Cleanliness is a relative notion. One person once told me he hadn’t washed his floors in over six months (“or maybe a year”), but there was no need to since it was “still clean”. I knew someone else who couldn’t sleep if there was so much as one dish left in the sink, and another who’s closets looked like something out of 9 1/2 Weeks—everything pressed perfectly and spaced exactly one inch apart. His sink cabinet continues to haunt me—I had never seen one quite that immaculate before, and for some reason I took that as my cue to get out of dodge. Many women I’ve known tend to be very tidy, and in some cases have cleaning schedules they never deviate from. As for me, I go between both ends of the neat/messy spectrum with a marked emphasis on “messy” much of the time. I tend to blame my lack of enthusiasm for housekeeping on genetics: my mom, who’s not big on housecleaning herself, made sure to expose me to all things cultural, but Making a perfect Bed 101, or Vacuuming: Techniques and Frequency and the like weren’t a big priority. This worked out well for me as a kid since there wasn’t this constant pestering about cleaning up my room which my friends got all the time. My father on the other hand is pretty much a neat freak, which belies my genetics defense. When I think of visits to one of the apartments he’s lived in, I have in mind immaculate shiny floors, the absence of dust and clutter and the arrangements he makes out of his few little trinkets.
Being messy gives me the freedom of not having to be careful about where I put down my things, but most of the time I’m secretly yearning to be a neat freak too—I dream of beautifully designed, unencumbered white spaces of the variety you might find in decor magazines. But my place is nothing like that, it’s old and everything is crooked, I’ve got a riot of colours to mask all the cracks and flaws on the walls and no matter how often I clean the kitchen floor it still looks dirty, so most of the time I choose reading over backbreaking floor washing sessions. But for the past few weeks I’ve been in a cleaning phase and not a day has gone by that I don’t dust something, sort through and organize all my stuff polish the counters and sink over and over again, all the while enjoying it all which I can only explain by the fact that once I get into something, anything—I tend to do it with a passion. Besides, seeing brings me to a peaceful place similar to the one I go to during meditation sometimes. On the other hand, it could be just all the medication I’m taking slowly turning me into a Stepford wife.
All this time using cleaning products has strengthened my resolve to go green once and for all. Gone are the days when the few products on the market were only available at health food stores, too expensive to work into a tight budget. Now that going green has hit the mainstream, organic house products are available in supermarkets, hardware stores and even at the superstore just a few blocks over—the same one which used to be the place where all the welfare beneficiaries did their groceries and stocked up on their monthly rations of white bread, hot dogs, beer and Coke, with a giant tub of margarine and yellow mustard thrown in on occasion. Those folks mostly left since that megastore went (relatively) upscale. So far I have products to clean kitchen, bathroom and laundry, dishwasher soap and even rinse agent—and I swear my dishes have never been this clean. Now my biggest problem is figuring out what to do with the old non-green products I have, since of course it makes no sense to dump them in the sink, toilet, or garbage, so I’ve decided to alternate between green and chemical products until I figure out something better (suggestions are welcome).
As a reward for all this cleaning, I decided to get myself new garbage cans. My old ones were in need of replacement and I’m not sure how this happened but shopping for garbage cans ended up being really fun. For the kitchen, I even splurged and replaced the cheap stainless-steel can I had bought at a bargain price for the real deal, a Brabantia, which is not cheap but built to last and comes with a ten year warranty. This is what my life has come to. I get excited about buying garbage bins. Speaking of which, there’s even more excitement coming soon. We had a good laugh on the phone my dad and I when he asked me what’s going on in my life and I very excitedly started telling him about the small Weber gas barbecue I have my eye on. I must have spent ten or fifteen minutes describing the thing to my dad which culminated in me saying this barbecue will basically change my life, which got us laughing hysterically when he summed up our conversation with “Sooo... you’re buying a barbecue, that’s... that’s really big news”. I’m sure my folks had bigger things in mind for me and lord knows I did too, but until I get back in the saddle, small pleasures is where it’s at.
June 24, 2008
This is What My Life Has Come To?
June 20, 2008
Quote of the Day
“ Artists today think of everything they do as a work of
art. It is important to forget about what you are doing...
then a work of art may happen.”
Tempera on gessoed panel, 32 1/4 x 47 3/4” (81.9 x 121.3 cm).
On view at MoMA.
The woman crawling through the tawny grass was the artist's neighbor in Maine, who, crippled by polio, "was limited physically but by no means spiritually." Wyeth further explained, "The challenge to me was to do justice to her extraordinary conquest of a life which most people would consider hopeless." He recorded the arid landscape, rural house, and shacks with great detail, painting minute blades of grass, individual strands of hair, and nuances of light and shadow. In this style of painting, known as magic realism, everyday scenes are imbued with poetic mystery.
June 17, 2008
I Heart Graffiti (most of the time).
Some are done freehand and others are done with stencils (I tend to like those quite a bit) and that’s more or less everything I know when it comes to graffiti. As with everything else, there are graffiti “stars” out there, but the only one I know of is Miss Van over here, and I’ve just discovered her today. It’s been around since the stone age, it’ll be here for a long time to come. Sometimes it’s an eyesore, sometimes it’s welcome eye candy, and depending on my mood, I think graffiti either symbolizes man (or woman’s) inherent need to leave a mark, or it can be a constant visual reminder of how little respect some people have for property that is not their own. But mostly I’m just happy that kids can go to a hardware store and for a few bucks get their cans of paint and along with a little bit of wall space, express whatever they want. In some parts of the world, that could literally cost you an arm and a leg. Keep on tagging in the free world.
1. Photo by Alex Whittaker
2. Photo by What What
3. Graffiti by Zes, photo by anarchosyn
4. Photo by Toots Fontaine
5. Graffiti by Miss Van, photo by Toots Fontaine
All found on Flickr
June 10, 2008
Sturm und Drang... & Stuff
We had a huge electrical storm a short while ago. Poor Fritz was terrified, and I have to admit that although I love storms and hardly ever get scared, there were a few thunder claps that sounded like they were literally tearing up the skies, which brought up an instinct to want to hide under something, which is what Fritz promptly did. That made me think of Astérix et Obelix and their gang of Gauls, who didn’t mind going into the most violent battles, but were scared that the sky would quite literally fall on their heads. Well I managed to stay upright and didn’t seek shelter but I did think it prudent to switch off the power on my computer, something I never do in the daytime. That was a small reminder of how helpless and small we are even with all our technology and our stubborn and misguided notion that we are somehow the rightful owners of this planet to mistreat and abuse as we please. We had a similar downpour yesterday, though without the special sound effects and once it was over, it was a beautiful, quiet sunny day again, and then I found out that in parts of the States they had terrible flooding which was wreaking havoc for everyone. And though I’m certainly not happy when nature causes us pain and suffering when it chooses to afflict us with some catastrophe, I am always awed and amazed to see that nature will always be a power far far greater than we'll ever be which, with my strange logic, I take to be a good thing. Because it keeps us human beings in check, lest we let our monstrous egos get the better of us and we go imagining that we can rule the entire universe. I don’t know why, but an image of Bush and his league of power hungry bigots came to mind as I was typing the last sentence.
It’s official: yesterday I took down my Blog365 links from this page and replaced them with a B.O.W.: Blogging Without Obligation insignia instead, which means I’ve dropped out of the race. Just can’t handle the pressure of blogging everyday anymore. As I was explaining to both my mum and dad, who are my most devoted readers, several factors contributed to my decision. For one thing, the time investment required to keep up my standard of content and visuals was simply unreasonable. The countless hours and days of research, and then almost as many hours to physically put together the posts was staggering. My dad suggested I go back and write how many hours some of my posts took to get ready for publishing, but I don’t think anybody cares about that, especially if the post ends up looking like it took no effort at all. Not that I’m complaining. Of course it’s a process I enjoy and I wouldn’t do it otherwise, but the fact is I was spending my entire days (and sometimes nights too) on my blogging obsession. Sometimes—and more and more frequently—I would slap something together in a jiffy just to make sure I met the quota, which was fine, but did not meet my quality standards. Then, because all this didn’t leave me much time to socialize with other bloggers, I saw my readership go in a steep decline and was growing a little bit resentful to be doing all this work if nobody was coming to look at it. It’s crazy the situations we can get ourselves out of some sense of honour or a misdirected commitment or principle. It’s all a bit ironic too because when I started blogging I was just doing it for myself and wasn’t concerned about others reading me or not. So that’s it in a nutshell, that’s what I should get back to. So now I blog whenever I want, I can take all the time in the world doing research or building up my posts even if only me and my mum and dad see them, but more importantly not posting gives me plenty of time do to other things too, which is quite exciting but also necessary at this point in my life. That being said, I’ve been spending quite a lot of time making up “my ideal” book wish list and it occurred to me that I should share it here, so just as soon as I’ve finished putting it together and I find it more or less meets my standards, you’ll be seeing it right here so we can start up a debate on what is really an “ideal” booklist. Right here on From Smiler, with Love.
For dad: time spent on this post: 1h28 (this was an easy one)
June 7, 2008
Talking About The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time*
I find that book title so appealing that I probably would have read the story just based on that, though I have to admit that all the rave reviews and the fact that I’ve seen it on countless “Best Of” lists certainly helped push it to the top of my reading list. I finished this book just yesterday and being a small book, it only took one day to read, but as I write this I’m already well into another fantastic read, so I figure if I want to write my impressions from fresh memory, it’s now or never.
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Mark Haddon
In the middle of the night our narrator Christopher, 15 years old, has just discovered the neighbour’s dog, Wellington, dead on the neighbour’s front yard. He quickly assesses that the dog has been murdered, since there is a garden fork stuck through his body. Christopher, who is a great fan of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes books, finds these circumstances rather unusual and decides this is precisely the kind of case that a private detective might try to solve. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time is actually Christopher’s book, which his mentor, encourages him to write so he can share how he goes about discovering who has killed Wellington the poodle, as well as details about his personal life.
Of course Christopher never spells this out, but he is clearly autistic. He goes to a “special needs school”, is a math wiz, has a photographic memory, can retain unlimited amounts of facts and trivia, all things which he happily demonstrates whenever possible. He also has a profound dislike for the colours yellow and brown (he will not eat foods in those colours) which is something that comes up fairly often, he can’t stand being touched by anyone (including people close to him), he doesn’t like socializing because he has difficulty reading people’s expressions and doesn’t understand common metaphors used in conversations. Yet, for the sake of the book, he takes it upon himself to question his neighbours in an attempt to uncover the mystery of Wellington’s murder.
One of the great accomplishments of this book is Mark Haddon’s ability to inhabit his autistic character so fully and transform something (autism) which could be construed as strange into something anyone can relate to. I enjoyed being in Christopher’s shoes as I was reading his story, and even caught myself thinking that it was a mindset I could all too well relate to. Also, on a personal note, the story reminds me of my little brother who lives in Australia as he and his wife both work with autistic children. Haddon never falls into sentimentality or preachiness, yet shows great sympathy towards all his characters (except poor Wellington whom he’s chosen to kill off before we even get a chance to meet him). It’s clear that Haddon has done plenty of research about autism and there is a mention in the introductory pages about him having worked with autistic individuals. Clearly, that kind of writing could only have come from real-life experience and encounters with very unique individuals.
* As stated in Wikipedia: “this title is a quotation of a remark made by the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s 1894 short story ‘Silver Blaze’”
Illustration: markhaddon.com
June 5, 2008
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do
Sometimes, you can just drop ’em, move on to the next one and just keep on going without ever looking back. I find that tends to happen when there’s no emotional attachment — when you go into it with no expectations, then you don’t feel too disappointed after you’ve put in the effort to make some kind of connection and find it’s just not clicking. But sometimes I have to say it’s heart wrenching when you keep putting in those efforts and there just isn’t that connection no matter what, even though you know it “should” be a good fit because you have so much in common, or because you’ve gotten such solid recommendations and glowing comments. And this latest little fiasco made me feel a little bit heartbroken for all the ones I’ve left behind.
Interesting that I have similar feelings about reading as I do about dating. The most recent book breakup occurred today with Women Who Run With the Wolves. I’m still not ready to say that it’s a final breakup, because I may go back to it eventually (which is what I always say). But when I start reading another book on the side to “break up” the reading of the first book and before I know it have read three or four other books “at the same time”... then I know I’ve been covering up my lack of interest with those constant dalliances and once the cat is out of the bag, then decisions must be made.
WWRWTW It came highly recommended to me. Initially by my mother, who then told me that my favorite great aunt also loved that book... and countless others as well. I wanted to love that book, because I know the message it conveys is a powerful one that should do me a lot of good. It just felt too much like I was reading a better version of some of my own essays written for feminist studies some twenty years ago. And I know my mum will want to write me a note saying there’s nothing to it and I shouldn’t get myself all worked up over a book, because she’s not at all offended that it’s not working for me, or something of the sort, which would be kind but really not necessary.
There is another book this year that I’ve dropped and have had a hard time letting go of and then one book which I had no qualms about at all. Not quite so easy to let go of was My Life by Golda Meir. I felt honor-bound to read her book because of my Jewish ancestry and Israeli citizenship (even though I had never asked for either), and in truth, there is so much about that woman’s life that is interesting, but part of my mind was thinking otherwise. I know I’m in trouble with a book when I find myself reading the same paragraph two or three times over and over again purely out of distraction. Also being acutely aware of every single word on the page and constantly counting pages remaining until the end of the chapters were all bad signs. I put it aside having read at least 80% of the book, but simply couldn’t finish because of another difficulty which was that the typeface used in my Mass Market Paperback version was so small that I was having physical difficulties reading it. This is one reason why I always buy Trade Paperback versions whenever possible. They cost a few more dollars but it helps preserve what’s left of my eyesight and makes reading a pleasurable experience rather than a form of torture.
On the other hand, I started reading The Black Book by Orhan Pamuk and when I got halfway through, I still couldn’t enjoy the brilliant writing and what little story there was, which was becoming a source of frustration rather than pleasure and in turn was making me feel unintelligent. Having put in a valiant effort, I simply put the book aside with a clear conscience. It helped that I had no expectations and that some of the reviews I’d read said it was a difficult book to read, and so, stopping in the middle felt like I had lightened the unnecessary burden. A few weeks later I was able to enjoy My Name is Red, also by that author, and though I admit I had some trepidations, my concerns were put to rest and I was able to enjoy it fully.
June 3, 2008
Cat Peeved
I am NOT a happy camper today. I can’t stand the state of my apartment and was going to start vacuuming and washing the floors yesterday, only my plans have been thwarted by the fact that I can’t stand on my legs for more than five minutes at at time. It’s that time of the month and this one’s a painful motherfucker. So I’m sitting on my computer this morning and, while it’s true the litter-box is close by, I thought I’d been noticing the cat pee smell getting stronger? And yet, Fritz wasn’t using his cat-box lately so I figured maybe he was going outside since he practically lives out there? And then I went and inspected the floor more attentively? And found fresh piss tracks. And then I checked the other doorways for fun? And found MORE piss tracks. I’m so mad a Fritz at this point that I’ve stuck him outside as much as possible today to give time to the murderous rage to simmer down. I started letting him out when he started peeing indoors like this, several years ago. Now I let him out as much as he wants. Until midnight, because I don’t want him prowling out there and waking me up at dawn. I know cats rule the household but there’s a freakin’ limit. Apparently he finds that me not giving in the his every single demand to get outside gives him reason enough to turn this place into a giant cat toilet for fuck’s sake. I’ve got this product that you’re supposed to apply after cleaning the affected areas to dissuade the animals from returning there, and the stuff doesn’t smell bad, but for some reason every time I get a whiff of it I get even more angry. Nothing like the scent of room sanitizer mixed with cat pee to cheer up a hormonal woman, right? Ok. I’m done. I can’t sit up anymore.
Oh just this: I won’t necessarily be blogging every day from now on. Hopefully quality will replace quantity.
June 2, 2008
Are You Laughing Yet?
I’m reading Naked by David Sedaris. I’m halfway through. It’s an easy read, and Sedaris gives me an occasional break from the other book I’m reading — 'Women Who Run With the Wolves' which I find to be a dense read. But I have to say I’m disappointed so far. Apparently 'Naked' is supposed to be a very funny book. All the critiques I’ve read say how hilarious it is, and how they couldn’t stop laughing. I know it takes a special talent to turn difficult past experiences into funny stories, but sometimes there’s just too much pathos that filters through. Am I the only one to see that? So far, I think I may have quietly chuckled once or twice, but I’m still waiting for that big burst of laughter to happen. Waiting for a laugh must be like waiting for an orgasm — If you wait too long, then it just never happens. Especially if you start noticing all you lover’s annoying little ticks in the process. Still I’ll keep reading the book because once I’ve hit the halfway mark, may just as well keep going. And maybe the next essay will cause a burst of hilarity. Or maybe the one after that, or the one after that, and so on. Maybe I’ll get one giant laugh session right at the end. At least I’ve kept my ability to hope, which is nice to know, but if I don’t get a single laugh out of that book, I want my money back. I was told I’d be in stitches and Dammit, I want to laugh!
June 1, 2008
It’s Resolution Time Again
June first. A new month. For me it's just another day. I wake up, see my cat snuggled up besides my legs. How he’s managed to keep his spot throughout my tossing and turning just beats me. I stroke and coddle him — this is the time he allots for us to be affectionate together. As soon as I whisper "let's get up" he leaps off the bed, waits beside the door until I open it, alley cat impatient to rejoin his alleyway. I make a tall glass of fresh squeezed pink grapefruit juice, pressing all the fruit by hand. The juice tastes that much sweeter for it. I’ve made my bed by then and for a few moments I savour the fact that I’ve got some sort of little routine going. I know I could improve on it if I tacked on more things like yoga and getting outside more and housework and doing administrative things and art project and cooking; things to extend the routine into a bigger part of the day. But first, before beating myself over the head for things I’m not doing, I have to appreciate whatever progress I have made. I’m pretty sure that’s how it works. Routine. Scary word.
June first, feels like resolution time. Must be because there’s a birthday coming round the bend. My resolution: this month, do more yoga, lose 20 lbs (just kidding), get outside a few times a week and figure out how to make the concept of “routine” seem less like a punishment and more like fun. Better yet, I should just find my own word for it. Suggestions are welcome.
