour.”

Sour. A term I seldom use to describe people, but when I do, it seems the most appropriate term in my head. It is almost like comparing a person’s attitude to a big carton of milk that has remained in the fridge too long. It just happens, sometimes without realizing it. No matter how much you want it to be fresh, it just isn’t. And, as a result of a long period of neglect, it makes you shrivel your nose, pierce your lips and want to discard it immediately. You shove it away… but the odor lingers. I came up with this term in England.

There was a European Tour event held at The Belfry outside of Birmingham, England; Nick played in the tournament. I walked along to watch him play golf in the miserable weather amidst a miserable gallery of people. (Some say to avoid ‘amidst’ and use ‘amid’… but I’m not going to because I think it’s prettier and I don’t like when people tell other people how to write and express themselves if it is not technically horrible and communicates effectively. So, I know it is older and a bit more formal, but it works and no one is grading me with a snobby red pen.) I wish I had a more pleasant way to describe my experience. And it was just an experience. I don’t have a solid opinion formed of the English people, as they are all different, just like everyone everywhere. (I also recognize stereotypes rarely come from nowhere… there is often truth in them when summing up a majority… but blanket statements aren’t fair either, when looking at individuals… complicated…) I do not want to be offensive with my description, but to be honest; they were absurdly offensive in general. I walked along with the gallery of spectators, mostly English men, outside of the ropes, with a perspective a bit different than the chumps beside me. Their behavior, language, attitudes in general were so extremely bitter that I used all of my energy to try and block them out and still enjoy my day.

The weather conditions were yucky. This I have considered the main attribution to the English disposition. It would be hard to remain cheery in weather that damp and drizzly and haggard. As a result, mold has formed. That is how I looked at the gentlemen I observed. Moldy, nasty, toxic.

The players were fighting the course and it was interesting to watch because it looked like pure hell. It looked like self-induced torture. Psychological warfare, mental turmoil, physical wrenching… this is what they choose for themselves when playing these courses in these conditions, and to add to all of that… there is the pressure of money. It is forcing one to be a gambling man, in a way. Your lively hood is hinged on the putt you stand over… better make it… but, no pressure. There is a lot of strategy and luck that make up the game of golf. As a person who was involved in athletics heavily for a large portion of my life, I can say with certainty that this particular sport of golf is different than most. For instance: A golfer may not be scared of physical harm as they stand over the golf ball, as a gymnast might be as they stand on a four inch beam of wood raised from the ground and throw their head at it, hoping their feet rotate properly and catch them before they become subject to gravity and are focused on the mercy of the laws of nature instead of their form and toe point. But, let’s take a different approach. A gymnast has the advantage of ritual, of reflex. A gymnast practices over and over and learns how to catch her body and fall. A gymnast learns why she makes mistakes and the reasons remain the same and obvious. A gymnast feels the mistake. When the foot lands crooked on the beam from the first flip, the second flip must either compensate for the misdirection, or if not- the beam is missed slightly (ouch!) or completely (yikes!) A golfer does not have this luxury. There are elements involved that are not within the control of the golfer, let alone man in general. After those elements are considered in their strategy, they adjust to make different shots happen. When they do this and happen to be an itty bitty bit off, such a slight difference that one can not even feel the mistake, it is magnified by physics and the ball bounces into a hazard… then, it is time to do it again and now they are thinking “What the hell happened just then? Maybe it was this. Maybe it was that.” They don’t know. They manipulate their swing slightly, they brew over the logic, and they are in a labyrinth of where nature (human and environmental) meets physics in the pursuit of perfection, where improbability reigns high. “Get the little white ball into that little hole on the other side of those trees and that water and do it in three tries.” It is sort-of crazy. Adding a bit of amusement to the objective, there is always the genius “supporter” that suggests genuinely to the golfer “Hey, why don’t you just go win! Just do it. That would solve your problems.” They recommend this as if it were a newsflash, a breaking revelation to the golfer, who never considered trying to win. It is always funny to watch and hear those people. As if every single guy on the course isn’t trying to win. So silly, is that statement. I look at the golf swing and it looks so beautiful, but so awkward. It isn’t really a natural motion. Hence, why golfers' backs are way screwed-up. It is indisputably harder than it looks. Just because you are athletic or coordinated doesn’t matter in golf. NFL guys can’t swing a golf club worth a toot… certainly isn’t because they lack athleticism! It’s just a different world, that sport of golf

Comparing sports isn’t a good idea. They are often so different with physical demands and psychological demands that there isn’t much common ground. Gymnastics can break your neck. Golf can commit you to the nearest insane asylum.

I have seen my husband- in Germany, actually- become so frustrated that he took the club he was twiddling with in the parking lot (as we waited for transportation after his round) and with a hand on each end, snap it completely in half. It was like watching him transform momentarily into the Incredible Hulk. He didn’t use his knee; he didn’t use anything but two hands and a lot of focused energy. And, I knew what he was doing- he wasn’t being insane; he was being an athlete. He was being a competitor. So, knowing this, my reaction wasn’t dismay or to tell him to stop. It was rather impressive, and I thought, “Damn! That was sort-of sexy!” I can’t imagine it is easy to pop an iron like it’s a toothpick.

So, anyway- we are in England and I am watching this show called golf go to battle with these ambitious golfers and I find it interesting. They are creating unusual and extremely difficult shots to make, with much help from the wind and rain and cold temperatures. Sloshing and splattering, it is a messy day. I am respecting this attempt and display of what is The Game of Golf, and also a visual metaphor for Life. The jokers beside me are not. They are rosey-cheeked, soft gentlemen with umbrellas and overcoats and scarves. Their speech comes through the slobber I see stringing from their top row of crooked teeth to their bottom row of crooked teeth. They are snarley and just, well, sour. That’s where I came up with the term sour people. They were negative, snarky, and rude. I found them unpleasant and miserable and wanted them to disappear so badly. I contemplated tripping them to watch their grimaces disappear in the mud, no doubt they would land face first as their hands were tucked tightly in their cozy coats. They were critical of every golfer they watched. They were downright nasty about it. As they laughed and used their established vocabulary to insult the golfers and their abilities (abilities which are spectacular, in fact)… I, and probably every other woman around, looked at them with pity and disgust. Here are men, standing outside of the ropes, cuddled into themselves so tightly as to avoid the weather they have put themselves in, to watch and berate other men- the men that are actually attempting something incredibly hard and doing so in front of others, exposing their mistakes and short comings. There is a huge difference between the man on the field battling out whatever obstacle he has chosen, getting dirty and possibly injured, to prove something to himself and the man who is only displaying his ability to ridicule.

Sour.

I use this outlet of writing to half express myself and to half discover myself. The ways I am feeling come out naturally and more accurately here than when I accomplish some mindless task that allows me to drift with thoughts. While I was wrapping ornaments I was thinking that I was hardly bearable for myself. I was thinking, “You aren’t quite so bad as the sour English spectators, but the memory is coming back for a reason! The word sour is cropping up, and it is for a reason, Beth. Figure it out.”

The only thing I figured then was that I haven’t been writing, which makes me grumpy, and I haven’t been writing because I haven’t been feeling true to myself, therefore, can’t write because it is an expression of individual truth. I want to be perky and positive and that isn’t all of what I’m feeling. The forcing of the perkiness is thrusting me farther into the back of the fridge, to sit and turn sour. I figure I am no good example, nor a productive use of time to read, for anyone if my words aren’t hopeful. But, in truth, there are plenty of things hovering over the world lately that aren’t a ray of light at all.

I think, “Who even wants to read anything you write? Why would anyone care?” And that is part of the problem. I don’t know that anyone would, much less should, but knowing that they could may affect my outlook, and then writing would be skewed toward what I would say to someone not simply about my world as seen through these eyes, writing as if no one is reading, which lends itself to honesty and the most frightening of all, raw exposure of self. That is the attempt here, to just write for the sake of writing and not be impressive or communicate anything but what lies in my spirit after interpreting my life.

I am trying to choose what I see and choose what I believe and focus on, but I am now realizing that one good expression of doubt isn’t as much harmful to my reality as it is- realistic. If I can release it and be done with it, then all is better. I can move on. I can do it privately, not involving another to transfer the moodiness, but I can release it and feel the difference and turn the emotion to a better one by letting it go- to no one and no where- just letting it go.

Now, is it tricky that I write about it? Yes. Because, this is how I let it go, but now, you are reading it… maybe (maybe not). So, don’t absorb my sour mood, absorb my newly rejuvenated outlook, okay? If you are there, let a smile come through the words, not a frown. Because my world is drastically different already just from changing my point of view, which is what I just did here in front of you. I, like in England, put myself in a spot of pleasure. I have, through these words, just walked inside The Belfry and found the sweet maids that smile and don’t scowl and they have just given me the most wonderful shortbread cookies I’ve ever tasted. I have entered my room that is purely English in décor and have changed into dry clothes and sip tea and enjoy these cookies that taste so remarkably delicious. I am now puzzled by this sweetness instead of that sourness I left. Looking at me and recognizing my surprise that the bland-looking cookie tastes so scrumptious, Nick gives me the answer to the question in my head.

“Butter.” he says.

Oh, yes, butter. I had nearly forgotten about it, since my infatuation with olive oil took hold. Although I do not believe it at all, I will use this gosh awful line to end this paragraph because it is too fitting and I am imagining my niece Katherine’s hilarious imitation of Paula Dean. “Everythang’s Better with Butter!” she would announce in the loudest, most forced southern accent her small body is capable of producing. Of course, that sentence is including diphthongs where one could never imagine a diphthong and no R is ever pronounced. It comes out as “uh” instead. We laugh at her every time she does it. And then, my laughter is quickly followed by ‘the creepy shivers’ as I visualize hunks of butter. (Barf.)

I really had no idea how I was going to get out of my funk and this has been not only revealing, but also humorous to me. I have just used a memory of a trip, that involved the sweet and the sour, to mentally walk my way out of one emotional place into another. Thank God, profusely, for this thing called the written word. It is an all encompassing, useful gift. It is sometimes my guidance and gently directs me where I wish to be. I feel I can go back downstairs now and finish my brainless task of wrapping ornaments without fear of meeting myself in that drifting thought process and not liking what I come upon.

A picture speaks a thousand words. A memory speaks a million.

This blog I've kept strictly for writing, but, have decided to, if appropriate, post pictures along with the words. I thought it might be a nice change. And so, the first photograph I have posted is one of Evans from "Evans Almighty". Maybe the words describe him as you will see him in the picture, maybe not. The truth is, I came across the photo months after I wrote that post. When I wrote that, I was at a make-shift desk that I had formed out of a hospital bedside tray at the foot of my mother's hospital bed. She was recovering from knee surgery and my dad and I took turns spending time in the room with her. I'm probably not the best nurse, but I did my best. And as she slept, I read Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte and wrote a bit too. I don't remember choosing the focus of the entry with effort. I think that when I drove to the hospital, thirty minutes from my childhood home, he and the day spent on Mead's Bay beach came to me naturally. It is a pleasant location for my thoughts to land. I love thinking back to that one day when so much happened on a beach in a remote portion of the world. I have photographs and memories of my mom and sister laughing and splashing the water, my lovely and very missed Shakti swimming in the ocean with me, China playing in the sand, and Nick standing proudly against an unbelievable horizon. As for which one serves me better, memory or film, is questionable.

But, I value the help and prompting that these remarkable memory catchers, these frozen moments in time provide me.

Check Evans out, the man I've made immortal in my mind, and I'll try and have more posted along with entries past and entries to come.

(2009- March- Evans Almighty)

http://bethcassini.blogspot.com/2009_03_01_archive.html

Rebirth

Rebirth

1. To get to the future I desire, to get to the truth I seek, do I reach out or do I reach within for that guiding hand to hold?

2. I could force this, I could manage, or I could let myself unfold.

3. I close my eyes and see the plunge through dark space, feel the weight of the speed, hear the distinct void of sound, and lunge through this place between my old self and the new me.

4. Every second of every day, this is so.

5. With each blink is an opportunity to do the same again; with each breath is permission.

6. I can change this easily.

7. Do I decide to?

8. Did I come through nothing to get here?

9. Was that emptiness I just leapt through or was it transformation?

10. I open my eyes and stand here now, in this new spot I’ve found, bathed in fresh wishes.

11. I am to be; imagination and hope has painted me new.