Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Friday, January 21, 2005
M-Day: Over.
Rations: Gone.
Injuries: One broken toe; lacerated finger (four stitches); numerous bruises; numerous claw shaped scratches
Cat: Will not leave darkest corner of closet and makes never before heard low growling noises which can alternately be described as the shocking finale of “When Animals Attack” or disgruntled mumbling. (See above, Injuries)
Finance: Way over budget. Um, if you're not going to eat that parsley garnish, could I um, have it?
Survivor: Barely a survivor. Exhausted. Frustrated. Forlorn. Fretting. (See above, Finance) But still breathing.
The biggest misnomer in moving is “Moving Day.” It is not A day. It is many, many, many days. You might think the days leading up to the actual relocation of possessions are more difficult than the days after a move.
Wrong.
Take it from one who wore the same clothes, and I mean the same clothes, everything the same, for three days, had sporadic phone service and no internet after the actual relocation, the days after the relocation of possessions are far worse than the days leading up to The Move.
I’m pretty tough for a girl. I am completely able to roll with a situation and cast aside girlish needs. If I don’t have to, you know, be presentable, I can manage with a toothbrush, toothpaste, a hair brush and some soap.
So I wasn’t concerned about anything other than getting everything relocated and my cat safely moved.
And really, in the final analysis that is all that matters.
But.
Moving is a nightmare.
No matter how organized (I was), how prepared (I was), how excited about the new place you are (I wasn’t), you have to rely on other people to handle your Earthly life. You hand over everything you own, including your Box of Essentials to complete strangers and depend on them to transport your life to your new home.
My movers were great. I guess. I mean. Yes. They were super nice and super experienced and super careful and super organized and super hard working.
But.
My Box of Essentials which was the last box loaded and allegedly the first box unloaded, was buried under a mountain of book boxes until yesterday afternoon.
My Box of Essentials contained fresh underwear, t-shirts and socks for three days, telephone, shampoo, towels, shower curtain/rings, sheets, scissors, and toilet paper.
But worse than not being able to find my Box of Essentials was not being able to find my Box of Important Stuff.
My Box of Important Stuff was plainly marked, “Box of Important Stuff” and had been moved by myself and a friend the day prior to the actual the move. When we arrived at the new place, the movers had very stern instructions that this box was not to be touched much less moved.
But then something bad happened. A long horrible story involving the five hours later than expected departure from my old place and my cat. Which separated me from the movers and my things for a period of 45 minutes at the initial move-in at the new place.
And the Box of Essentials was buried under a bunch of boxes of books. And the Box of Important Stuff was placed somewhere “safe” but could not be located when I showed up at the new place.
Which upset me. For a lot of really deep emotional reasons.
Because I was so careful about it. Because these are the few things I truly care about and would run into a burning building to retrieve*. Because I packed The Box of Important Stuff with the things which would devastate me to lose. The one box I had to open, or at least see, upon arrival at the new place. The things I have to know where they are or I can't sleep.
So not being able to find that box really swutting upset me.
A lot.
Even more than not being able to locate the Box of Essentials, discovering The Box of Important Stuff had been moved and could not be found was the straw that broke the camel’s emotionally thick exterior.
"Freaking out" would be an apt term.
I am not one prone to freaking out.
But there I was. Freaking out.
If I could have just seen that one box everything would have been okay.
But the movers couldn’t locate it. They “knew” it was “in there somewhere,” one remembered “putting it someplace safe” when they brought in the bed, the closet, he thought. But then other boxes were unloaded, space and time were tight, and, well, no visible Box of Important Stuff.
I just wanted my Box of Important Stuff. That's all. I didn't care about any of the other stuff.
I wanted my file containing my Important Papers. I wanted my folder with all the warranties and instruction books for my stuff which requires warranties and instruction books. I wanted my mum's bridal veil and I wanted it right then. I wanted my pretty rock from Ben Nevis. And if I didn't get my bear no one in three zip codes would be sleeping that night.
This is what moving does to a person. I don't go around thinking about these things on a daily basis. I know where they are, I am in control of their fate and I'm emotionally mature and balanced about them. But knowing I couldn’t go to the closet or the shelf and see them or touch them, that their fate was out of my control, I was disoriented and distraught.
I know “they're just things so shut up.” I know that. I know they don't matter to anyone but me. I know they don't really matter to me.
I guess.
No.
Wait.
Obviously they do. Obviously this little collection of things matters to me a lot.
Obviously I feel connected to and responsible for them. Obviously I have a long way to go on my journey to enlightenment. Obviously some of my possessions own me.
Okay, so I’m not a monk. I have stuff. I have emotional ties to some of my stuff. Species Human for $500, please, Alex.
The Freaking Out Incident of '05 will be making the rounds at moving companies throughout the country. If you move in the next ten years, you’ll probably be told the story by your movers.
This is what they’ll say:
“Nah, don’t worry, you’re not too emotional. Moving is stressful. You’re fine. I heard about this one woman who got so upset because her movers moved a box she told them not to touch that she threatened to post their photographs on the internet with a caption saying “Thief, Loser and Scoundrel” and then screamed, collapsed in the corridor of her new building and cried. You know? That choking, gasping, snot dripping kind of crying? Yeah, I heard it was really bad. The security people saw her on their monitor, you know, from the corridor security camera, and came running because they thought she was being attacked or something, because one of the movers was trying to calm her down and she was flailing her arms and I guess it looked bad on the security monitor, you know, I mean, he was trying to like calm her down, but it looked like something else, and she was carrying on, so you know, the security guys thought there was a (air quote) situation.(unair quote) So they get there and they’re all like Starsky and Hutch, ‘Get away from her!’ and she’s all still sobbing and snotty and choking and they’re all like, ‘It’s okay, we’ll handle it, are you hurt?’ and the mover was like, ‘No man, I didn’t touch her, we moved a box she told us not to touch and she got all mad and then this happened! I swear, man, I swear, I was only trying to help her!’ and the security guy was like, ‘Is that true?’ and she was like, ‘uh huh, but it’s my Box of Important Stuff and this move has taken almost 10 hours and I only moved 3.03 miles and my cat’s upset and my mum’s sick (sob) and HWNMNBS and (choke) I (choke) just (choke) miss (choke) him (choke) so (choke) muucchhhhh (snork) and (snork) MY STUFFFFFFFFFFFF’ and the security guys were all like, ‘You moved a box she told you not to touch?!’ and the mover guy was like, ‘We had to move it to get the bed in...’ and the security guys were like, ‘You should have had her move it!’ and the mover guy was like, ‘She wasn’t here!’ and the security guys were all like on his case, and then the other mover guy came up, and the security guys asked him a bunch of questions about the other mover, like if he was bonded and what was their license number and all this security rent-a-cop stuff, and the movers were all like, ‘Man, we’re professionals, we’ve been doing this for years, call our boss! She’s just crazy. Moving is stressful but she’s insane’ and the security guys were all like, ‘Moving is really stressful, you guys should know that.’ So the movers have their client on the floor of the corridor of the building like all wailing and stuff and the security guys getting on their case about being kinder and gentler and like totally not trusting them, so one of the security guys wouldn’t leave until the movers left, and he’s all like trying to calm down the woman, so he goes ‘Come on, let’s find that box’ to the woman so they systematically moved all the boxes until they found the box. So no, you’re not too emotional. You could be a lot worse. You could be like that woman.”
* Things I would run into a burning building to retrieve: My cat or any other animal, even ones I don't know, yes, really. A child, mine or someone else's. Yes, really. Another person if they needed help and I could be of honest help to them. My passport. The box of Special Photographs. Mum's bridal veil. A very pretty rock from a trek on Ben Nevis. (okay, this would survive a fire, but as long as I was in a burning building getting stuff, I'd grab it) My first edition signed to me personally by Roald Dahl copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and third edition signed to be personally by Roald Dahl James and the Giant Peach, and a Paddington Bear who has seen better days and looks to have not been looked after. My gran's button hook she used on her shoes (those billion buttoned bootie things from way back) when she was young and swingin' about in her victorian garb, one small and two large paintings.
Monday, January 17, 2005
Right. So. Today's the first day of the rest of my life.
Or whatever.
It's M-Day.
Yes. Martin Luther King Day.
And Moving Day.
I checked my horoscope, all the horoscope sites the Google God gave me had differing opinions of what today will bring, but none of them said, "Don't move house today," or "Don't bother," or "Redrum," so you know, I guess I'll proceed as planned. In spite of the run of bad superstition. But I checked my horoscope, so that should be enough unsuperstitioning, right? The mere fact that I checked my horoscope is huge, so the forces of bad luck should be very surprised with me, if not a little afraid. One of my horoscopes said I was a force to be reckoned with, and a few others said I might be moody today. Well duh. How does that differ from any other day? Swut. I get better advice from fortune cookies.
Right. So.
Provisions: Gone.
Life: Packed into boxes.
Cat: Eying me suspiciously. He'll be under the bed soon. He knows. They always know.
Me: Nonplussed. Well. A little anxious about the cat situation. But other than that, nonplussed. Moving. Whatever. If it's broken, lost or damaged, well, that's just one less thing I have to deal with in the new compartment.
Sunday, January 16, 2005
I'm not superstitious. Sometimes I wonder if I should be more superstitious. If maybe my anti-superstitious stance is actually causing what happens to me. But then I forget to be superstitious, and the corrective measures go uncorrected. Oh sure, every now and then I catch myself avoiding stepping on cracks in the sidewalk, but that's more childhood game ingrained in me than superstition. I don't pick up pennies. But if I drop one of my own I will retrieve it. I drop my comb at least two out of seven mornings and notice no fewer or more disappointments. I like to see owls during the day. I don't knock on wood. I don't think falling stars mean anything other than the end of a particle of Universe.
But.
On my way to the new place today, taking over a few pre-move items, toilet paper, soap and the like,
1) I saw a penny on the ground and let it stay there.
2) A black cat crossed the sidewalk in front of me.
3) The sidewalk to the loading dock was blocked by construction guys working on a rehab across the street. You guessed it, I walked under their ladder.
4) I put three hats on my bed as I was packing.
5) Opened an umbrella inside to see if it still worked.
6 A shaker of salt wasn't screwed on tightly and I spilled a bunch of salt.
7) I broke a mirror.
Should I be worried?
On the plus side, my hand itches and I saw a ladybug yesterday.
5:35 PM
