The house next door

The true spirit, soul and intentions of the banking system is best portrayed by the house next door.

 When we first moved in, the next-door neighbors diligently worked on the their house and their yard, every day showing pride of ownership, and, in turn, pride in the community and neighborhood.  Unfortunately, they were lured to a greener pasture by the housing boom and moved out a few years afterward, getting top dollar for their home, at a price we thought at the time was a bargain.

New neighbors quickly moved in and it became clear that they were struggling.  They gamely tried keeping up with the yard, but the bushes and lawn became more and more bedraggled, the deck cluttered and messy, and not long afterward, only one car would go in and out of the driveway.

We knew what was coming.

A family was breaking apart.

The house would also be a casualty.

The fate of the owners is tragic.  We figure they split up and headed for parts unknown.  We never had a chance to really get to know them.  The house's condition is undoubtedly a metaphor for their life.

The bank now owns the home.  The grass grows and grows, the deck is faded and cracked, mold grows on the siding, drain spouting is falling off in pieces.  It is a blight.  There are still belongings inside.

Banks are under no obligation to pay homeowners dues, to maintain the home in working condition, to repair anything.  They don't care if they sell the home or not.  They would just as soon wait "until the market gets better."  If someone shows interest in buying such a home, he must wait and wade through endless red tape and delays.

Banks don't care about neighbors, neighborhoods, communities, least of all homeowners.  They got all the money and they intend to keep it.  Showing a soul and displaying good citizenry is not part of their mission statement.

I wonder if the time will ever come again where banks and other financial institutions will stop getting rich off the misfortunes of others?

Word of the Day: Foo-foo

I came upon this in a dictionary and it tickled me.  The meaning is "soft rolls of dust that collect under beds or other furniture."  Or, dust bunnies.  I love my husband dearly, but occasionally I'm struck by my super love affair with words.  Words are the greatest gift to human kind.  If I were stranded on a desert island, and could only have 3 books, I would want the Roget's International Thesaurus, the Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, and, well, that would be it.  If I had to pick a third, I'd bring a rhyming dictionary or one of the Dictionaries of American Regional English, which only include a few letters in each very huge volume.  And it is Volume II (D-H) of said Dictionary where foo-foo made its illustrious appearance.

I don't suppose this has very much to do with the upcoming holiday.  Other than I feel at peace, my holiday chores are completed, I'm half-way pleased with the gifts I've chosen, so my mind is free to do what a mind does best.  Saunter along and cherish unique words that cross its path.

Exploring ideas, is also a good mental exercise, but too often that takes me into ranting mode.  Politics, religion, social mores, and the stupid left lane driver going 59.5 MPH can send me spiraling into a full-bore frenzy.  It's fun, and I'll never quit doing it, but for a pure sense of peace and tranquility, give me a word like "quiche."  Isn't it lovely?

But quiche left under the bed too long soon becomes foo-foo.

I've been such a bad Auntie, not posting anything for over a year.

I've found that nothing quite saps the energy and excitement of writing more than dealing with the publishing world.  When you're in the first throes of writing, you're encouraged by wonderful people, including authors, who say things like, "Write from the Heart," "Write your most inner longings, beliefs, and ideas," "Write from the deepest part of you, that reaches into the core of your soul."  That's all very schmoozy, but the hard, cold facts of the publishing world dictate that you must write exactly what they want, exactly the way they want it, and no one gives a crap about your soul.

I may not be completely fair, because I can't say I've run the gamut of submitting to all agents, editors, and publishing houses under the sun, but even the idea of sending off my material in an endless parade of e-mails to these people seems beneath me.  There, I've said it.

Now, there's no hope for me.  But somehow, I feel so much better.

There's also a wide, wonderful world of self-publishing out there.  I've heard many good things.  The old-timey publishers should be quaking, but I guess as long as they have their reliable novel-o'month authors, and the occasional celebrity expose, they feel pretty secure.

But frankly, I'm a bit of a scairdy cat to take the self-publishing plunge.  Maybe I'm just happier grousing and moaning.  Yay, me.

The courage of one's convictions

"...Last, but by no means least, courage—moral courage, the courage of one's convictions, the courage to see things through. The world is in a constant conspiracy against the brave. It's the age-old struggle--the roar of the crowd on one side and the voice of your conscience on the other."  (Douglas MacArthur)  [maybe not a good example as he was reportedly a weenie and a mama's boy]



"It is curious—curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare." (Mark Twain)



In Washington state, we have a case that will be argued by the U.S. Supreme Court regarding whether or not signers of petitions to put initiatives and referendums on the ballot can be released to the public.  It all started when a group of citizens collected signatures to put on the ballot a vote granting same-sex couples the rights and benefits of marriage.  The state legislature had previously passed such a law and the signature collectors hoped that putting the issue to a vote would undermine it and cause it to fail.  Another group of people claimed that they would seek out the signers and publish their names.  The signers were afraid and unhappy about this.  They don't want their neighbors and friends know about their prejudices.  Now the Supreme Court must intervene.


We've become a society of back-seat grumblers and rabble-rousers.  It's all good to hide in a  crowd of grousers--safety in numbers and all that; but to set yourself apart, as an individual, as the neighbor who walks his dog every day, as that guy who wears rabbit slippers to pick up his mail, as the lady who plants flowers at the roundabout, no, we don't want anything to disrupt that identity.  We want to hate with impunity. 


It seems to me that if you are afraid of letting your beliefs to be known, that if you don't have the courage of your convictions, that it's time to take a serious look at your beliefs.  It may be that your "convictions" are at odds with what you know deep down to be right and just and true.  If signing a petition makes you afraid to be identified, then perhaps that inner voice is telling you there's something wrong with your values.

More tenderness, please

"The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling--yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly."  Henry David Thoreau

There is such beauty in the statements of classical philosophers.  I find I need to re-read some of these occasionally to engage my mind and rid myself of the cranky busy-ness of life.  We're bombarded from every direction with noise, and "clanging gongs" that say nothing and inspire even less.  Rare is the TV show that invokes anything but anxiety--anything from endless news shows with their ever-present, scrolling Breaking News, to the eye-glazing boredom of the competition shows, to the frankly puzzling reality shows.  The movie channels, when they aren't showing cable movie dropouts, or straight-to-video dreck, are worthwhile, but even those can hypnotize one into a stupor that is hardly relaxing.

Driving to and from work is also often a miserable endeavor.  My commute isn't bad compared to some, but still I must dodge interstate tractor trailers, pokey drivers and speed demons who race up behind me and spatter rock chips against my windshield.  And then there's the inevitable unsecured load, flapping in the breeze.  The rickety trailer, piled high, Beverly Hillbilly style, with papers, soda cans, peculiar black things and various other flopsam flying off the back.  I usually accelerate to 80 to pass the jerk, hoping a police officer will understand my excuse if I happen to jet past a speed trap.

And in the news, everywhere, people are screaming at each other, stabbing the air, foaming in apoplectic fits.  It simply isn't necessary--it doesn't emphasize a point, it's tiresome pure and simple, and denotes nothing but ignorance and last gasp effort.  Uncouth.  I remember when that was a word.  But now, it's considered uncouth to point out uncouthness.  Grace and poise, while always effective, are rarely practiced and are considered quaint, like an antique flower vase.  Grace and poise don't get you a reality show.  Tenderness gets you even less.

But, oh, I think tenderness can give you so much more.  Tenderness with oneself and others can free the mind, and quiet it.  You feel open to discovery, to introspection and to charity.  Life can be more than a frantic jumping through pre-conceived hoops.

On the other hand, when faced with non-tenderness from any source, whether by cyberbullies or garden variety bullies, nothing beats the good old adage, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me."  Learn it, live it, own it and it can go a long way to save you grief, and possibly even your life.

Seek Happiness

"If there were in the world today any large number of people who desired their own happiness more than they desired the unhappiness of others, we could have paradise in a few years." (Bertrand Russell, British author, mathematician, philosopher)

On first read, it sounds selfish and wrong. But the more I thought about it, the more I liked it and realized that most of the horrible things that have happened throughout history have resulted from someone wishing the unhappiness of others, more than anything else. Hitler wanted Jews dead, Confederates wanted slaves worked to death, Bush wanted Saddam dead, the KKK wanted blacks dead and a certain faction of people want gays, if not dead, at least removed from society. Terrorists wish evil on all non-Muslims. It goes on and on. All of this hatred is probably driven by an innate unhappiness with ones' own life.

I wonder how history might have changed if, say, Hitler (a renowned vegetarian) nibbled a nice medium-rare tenderloin steak once in awhile and had daily hour-long body massages. Maybe if someone tickled his moustache, bought him a friendly golden doodle, and enjoined him in a lively game of Parcheesi, Germany might be seen as the love capital of the world.

Just this week in the news is the story of Steven Hatfill, the man who was dogged by the FBI in 2002, for being associated with the anthrax attacks after 9/11/01, despite the lack of any evidence whatsoever. He was finally exonerated, and awarded a multi-million dollar settlement, but not before suffering years of being followed, hassled, harassed, ticketed, searched, etc. (This week he agreed to speak to the media for the first time.) It seems likely that the FBI most certainly wanted his (or some scapegoat's) unhappiness, more than they wanted to find the truth. Parenthetically, no one knows the truth behind the whole anthrax debacle. The subsequent suspect, Bruce Ivins committed suicide. That, too, probably made the FBI happy.

On a personal level, I know I behave better when I'm happy. After a good night's sleep, a healthy, hearty breakfast and a brisk walk on a woodsy trail, I feel like I could conquer all the world's ills. I may do nothing more than donate a few magazines to the senior center, or not cuss out some dodo-head at the roundabout (well, that might be a stretch), but at least I'm not plotting the annihilation of some innocent people.

The world is no longer mens' private toilet

Sad story, really, for the principals involved, but us women can hardly stifle our giggles at the local incident where some poor schmuck takes a leak outside and gets electrocuted. Apparently he accidentally pee'd on a live wire and that was all the contact needed to fry him. Vivid images of Warner Brothers' cartoons swirl at the thought. Now, us women can secretly smirk as our men can no longer confidently relieve themselves wherever and whenever. Will this one be the Last Pee? Will our beloved erupt in a flash burn of urinary proportions? We will all hold our breaths from now on. And maybe he will learn to hold his bladder until he reaches a public restroom. Maybe this will mark the beginning of something unique and wonderful: long lines at mens restrooms.