Random Roundup

My Useless Occupations: The me in the mirror. Goofing off, taking photos, not doing anything useful. Last Sunday. I've been playing a little tennis and working out. One needs activity but it doesn't get the downsizing and cleaning done. Today we went out for a big breakfast. Tennis was rained out. I wasn't really sorry. I wanted to goof off, eat too much, let it settle and then go for a workout. (I hope I will do that anyway.)

I've been blogging every day here. As you probably know if you are reading this. Also, on Austin Daily Photo. And keeping a personal journal on the computer, of course. Great time wasters these. Which has kept me from committing to paper (or computer rather) a short story that is almost completely written in my head.

Downsizing: Have I mentioned that my office is neat? Whether I get more work done is questionable. My desk upstairs where I work on some filing and bookkeeping is a disaster at the moment and I did lose track of something but it was filed when we found it! More than once since I put everything away and made neat work surfaces I've had to scratch my head over where I filed something. Actually I've gotten rid of lots of stuff and gone through lots of files so there are some nearly empty file drawers in here. The thing is that I have to completely clear this room so it can be painted and so that we can refinish the floors. That is daunting. And I have to move all my projects and computing upstairs so I have to mangle through the mess up there.

Part of downsizing is getting stuff shredded that needs to be shredded. And there is a lot of that stuff. I do a little bit, marveling at some of the old receipts and checks and stuff, and then I get tired of it and do something else.

I have to shake my head as I go through our stuff. There is physical evidence of unrealized transient passions. Maybe we went to a cooking class (which we did) for Vegetarian cooking. Hence we came to own a wok I Freecycled, a spring form pan I lost the bottom to (I think) and a number of cookbooks. (One of which I keep because I like to look up its advice for cooking brown rice if not stir fries and tofu cheesecakes in spring form pans.) And of course there is the smallish (less than a dozen volumes) collection of old travel books. I bought one in the wonder of a book shop that was once in San Antonio (Brock's) and then assembled a small number before losing interest. I indulged a passion for World War II first person accounts for years and the result is piles and piles of books. Scores? Hundreds? It's hard to give them up, too, because many are surely out of print. And, of course, there are bendies (I gave a bunch away but some remain); martini shakers, siphons and old chrome coffee service; martini glasses; other 'collectible' glassware. Need I go on? FFP had quite a huge collection of conspiracy and Kennedy assassination material. To his credit he let a large amount of it go.

Yesterday FFP went once again to the thrift store with a trunk full of stuff. Out of here: napkins and place mats that won't fit our new decor; cook books (the joke isn't how many we gave way but how many we kept!); amusing picture frames; candle holders with bees on them; some other books and decorative items.

When we find something that once belonged to someone else or we think they might especially want, we try to contact them. Today an old buddy of FFP's from advertising days came to take away a painting he'd left behind in FFP's first house before I ever knew him. Many staples, screws and stretchers later the canvas pieces of the multi-part thing were stowed in a garbage bag to go back to New York.

Slowly, slowly the downsizing continues. It's important not to get discouraged and to remember how little you miss this stuff when it is gone. The clean surfaces in my office will have to be given up, at least temporarily, to refurbing the room but they are possible only because I've cleaned enough out of drawers and closets to stuff things away. Many projects loom. Maybe I'll make a list. Lists are much easier than the doing!

Reading List

When I retired I imagined I'd read all of Dickens. Truth is I have a set of Dickens that belonged to my great grandfather. I've decided to keep them. Why not read them? Am I? No. But. I found a book on tape collection of "A Tale of Two Cities," "The Old Curiosity Shop," and "Barnaby Rudge." As I mentioned earlier I am sort of curating my goodbye to all the 'stuff' and one way I do that is to listen to cassette tapes and then give them away. I'm pretty sure I listened to this set before, but it's my nod to not reading the Dickens that belonged to my great grandfather. I also read books and parts of magazines and then discard them to the thrift store, a friend or recycling.

I am reading at least five books right now. Ulysses, of course. I'm on page 634 of 933, I think. I'm not sure because the other day my bookmark fell out and it was amazingly difficult to find where I was. I'm also reading Simon Winchester's Krakatoa which is amazing. I'm about a quarter in on that puppy. I'm about halfway through a book by Thatcher Freund called Objects of Desire about antique collecting, specifically American furniture and featuring three particular pieces. About halfway through that one. (Confession: it's a bathroom book.) A friend gave me a copy of Peter Carey's Theft that lost a battle with a glass of wine and is falling apart and red-tinted. I'm keeping that in my car as an emergency book for when I forget to take other reading material in my car. It's a pretty good book from what I read so far. I am getting behind on my newspapers. The good news is I found a place to keep the unread ones where they don't look so messy. That's the bad news, too, of course.

My Useless Occupations, Redux: Well blogging certainly keeps one from doing anything useful so I must stop.

Philanthropy

Philanthropy is a process that is largely misunderstood by most of us. Here is James Armstrong receiving a proclamation from Mayor Will Wynn honoring him on February 23 with "James Armstrong Day." That day the Opera Ball will be held which is honoring him this year. James puts his name on donor lists and endowed the opera's Music school to be the James Armstrong Music School. At Ballet Austin's new home, the multi-purpose studio with a glass wall to the street was christened the "Armstrong/Connelly" studio for he and his partner. You might think people do this for attention, but really for most of us the attention isn't all that welcome. I worked on a capital campaign with James and he told me that his father taught him to never give anonymously. "My father told me that if your friends see your name," he said, "then they will give, too." People do give to honor one another's causes and it matters who is asking. My father never had much opportunity to be a philanthropist or to teach his kids about giving in the big leagues. But I've learned a bit from people like James who were kind enough to befriend us.

Which, of course, brings me to a line I came up with which is funny but also very, very true for me: "I always wanted to be a philanthropist, but I never had enough money!" I wouldn't enjoy the attention James gets but I would enjoy the giving and the power one's money has to change things. And thanks to James and others in our community like Ernest and Sarah Butler I would understand the power of using your name on your giving to influence others.

Restraints

A lot of people, I'll bet, look forward to retirement as a time of freedom. I know I had images of doing lots of traveling without worrying about 'vacation days,' of reading and writing in coffee shops, of learning new things unhampered by the need to spend time learning things at work that I'd often soon find were useless (including the organization chart and how to navigate it). I envisioned myself totally in control of my finances and with all my stuff organized so it would be useful to me. I thought I'd be more useful to society in general and those around me than when I was committed to the 9-5. I saw myself doing exercise programs, playing tennis and playing Bridge. I saw myself well-informed, reading lots of books and three newspapers a day.

Life creates restraints, however, and working for a living is just one of them. Your health and the health of the people you are responsible for curtails what you might do. Once you commit to some activity, too, whether it's tennis or a commitment to yourself to do so many sit-ups a week, that's time you can't commit to something else. You have to budget every hour you spend. Looking at your investments? Then you aren't writing. Or reading. Or getting your house in order. Want to take a vacation? Still you have to plan it around your other commitments. Yeah, we have planned to take five days out of town in 2008. How can it be that we are missing two charity events we probably should have participated in and also having to get someone to take my dad for medical stuff. Five days. Geez.

And we aren't the people we used to be. We retired early but we are still too old to take up mountain climbing. Too old in fact to learn too many new tricks. But, one day, I hope you find me budgeting a morning a week to sit in a downtown coffee shop near my new home and drink coffee and read and write and watch the people go by.

What Should I Rant About?

Yes, a liquor store. And me barely there, barely registering. Which is how I feel just now.

Some days you feel like a rant or two (which I should probably take over to The Journal of Unintended Consequences), but you just can't focus on which one. The medical bureaucracy? (If your job is to schedule appointments for preparation for surgery, why do I have to call back twenty times and when you call why are you using my dad's first name as a last name? All you have to do is make appointments. How hard can that be? If I come in and have a two-hour meeting pre-opt can you guarantee me that you won't lose all the paperwork temporarily and make me fill it out again and then complain that you have two copies? Because that's what happened last time we went to this hospital for a planned procedure.) The hubris of some people. (Just because you are a widely-acclaimed athlete who beat cancer does not mean that all cancer is curable, right now, with money from your organization. And, by the way, I don't really find 'surviving' cancer comparable to 'surviving the Holocaust.' And, by the way, surviving cancer sort of implies surviving death itself. Hubris.) But I shall not rant here. I shall go and exercise with the intention of getting myself in good shape to survive the medical bureaucracy as my dad's caregiver (imagine how hard it is on patients!) and to perhaps change the 'cause' on my death certificate when it finally, inevitably is issued.

Reassurance

Maybe one takes pictures on one's reflections to assure one that one is still there somewhere. Perhaps. This reflection is from a gift shop on West Sixth Street. Taken Sunday. My friend SuRu and I decided to go for a coffee and ended up at Sweetish Hill. So we window shopped and took some pictures.

Sometimes one needs reassurance. Yesterday I was playing tennis and I told my partner that if we didn't finish by a certain time that I would have to forfeit. Dad was counting on me to drive him to the ophthalmologist. It is reassuring to him and to me that I am there for him. I managed to lose in three sets after many deuces. I rushed off to take care of Dad. He started having trouble seeing on Jan. 30 and I'd called but they wouldn't give me an appointment until yesterday.

The appointment wasn't reassuring. Dad has a detached retina. Maybe caused by aging and past cataract surgery. It's something that should be attended to as soon as possible but since "the middle is already gone" it isn't as much of an emergency. Hmmm. So would it have been an emergency if they had agreed to see him sooner? Then they said the soonest the surgeon could do it was over a week away. But even though the time was not convenient for me, the caregiver, it just could not be delayed another week.

I felt bad about all this. Angry I didn't find a different doctor or insist on an emergency appointment. Angry that 'as soon as possible' means 'at the doctor's convenience.' I had to change my own eye checkup so that I could handle the pre-opt appointment for him. Am I really there or am I just a caregiver?

This morning when I called my dad I explained all this, all the dates and times, the risk that his vision won't get better, won't get better right away, who would be helping him when I couldn't be there. He was cheerful and circumspect. He wrote down the dates.

"It's always something," I said.

"Yeah," he said, laughing. "When you wake up in the morning, you ask yourself 'What is going to take the joy out of life today?'"

My dad's attitude always gives me reassurance. That he doesn't blame me for his problems or the doctors' cavalier treatment of them. That he will soldier on, doing his best, trying not to be too much trouble, appreciating the help he needs. When I was a kid, my dad would help me out with things like a broken down car or a little money or help fixing something. My parents always gave me a place to stay between rentals and situations. My family was a nice support system. Now the tables have turned. And really all I need is the reassurance that I'm not making things worse for my dad.

Boring

Detail from a South Lamar shop window reflection a week ago.

Thrift stores make great places to shoot reflections with all the odd things on display. Things living out second lives as merchandise again after presumably having a home (or two or three).

Loads continue to go to the thrift store and our other 'outlets' for emptying this house. I think we are getting more brutal about what we keep. A trash can in my office is heavy with old plaques awarding us for this or that volunteer activity. Things that are cute and nice but that we don't think we'd use to decorate the condo are finding their way to a table in the spare room. One side is designated for me and one for FFP and we place items we think should be given away there. When the other person has time, he 'saves' the item or, more likely, places it in a box or bag in the closet for the thrift store. FFP fills his trunk and drops by the thrift store on his rounds. I am afraid to visit the thrift store, afraid to see all those things in a new context. Although, truthfully, when you go to a thrift store you rarely see the things you donated. There is lots of turnover at those places in my experience. But we have donated a lot to this one place.

I am currently trying to keep the house neat and keep the messes put away. It's partly to start making the house look better if people casually look at it to buy and it's partly to keep my sanity. It does cheer me up to walk into my office and see clean work surfaces and general tidiness. Whether I'm getting more done as a result is questionable. This week is full of appointments and places to be.

Well, I am boring myself. Off to play tennis. I've been playing tennis so much I look forward to rain outs. That's good, I think.

Roots and Roaming

My roots? Lower middle class (to be kind) folks with farm roots, a good work ethic and generous spirits. My parents also seemed to have a roaming gene, too. There just wasn't much money with which to scratch the itch. I guess Texans have a not to far in the past legacy of moving to new places (as do most Americans). My parents always wanted to go somewhere. My sister's peregrinations with her husband when he was in the Air Force served as their excuse to travel and, really, hardly any excuse was necessary when money came to hand.

This picture I discovered on my computer today. It shows the parents walking on the sidewalk in what of those frighteningly similar motels. I think it was Raton, New Mexico. The year was 2000. But it doesn't matter. The cheap hotel was just a necessary sleep. We were driving to Colorado, no doubt, to see my sister. (Who settled there after the Air Force was finished with them.)

Yesterday we got details of a trip we are taking to New York City. Ordinarily we plan our own trips but this one was mostly planned by a local producer of Cabaret shows. So when we got the details, I started a folder for info, started planning the things we'd do on our 'free' time. I looked up all the places the tour was taking us and got links to their WEB sties. I love to travel and I haven't gone anywhere at all for what seems like a very long time.

My roaming gene was honestly acquired. My parents traveled to all fifty states before they died. Plus England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales. Parts of Canada. And Russia. My dad has visited Germany, Austria and Iceland since my mother died.

Now if I can just get out of the real estate maelstrom and do more traveling.

Your Vigor for Life Appalls Me

Old shop window photo is the illustration.

Title is a quote from Robert Crumb, I think, and is the title of collected letters of his.

I can't believe how much my mother-in-law cares about some stuff. How she wants to keep things we've had all these years and are ready to let go. I can't believe how much junk they have in their garage. (FFP mentioned a large number of golf clubs.) But, of course, they don't need to house a car because they can't drive. They were working out there on the garage when we went by to drop off a new tea kettle. They are 88 and 97 and they were out there cleaning out the garage, I guess.

The quote from Robert Crumb occurred to me. I had that book actually. I gave it to the thrift store, I think. Although I'm sure it was full of gems like that you could use for titles of blog entries.

We keep getting rid of stuff. Right and left. Freecycle, curb, thrift store, giving to specific people. I had some stuff to 'freecycle' and one person didn't show up for pickup. So I offered to another person. Around the middle of the day today a kid showed up on a bicycle with a skinned shoulder, knee and cut above his eye. He'd ridden his bike here but there was too much to take on his bike. On the way, he'd wiped out and kissed the pavement. He had on a helmet, thankfully. We gave him some alcohol and Band Aids and told him we'd deliver the stuff. (Several cubic feet, truth to tell.) He lived near the new Mueller complex. They have stores like Bed, Bath and Beyond there. So we were able to slip in there and buy the tea kettle.

I'm not sure I have that much vigor for life! My stuff weighs me down. Keeping the place tidy seems to be helping my mood although each project takes longer since I have to get everything put away after.

She Should be Reading

Today's entry is going to be a round-up of things that are happening, things I'm thinking about. Rounding things up seems to be what I'm all about lately.

This photo was probably taken by FFP. I have an actual print of it so I'm not sure if it pre-dates our almost exclusive use of digital cameras but probably so. No doubt he was shooting up a roll of something else.

What you see is me in a distressed leather chair surrounded by newspapers. But I'm not reading. I'm writing! There are plants and flowers and Chalow lounges on FFP's chair. (Those chairs became too distressed becoming stained easily by lounging heads of hair and we replaced them.) I also notice that a Botero poster is on the wall behind the table. So this was taken before we bought a Mace Lucas painting which now occupies that spot.

I am trying to avoid unwieldy piles like those pictured around the house now. I'm going to put stuff away and only drag out one project at a time. And I'm going to keep the unread papers in a basket and send them to recycling as soon as I've read them. (By the way, we had about a dozen sacks of recycling today. And yet there is still more paper to be recycled. And we don't recycle the shredded stuff because it's too messy although we understand they would take it we don't know how to 'package' it. I guess you could staple the grocery bags shut. They do take staples because they take the magazines mixed in.)

I told my friend SuRu last night about my desire to keep an orderly appearance. She said "Yeah, like that is going to happen!" Still, I'm going to try. I'm going to try to keep the condo orderly, too. A taller order perhaps since we will have far less space to 'hide' the mess.

When I think about all the stuff we have already gotten rid of I'm amazed so much remains. What is true, however, is that there are lots of empty boxes and containers. Even after we stuffed everything back in cabinets and closets and made room to hide stuff away this is true. I run over in my head all the things that are gone. In pictures I catch glimpses of things we used to own, now discarded. So much gone. So much here.

Last night we went to a Frontera Fest Short Fringe. We were there to see my friend Allan Baker's short play called "Click." It was great. Allan has a great ear and eye for detail and the actors and direction were great. The play featured discarded office furniture from our house. FFP said "Don't bring it back!" Some of the other pieces had their moments, but none was really a play. More skits and performance art. The final one was beyond tedious. But the evening was worth it to see Allan's play with these actors. He lets me read his plays and it's so interesting to see how they work when presented.

Last night I could barely contain my excitement about the day I was going to have today. Why? Because today I have no appointments. FFP has three appointments this afternoon at two different coffee shops. I have nothing. No evening tix to anything. No tennis game. No appointments for my dad. (That would be one day next week that I have both those things as well as a dinner engagement to entertain a friend for her birthday.) It is amazing how I love these 'open' dates. It's entirely possible that I will do something in the evening, but it will be something that I think is the right thing at the time with FFP and whoever. I will go to the gym but I won't be rushing to get home and shower for an appointment. I may go to Dad's and get stuff to start on his taxes. But if I don't get that today then there is always tomorrow. I love blanks on the calendar. Which makes you wonder why I fill up so many of my days. My friend SuRu said last night that I usually "plan ahead." She said someone else had asked her out last night at the last minute. Indeed. I bought tickets to last night's event well in advance and invited others to come. People were getting on a waiting list for no show seats when we arrived as it was sold out. Planning ahead is good. But, ah, a blank day on the calendar!

A Question of Fashion

Trends come and go, don't they? What's shiny and new becomes dated and useless. We built an entertainment room in 1994. Now the cabinet for the TV (sized for an old school 36 inch set) dates the whole arrangement. Inside the cabinet is equipment for playing CDs and DVDs (but no Blu-Ray or that other thing). Also: a turntable, a cassette deck, a Laser Disk player. The DVD player also accepts VHS tapes. (No Beta either. That would be rich.) I remember when cassettes and video tape and Laser Disks were shiny new technology. Heck, I remember the first time I got a color TV.

I am tossing cassette tapes left and right. Yes, I could play them in the big room. Yes, I have a portable cassette player (Walkman??) somewhere. And, yes, I can still play them in my car. So right now I've parked a bunch of books on tape and language tapes in my car. Because I'm going to listen "one last time" and then give them away. Or so I say.

Clothes go in and out of fashion. I tend to latch on when a trend comes that suits me and wear the clothes right through until the next time someone thinks to recycle it. Tailored suits for business wear. Tuxedo-look for black tie. For all the dictates of fashion, people and their clothes are very closely tied emotionally.

I think fashion and appliances is a hoot, too. Everyone wants stainless now, sure. But will white be in again one day? Or will everyone go to custom-faced Sub Zeros? Or will we have a retro look with what looks like a big compressor atop an old school frig really being a personal beer keg?

I had a really weird day yesterday. Rather than continuing the sorting and such we shoved things back into closets and drawers and cabinets so some friends could see how big the rooms were. It made me realize that we still have miles to go to get through all the stuff. We have gotten rid of so much. How can we have so far to go? I also continue to be amazed at all the spots around the house where old screws, nuts, bolts, pens and pencils, buttons, coins, keys, scissors, letter openers, clips, and small metal or plastic pieces of unknown origin lurk. And I'm starting to ask questions like "how many denim shirts do I really need?"

The weirdness of the day multiplied after our friends visited. I decided I could get a quick workout before a meeting. I pushed the opener for the garage door on my side and a cable severed and the spring flew to the other side of the garage. Fortunately there was nothing there...FFP's car was outside. After FFP and I assessed the damage and he called our garage door guy, I headed to the club. But on 45th Street a line of cars was stopped for some reason and the guy behind me didn't stop in time. No serious damage to me or the car, but the time it took for me to get his info just in case made me turn around and go home. I've been deterred by one thing and another from my regular exercise (except for tennis which I don't count) lately. That will be rectified tomorrow, though. Barring unforeseen circumstances. As they say.

Today's entry is disjoint and weird, too. That's the great thing about blogging, though. Especially when you discipline yourself to do it every day. Every single entry doesn't need to be a gem. Does it?

I Was Drinking Wild Turkey

The photo looks like a bleak wintery scene but really it is the reflection of our new home (and power lines and trees) in the window of a guitar store on South Lamar.

If you ask me if it worries me to be committed to paying cash for a tiny piece of that building this summer with no buyer for our current 'ranch' I'd have to say, well, yeah, a little.

But that wasn't why I was drinking Wild Turkey.

We have some people coming today to look at the house informally. Friends. Who might be interested when the time comes. And the house is a disaster with closets and shelves and cabinets turned inside out as we sort and eliminate.

But, no, that wasn't the excuse for the Wild Turkey, ice and water.

I was watching Super Tuesday coverage, marveling at (1) how excited people get about their candidates; and (2) how some states voted for people I would do a write-in against if pressed.

And maybe a little whiskey is in order while watching shows about politics. But everyone knows I prefer Jack Daniels Black Label or a single-barrel craft Bourbon, don't they?

I didn't feel perfect either but for my particular ailment I knew that a certain dose of Advil was more likely a cure than whiskey.

I had a conversation with a friend:

"What are you doing?"

"Sitting here drinking Wild Turkey and watching the election."

"Why are you drinking?"

"Because so many people I know can't!" I asserted. And, while several friends have nasty diseases and treatments precluding alcohol, that wasn't really it either. And why Wild Turkey?

I sort of felt like having a drink. I sort of wanted FFP to make me a Bloody Mary from our friend Al's recipe, but I decided I should have something I mixed myself. There was a giant bottle of Wild Turkey in the pantry and only a 'corner' left in it. So no big mystery. A drink sounded good. I could recycle a giant bottle. And ice and filtered water were readily available.

It tasted good, too, and I suppose it made me nod over the politics before it was all too much and made me ill.

One Last Time

No, it's not my last post on Visible Woman. In fact, I seem to have become rather addicted to posting every day. (Displacing from downsizing, I suppose.) I shot this Sunday, a detail in a thrift store window of mannequin feet and my friend and I reflected. And, no, it probably won't be the last time you see a shop window here reflecting the not so mysterious photographer.

But I've been thinking of the phrase "one last time" a lot lately. As I clean out a closet I think "this may be the last time I clean this out before I move out forever." Or as I look at the winter-bare backyard I think "this may be the last time I wait for the blooming, budding, leafing out of spring." Certainly as I schedule things to be fixed and maintained I think "this may be the last time we have to take care of this particular thing." When we put something in 'curbside mall' or take it to the thrift store I think "I may never see that object again." (Usually followed by "thank goodness!")

I found it all a little depressing for most of yesterday. I'd spent the day with the elderly and in my own not-so-young head. First trying to get a stopped-up sink fixed at my dad's house. Watching the seventy-year-old handyman try to do it and my dad, weary from his 'chores' sitting on his walker seat, everything and everyone seemed old and broken. Then, after giving up and calling a professional plumber and worrying about my dad just supervising them, I had to take my ninety-seven-year-old father-in-law for a haircut. I mean he's amazing. But still. Everything you do with the old folks feels like it's in slow motion and it might be the last time. When Dad had me stop for provisions, he mentioned that I should get a gallon of milk. "It's a little heavy for me at the store, but I can lift it from the refrigerator." What a winding down of capability life is, I thought, curling the grocery bag with the milk in it as I went to the car.

Later my computer guru stopped by to haul away an old external hard drive, a printer and a fax machine. (He not only consults on the new stuff but hauls off the out of commission for recycling.) He is a former ballet dancer and IT guy and now a student finishing a computer science degree. We were talking about my desire to get a new computer setup (it's been quite a few years around here) and he pulled out his Mac Book and started showing me how he ran it with VMWare and XP and Apple windows. He is so young and eager that it made me feel better. Not that he's that young. He's in his thirties, having fulfilled his dream to be a professional ballet dancer before going back to school. I told FFP later that I would pay him just to come over and cheer me up.

FFP and I went back to a place that's recently reopened after a fire for dinner. Mother's Cafe in Hyde Park. We've probably eaten there a hundred times, enjoying the vegetarian fare even though we are omnivores. The menu is still very similar. I wondered how often we'd make it there when we lived downtown instead of North Central. At least I made it there 'one last time' for a Mom's Reuben (an open-faced sandwich where the rye and kraut and cheese have never seemed to miss the meat).

Says it All

If you look carefully in this shop window reflection with the Salvation Army logo, you will see that there is the reflection of a tall building. This South Lamar shopping strip (which has thrift stores, Alamo South, a Thundercloud, a Mexican restaurant, a spiritual book store, an electric scooter store and some guitar stores, etc.) is situated so that many of the south and east facing windows show a reflection of my future home. Notice there is no longer a crane.

We haven't actually donated stuff to the Salvation Army yet, but we have talked with them about picking up some bigger stuff. In order to move into our place in the big building, we have to give away and throw away. Yesterday we worked on cleaning out various spots. We employed curbside mall (a cardboard free sign and the curb), tried to Freecycle some stuff, filled the garbage can, etc. I was cleaning a surface in our walk-in closet where pockets are emptied. I wish someone could tell me where all those buttons come from. I mean I don't think I have that many clothes that are missing buttons! The coins, mint packages, etc. I understand. I am always mystified when I find yet another key that unlocks who knows what.

Today will be another day of sorting and eliminating. It never ends. Or so it seems. It has to, though, at some point. But I can't see the end.

Weather Changes

Yesterday's temps were in the 70's. This picture was taken a couple of weeks ago at the pool at our club. The temp was somewhere near freezing and the heated pool created a fog of steam but wasn't tempting any swimmers.

Everything ebbs and changes like the weather. We age, things break, the things we do, the people we see, the battles we're fighting are always changing.

I learned or relearned a number of things yesterday while working on cleaning out our storage room. Ballpoint pens dry out faster then felt tips when left unused for years. Liquid paper (yeah, I know, how often do you use that) will dry out and encrust the little brush so you pull out a naked little tube from the bottle. Yes, I'm still allergic to dust. No, it's not easy to figure out what possible use some things ever were to you. Yes, no matter how much you toss or return to clients you will still find yet another video tape of a commercial or old school PMT or negative. And, yes, you can offer just about anything on the Austin Yahoo Freecycle group and get multiple potential takers. And anything left on the curb will eventually be scooped up. We tossed, we found new homes for things. Both of have stuff in our cars to deliver to various groups. I walked across the street with a load of stuff to give the neighbors. I prepared a Freecycle batch of several cubic feet. The garbage can is overflowing and we are moving to bags with pay-as-you-throw stickers. And it's days until trash pickup.

I was glad yesterday when it was time to switch gears, take a shower and go out to a charity event. The moderate weather gave us a chance to leisurely stroll down West Sixth. Leaving the piles and messes and dust behind. Until today. Must work on it again. Watch hours of pre-game and a long Super Bowl? Nah, I don't think so.

You Learn Something Every Day

I'm not too good with cultural things, pop or otherwise. Always learning. Charo didn't mean much to me. A hot Latin lady (she's Spanish actually) who swiveled and joked. Had to be pretty old by now. So she surprised me last night with her energy, svelte figure and her flamenco guitar work. But you learn something every day. I wouldn't have thought Eartha Kitt could still put on a show either but she did in 2006 at another benefit for Austin Cabaret Theatre. (Last night's show was their benefit, too. See another picture here.)

As we sort through books, FFP occasionally holds one back from the thrift store or being archived for keeping in the condo (or storage) to read. He was reading Terry Southern's Candy a couple of nights ago and laughing out loud. I'm pretty sure I never read it but I did see the movie once.

When he was laughing, he said. "This is hilarious. It's based on Candide, you know." No, I didn't. But, you know, you learn something every day.

Child's Play

For some reason I was thinking of my childhood yesterday. It was before I accidentally found and scanned this picture while looking for pictures from our wedding. (Another story for another day.)

I was thinking about when my aunts bought me a basketball one year. I was about eight I think. It was a great gift. I loved sporting equipment and fantasized about playing sports. Except. We lived on the farm then. And we had a small front porch, a smaller back porch and a gravel drive leading from a dirt road. We did not, of course, have a basketball goal or truth to tell any concrete to dribble it on. I was still enthusiastic about owning it, but I probably went back pretty soon to pretending to be a cowboy and that the 4x4 on top of a fence was my horse. I had a football, too. Football doesn't require concrete or a goal. But another person is a good idea. But my parents were too busy, my sister uninterested. I do remember kicking a lot. I got pretty good at kicking. I'd punt. Then I'd go get it and punt the other way. I used an empty black land field for my playground. Occasionally I got to go to town and toss some baseballs with some little friends (boys).

I'm not saying my lack of athletic skill is that I didn't have the equipment and setting. When I took up tennis in in my flush days post college, I didn't exactly become a pro. When I got to join a tennis club, things didn't greatly improve.

I think the main thing I gained on that farm, while losing time in becoming an athlete, was a deep imagination and the ability to live in my head. Even play sports there.

Curating the Long Goodbye

It's not bad enough that you are reading a blog that already (before this one) has 99 entries labeled 'downsizing.' Yesterday I had this idea....

Now, I have lots of ideas I don't implement from novel and screenplay plots to theme parties to business ventures to art works.

So this idea came from, well, downsizing of course, plus the desire to have some people over to the scene of thirty years of parties and fund raisers and entertainment before we turn over the property to someone else to fill with their stuff and create their own memories.

I thought that it would be interesting to have people over and to curate stuff that is still here with a little 'show catalog.' There would be descriptions of objects, where they came from and where they were (perhaps) going. There would be descriptions of things that happened in the rooms.

Here are a few silly examples:

"This room was added to the original back of the house in 1994. The northern doors from the kitchen were originally windows in a breakfast nook and the southern doors (from the room the owners called the 'bonus' room) was the backyard egress with one door and a small porch. The owners remember their Old English Sheepdog when his eyesight was failing missing the small porch all together in his eagerness to come inside when called. The room features a cathedral beaded ceiling and a built-in media center and built-in surround sound. Equipment is still in place to place antique media like VHS videos, Laser Disks and cassette tapes. The room was used to host benefits and events for Project Transitions, Austin Cabaret Theater, dance companies, Ballet Austin, Austin Lyric Opera and many others. Private events featuring plays, music and frivolity with various guests lists were sprinkled throughout the decades and featured this room for the last fourteen years."

"The Doug Whitfield paintings in this room were purchased at various times in the past. The first two on the left and right of the north wall were purchased at the Fiesta at Laguna Gloria from the artist. Year unknown. The owners plan to try to use some of this art in their small condo. But bids are welcome."

At the parties where we passed out these 'catalogs' we would serve drinks limited to the partially-full bottles of booze and the wine accumulated over the years in the climate-controlled closet we call a cellar. The old-fashioned (original) metal sliding doors in two of the bedrooms and the front of the refrigerator would be used to put up with magnets various ephemera found while going through every box, drawer, closet, nook and cranny of the house. As shown in above scan. Meticulous museum-style descriptions would be in the catalog, of course.

Well, it's the end of the month. And I have duties. So enough of this frivolity. But you get the idea. My mind is full of amusing and unimplemented ideas. Just as my house is full of amusing and underutilized 'stuff.'

Time for Reflection

At least the photo is not another shop window. It's FFP with his reflection at Jeffrey's bar. (Which is remodeling. The tile murals are altogether gone now.)

I am very jealous now of the time I spend (usually in the mornings), writing whatever I like here in the Visible Woman's space and/or over at Austin Daily Photo and/or in The Journal of Unintended Consequences and/or my private journals. Even with 'duties' pressing in on me (errands for Dad, a workout, downsizing, end of month business stuff, taxes, chores, organizing stuff for my country club board duties) I still spend some writing (well, typing anyway) and fooling with my digital pictures, usually from the time I get out of bed until time for my tennis game or I feel I must get started with my day.

It is a pleasure to write, er type. For me anyway. I know it is painful for some people. And I know that feeling when you have to write something specific and it isn't coming. But diaries, journals, blogs? Say whatever you want? What's not to like.

So that's how I start most days. At the computer. Caffeine and reflection. (And not just in the photos.)

Je Ne Regrette Rien

Okay, this picture. I took it of my left hand in the summer because I got this bruise that looked, well, like an 'old lady' bruise. And I thought "man, I'm getting old." I didn't know how I got it and I haven't had one that looked like it since. I didn't look at it with regret when I saw it, though. Regret isn't something I spend a lot of time on. I'm turned toward the future, hopefully armed with lots of learning. From mistakes.

I asked my dad if I could do anything for him this morning on the phone and he said "not unless you can turn back the clock about twenty years."

It's best not to regret anything except the inexorable passing of time. And you can't stop that so why regret it.

I asked FFP yesterday if he regretted giving anything away. He said not really and I said I hadn't either but he said that I once wrote that I regretted giving away an espresso machine he gave me when we got married. Ha. I guess I did write it. (He's seldom wrong about these things although I don't remember this.) I don't regret that now, for sure. We never used it after we got into owning a Capresso.

My lack of regret over giving things away is giving some measure of confidence to keep on tossing. Of course, it isn't going fast enough. But each cubic foot is a victory and there are little flurries when we get rid of a lot of stuff.

Last night we were dining with a very young lady (not yet thirty) and talking about bad financial advice we'd taken. I don't regret that either. I'm just glad that in spite of bad advice and our own boners we've managed to hang on to a little something.

Yeah, regret. It's so yesterday.

Time to Be Productive

Photo taken at a ceramics store on Burnet Road on Saturday.

I have to make it quick this morning, limiting the time that I allow myself to write a few paragraphs and sip coffee. It's funny but retired people also take their weekends off sometimes. Yesterday I was particularly lazy. I dawdled over coffee and writing and then watched the Australian Open Men's Final off my DVR while making sure I didn't find out the result. I drank more coffee and ate migas FFP made.

Then I had a workout for a little over an hour, starting a new book on the bike. (No, I'm on page 609 of Ulysses, no where near the end, but I wanted to read this one so I could loan it to my dad to read.) The book is Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded. My sister gave it to me for Christmas. It seems fantastic from what I got read.

Anyway, when I got home from the gym and showered it was after 1PM. FFP and a friend of ours had picked The Savages to see. My friend said something like "I want to see a light comedy that is uplifting at the end. But given the choices my short list is The Savages and Let There Be Blood." FFP had picked The Savages in spite of a desire to go to an Alamo. So by 2:50 we were watching previews at the Arbor. There seemed to be lots of violent, horror and fantasy in the previews. I leaned over to my friend and said: "I don't think I'll see that. Aren't aging parents scary enough?" I thought, from the reviews, that The Savages would be all depressing with a dysfunctional parent wreaking havoc on children in old age revealing all their flaws and wounds. It was all that but managed to have this vaguely uplifting finish that was either really silly, just tagged on at the insistence of the producers or a failed attempt to bring closure where little is ever found. I ended up liking the movie and liking the characters played by Laura Linney and Philip Seymour Hoffman in spite of the fact that they are types of characters I love to hate in real life. (She: pathological liar; He: Self-important academic. I love academics but only if they see the humor in it.) I guess what I admired was the set decoration and the direction and how everything added up for you just like you were peeking in on these people's lives.

Anyway, enough with the movie review. I should have seen this movie in the Austin Film Festival and for some reason I didn't. So, having spent time on it yesterday, I spent the evening eating take out Chinese and drinking wine and then watching Suddam Hussein's FBI interrogator on 60 Minutes. And then watching Talk Radio on DVD. (It is a fantastic story. I never heard of the guys in it until I read a movie review. It was pretty good. Especially the costumes.) And working the Sunday New York Times Magazine crossword. (Almost finished it.) And reading a little bit of the paper otherwise and falling asleep.

My day slipped away. I 'took it off' I guess as much as a dilettante can. (Reading and watching movies being my job, you know.)

Today has to be different. I have to get a quick workout and take care of business for my dad. His handicapped placard needs to be renewed. He needs errands run and I'm going to accompany him to a doctor's visit. I have to be more productive than I was yesterday. But it was Sunday.

Of course, now I've spent more time on this entry than I intended. Well, onward, dear readers. Get on with your days, too, now.

The Age of Things

This picture was just taken yesterday. (I know, you're welcome, not that you can tell much difference from my recycled shop window pix.) The shop is Home Girls on Burnet and they sell vintage stuff. You can glimpse a deco-influenced piece as well as the cat and me. All vintage things.

I'm reading Objects of Desire at the moment. (Among, you know, all those other books.) Its subtitle is "The Lives of Antiques and Those Who Pursue Them." It's funny, while downsizing (I'm getting rid of this book as soon as I've read it!) to read about serious collectors.

The older something is, the more trouble I have throwing it out. This is true whether it's a hand-written note or a ticket stub. A magazine or a video tape.

Yesterday I was gung-ho to get some stuff straight. I started a standard chore (doing laundry) and then started on the downsizing/organizing. I was attacking a shelf where I'd stacked a few old VHS tapes I hadn't had the heart to discard. One was labeled "1982 Wimbledon, Day 4." In fact, I discovered it had the Women's final, Men's semis and commercials for several of FFP's old clients. (Not to mention technology commercials for IBM that were hilarious.) I did manage to toss one other tape I couldn't get to play, but I wasted a lot of time watching this one. The pleasures of it! Men in short, tight shorts. Chris Evert, married at the time to John Lloyd listed as Mrs. J.M. Lloyd on the scoreboard. An umpire who sounded like the butler in "Rocky Horror Picture Show." The wooden rackets. Admittedly, I'm a sucker for tennis (witness all the Australian Open coverage I've been watching of late) but this is way beyond that. I could give this tape up (and probably will) but there is not much chance of recapturing it later on DVD. The match videos available on DVD probably have British commentary and certainly no great old commercials. And there aren't many available, I've found. The tapes are deteriorated, sure. They are over twenty-five years old! And I could transfer them to DVDs myself, but that's way too much trouble. So I'll probably watch this one last time and give them up. We won't even talk about the fact that there are still four VHS players (maybe five?) in this house. The one I played this on a friend was tossing out and I wired it in the bedroom so I could watch film festival submissions on VHS there.

The Pleasure of Wearing Things Out

When your shoelaces break, when a small hole or two starts to develop in your sweatshirt, there is that 'ah, gee' thing you experience. But, if you are me, I then figure it's time for something new or time to revel in the patina of something old. There is a certain 'je ne sais crois' in a ratty old sweatshirt or a pair of jeans you've wore out and softened over years of wear and laundry. People today buy clothes distressed by the manufacturer. (Even I admit that my jeans don't start out as stiff 501's. Of course, part of the that is my hips and thighs can't deal with 501's!)

The photo is a detail of a picture I took in 2003 of random stuff I'd collected in a drawer or box...spare shoelaces (and whimsical ones at that) and memorabilia and little junk. I have been sorting and paring down this sort of stuff all over the house. And still it appears somewhere else, in a forgotten corner.

Where in the World?

I watched intently as Jo-Wilfried Tsonga defeated Rafa Nadal yesterday. (What an inspired match from the Frenchman.) Every time I see Rafael Nadal play I think about where he comes from. Mallorca in the Balearic Sea. I wouldn't even know where that was except once, long ago, I was in Barcelona and I met a bunch of young Americans and we took a boat to Ibiza. The boat stopped briefly in Palma de Mallorca. But we were seeking cheap off season accommodations and food and we went on to Ibiza. I remember the boat getting there was exceedingly slow but we were on a different boat on the way back and it must have taken thirty hours. Or so it seemed. What a neat place Ibiza was though. Beaches, seafood. I believe I had a room with bath for about $4/day. It included three meals. But I splurged on a seafood feast I told my parents about in a postcard (above). For $2. I especially remember the delicious fried squid. Funny how when you've been somewhere the geography becomes less elusive.

For the record Jo-Wilfried Tsonga was born in Le Mans. He has an ethnic French mother and a Congolese father. Hmmm, now where exactly is Le Mans? Yeah. I don't think I've been there. But it is north of the Loire. And I've been there.

I hope I can travel more in the future. After the year of real estate hell and assuming we find some good help for the parents. Because travel is the best geography lesson in the world.

Dad, the Past and the Future

In 1952 someone snapped a picture of my dad and his mother and all his siblings. Dad is third from the left.

In 2008, yesterday, Dad had a day surgery but was put under general anesthetic. After which he informed the nurses he knew how to take care of himself at home, told them a few jokes and, once home, insisted on cooking his own lunch.

Yep he's a trooper, my dad. His own dad died in 1948 and his mother (center) would be dead in about a year. But fifty-two years later he is still going. (As are three of the sisters in this picture.)

You wonder when you see a picture like this if anyone in it could imagine the future. And you think, probably not. That's just how I feel, too. I can't imagine the future even as I try to plan for it.

Big Changes, Small Changes

This was taken a little over a week ago, peeking into the hole for the new Austonian condos. (Much fun has been made of the name since we call ourselves Austinites, but I figure its their hundreds of millions, you know.) Change is happening fast downtown and once ground is broken and hole is dug then before long up it will go. (We hope. Intel shell fiascoes would be bad for high rises.)

Our situation is changing, too, as we prepare in tiny small steps to change residences. We are going to buy new things, pick and choose from our old things, move things.

I like the changes small, really, but occasionally you have to make the big change. In 2000, we put my parents through it by having them decommission a house they'd been in for over thirty years and be homeless for a few weeks and move into a totally new place. My dad is settled into that new situation now and loath to change. FFP's mom and dad are dug into their home of over sixty years. They aren't even accepting of our change. FFP's mom wants to capture some furniture we are getting rid of for the move.

I was thinking yesterday about the subtle difference that small changes can make...in reading habits, writing, exercising. I'm always bellyaching about not accomplishing anything in retirement. But that's just because it's been the small things. Reading more. Becoming more informed. Writing more if only journals and blogs. Exercising and improving the quality of that very slowly.

I've learned where Gambia is located.

I've built up to the point that I used twelve pound weights for my bicep curls.

I've started James Joyce's Ulysses if not finished it.

I've taken the time to turn a single word over in my mind, making sure of the spelling and the dictionary definition. For example, dilettante. It's hard to remember which letter is double in that kind of word. And it's such a powerful word, too. Encompassing both a love for arts and the concept of being a dabbler. FFP says that when our move precipitates a need for new business cards that we will put on them, for a title, that single word. Dilettante. I love it.

Yesterday I was in the gym and I was thinking about sorting through the stuff, collage art and digital photography and a poem I wrote and a list I started of 'everything I owned.' I thought it would be funny to fuse photos of stuff and that list in a digital collage. Ha. I know I'll get that done. Well I went so far as to locate my poem again:

Dabbler, Babbler, Dilettante
Flitting about
Cannot stop.
Focus Free
Excuse me,
I must hop!

And I found my random list of stuff composed over several weeks or months in 2004. Happily or sadly a bunch of that stuff is gone. But not enough of it.

The Most Difficult of Subjects

No. It's not hard to write about shop windows. Sometimes family and love are a little difficult. But...money. Yeah, that's a tough one. Worked on a little essay about money for this space, but I haven't posted it. It's a gnarly subject. And today the stock market is crashing so it's an even more sensitive subject. Can you say recession?

This shop window reflection is from 2004. I can't see where I used in on my blog back then but I probably did. There are several things I like about it. Maps and globes, of course. But also the possibility that my hair is visible and wild. Of course, it could be a tree or bush!

The rain fell and while the weather was depressing it quelled my cedar fever. It left even the clay courts unplayable for tennis, however. I was bad about exercise yesterday, though. So I need a great workout today to make up for it. And I need to accomplish more than watching a zillion minutes of tennis, a French DVD and a program about how man made things would fall apart without man. (Yeah, History Channel. Not that great a show.) And reading papers and working crosswords. Because that's about all I did except for doing a few chores for my dad, lunch with a friend and a walk through Best Buy looking at things I didn't want. It was a Holiday for some working people and I took a holiday myself, I guess. But not today. Today I'm all about accomplishing things.

Favorite Aunt

I like my dad's youngest sister and the man she married. Because of their fierce independence and their willingness to keep going and come back from accident and illness to reclaim that. This is a picture of lobster pots on the dock in Maine when we visited their (summer) home in 2005 and went to the coast for a lobster and steamer clam feed and a look at the scenery. I wish they wouldn't maintain two homes. One in the middle of nowhere Maine and a rented apartment in the Dallas area. It's too complex, I think, when you are getting older. I mean we are almost two decades younger and we are simplifying. But still. I love the way they embrace life, the way my uncle hints that we need to go eat a bunch of raw oysters and exults when we do it, the way they have their cocktail at 4PM, health and situation permitting. When they are in Texas they sometimes manage a trip down here, but they always seem to manage a trip to Memphis to gamble. You have to love it. But I worry, yeah, that one day they won't be able to manage it all.

Family Dancing

[Picture is from September 2006, Design within Reach Store, Austin.] Note cool hairdo (not). And yet, no gray.

I love seeing my family. Especially my dad's sisters and my cousins from that side. Yesterday my cousin from Houston came over with his wife and two of my dad's sisters and the younger one's husband were down from Dallas. What I don't love about seeing family is wondering why my cousin (who is younger than I if only by a year or less) has gray hair. And why my aunts are older and my dad is using his walker around the house. We played a domino game called Spinners. It's mostly luck with a bit of strategy if you care to concentrate. Everyone can still follow the game and match the pips and complain about their bad draws.

But it's hard to ignore when you are with family how old everyone has become. Except me, of course.

Books--A Photo

Digital photos are cheap to keep. You can buy a terabyte of network storage for less than $300. This was a little bookstore in some town in Oregon. (I'm sure we actually bought something there.) We collected a quaint museum and a market there, too, I think.

While I'm down, down, downsizing, FFP tells me that the mother-in-law is shocked that we are letting some furniture go that FFP had before we married. We kept meaning to replace the table and breakfront since the style wasn't too our liking. Now she wants us to move them into her little house when we break for the condo. Naturally we just said 'OK.' I told Forrest that maybe she would outlive us and then she would have to deal with everything eventually. We laughed. But someone does have to deal with it. Eventually.

Possessed

Last time I visited Portland I snapped this picture in, obviously, Powell's City of Books. This section had books on toys and and couple of handy ladders for employees. I had quite a collection of books on toys and pinball machines. I gave them away. Even though I have lived in one place for thirty years, it isn't that hard for me to realize that there comes a time to let go of mounds of stuff, pieces of furniture, old ideas and ways of doing things.

I'm going to keep collecting bookstores. If not books. And I'm going to let go of furniture and acquire new stuff that works in the condo. Some changes aren't that hard for me. But some are.

Things Change

This photo is almost four years old. The shop is Tesoros Trading on Congress. I think the store is still there although they've also opened on South Congress and this store will go away when a hotel gets built on the two hundred block of Congress. Everything would be different today in the reflection anyway. Not to mention that the small girl shopping inside would have grown up. Change is the way it is. But we are so resistant to it.

It seems I have to face change more and more every day with our parents aging and our own downsizing and organizing.

Touching all this stuff, usually multiple times, before it is given away, filed away, shredded or tossed is both burdensome and joyous. We find ourselves reveling in certain memories, marveling at people we once knew. We shake our heads at opportunities and money lost and at the accomplishments we managed to eke out of circumstance. I'm going to enjoy this process when it's finished, enjoy living with a smaller number of select things. I'm sure of it. But the process is painful sometimes.

Today some relatives are visiting my dad. Reminders of the passing of time will abound.

Don't Encourage Her

My friend the playwright treated me to lunch yesterday (we take turns) and while we discussed his upcoming reading and Frontera Fest entry he somehow managed to encourage my shop window reflections. He went so far as to say I should have a show. Ha. Well, I have the artist's statement after all. So you have my friend the playwright to blame for this 2005 example. I tried to remember where I was when I took this and I finally did but only by consulting old journals I have online where I used a similar but even tighter crop and showed the picture before.

I don't think I'll be inviting you readers to a show of my photos any time soon. But you may be subjected to more of them in this space.

Meanwhile I am still blowing my nose and such but somehow I feel I've turned a corner in fighting this allergy or whatever it is. I hope so because I'm going to try to exercise, make a meeting and accomplish some things in the great downsizing of 2007 and 2008. Or maybe I will just enjoy feeling better and sit here and drink coffee until time for the meeting. There is a danger in feeling better. You might just revel in it unproductively.

Eyes Wide Open

FFP was shooting some pictures at a party last night for potential use in the neighborhood newspaper to which he contributes his weekly writing. The party was given by a young people's arm of the Heritage Society, Inherit Austin. We are honorary 'not so young people!' I guess they include us to do a little PR for them, but their parties are great. This was at the historic Littlefield House on the UT campus and the president of UT, Bill Powers, came by and met everyone. Lots of handsome young folks at this party. A tall friend offered to shoot us and he got a pretty good picture.

I'm still fighting allergies et al and yet I'm going to try to rescue a sick friend, play tennis and have lunch with another friend. I took a strong dose of cold medicine to alleviate the symptoms to get through the brief reception above. Worked pretty well. Have I mentioned that I hate being sick?

The TIB File

A reflection at the Austin Java City Hall Cafe. Enhanced with software.

Since we are deep in the downsizing here, touching everything and deciding its fate, it was natural for me to think of the family TIB file and how you keep some things because otherwise you fear there will not be evidence of how crazy things actually were.

The TIB file (not to be confused with the tub file or the round file, a euphemism for tossing something) is a file of truly incredible, um, brochures, briefings, bric-a-brac, banterings, um, well, actually the B, well it stands for something else here but you've probably already guessed it. No matter. Really, in our house, one of the shortcuts of language of our three decades plus relationship is 'TIB file.' It means a place for something that is (pick one) too hilarious/unbelievable/insulting/misogynistic/perfect for that book I'm writing on corporate stupidity to throw away but I have no idea where to file it.

Looking through one such file (it's possible there are more around here) resulted in some laughs and a pile of stuff that I may scan before putting in recycling or even, hrumph, keeping. I found an article clipped from a 1987 New Yorker, too. Here is the abstract of it from their WEB site. I mention it because a phrase in that article also entered the vernacular of our marriage but we had forgotten enough details about the piece (a send up of a legal ruling) to keep us from finding it on our "The Complete New Yorker" DVDs. That phrase was "absent his testimony." It is funny and much funnier when you realize that it was in reference to a dog. We have found in the last twenty years ample use for this phrase, oddly enough. Hilarity guaranteed. Good relationships are like that. Trigger words and secret language.

So the TIB file (or this one anyway) has been sorted. That must be significant somehow. Perhaps now I will make it through folders with such labels as 'Trigger' or 'Odd Facts and Input.'

Like secret languages, this entry is boring. Are you still reading? Then, as long as I indulged in another reflection picture and one digitally enhanced at that, I might as well mention for new readers nonplussed by all the reflections of various ilks that I once made a self-indulgent artist's statement for my body of work of digital photos of refections. Ha. I make myself laugh today. (Maybe my cedar fever is reducing its hold on my brain's humor center.) Hey, and my friend's response to that old entry is funny, too.

With that, I leave you, dear readers. I'm going to try to get some exercise and, you know, clean out another file.

The End of the Recluse?

Photo was taken this morning on Congress. It's a reflection in the window of the sales office for the 21C Museum Condominiums. The soft Bug is part of the art exhibit in the sales office. The eventual building will include a showcase for contemporary art.

Yes, I got out of my cedar fever fog and out of the house both last night and this morning. Can't say as I'm over the drainage and such. Managed to coddle myself yesterday for the hours leading up to a wonderful dinner party. We bought the party as a package from the Ballet Austin fete auction. Included were everything for a great party but guests. We were allowed to have it in a fabulous home using their kitchen and dining room and beautiful flatware, china, glassware, chargers, etc. A florist made beautiful cubes of flowers for the table. A caterer prepared the food and provided waiters. Wines were pulled from the collection of a local connoisseur to match the food. A piano player from the ballet came by to play during the cocktail hour. FFP provided the people, inviting people to dine and visit and share experiences and world views. We met one couple we hadn't met before he invited through some connections. The party was stunning and the food and wine wonderful although I was suffering from a little dulling of the sense of smell and taste. I managed to reach a stasis with the allergy and get through the party with no coughing, sneezing and a minimum of nose blowing. It was really great. The owners of the house didn't sit down to dinner with us but did visit during cocktails and apps and after dessert. It is really special to have such great food, service and wine along with great conversation from interesting people. The generous caterer, florist, homeowner, cellar owner and piano player donated their time and talent and we gave the ballet a nice donation and a good time was had by all, I believe.

I was a little choked up after I got home, but after a few more drugs I got a good night's sleep and actually stayed in bed until the sun was streaming in our southeast windows. By 9:30 we were headed downtown. We went to Austin Java for breakfast and read The New York Times. Then we walked around and over to East Sixth and snapped a few pictures. I think I'm getting better, allergy-wise. But just to be safe I think I'll stay in the rest of the day and read the rest of the papers and drink hot drinks. Maybe I will continue sorting some files, though. More about that, perhaps tomorrow, when I talk about the TIB file.

The Flamingos

Actual (paraphrased) conversation from, I think, yesterday:

Himself: Should we just get rid of the flamingos?

Herself: Eventually, but not right now. It helps people find the house.

We were talking about our cheap plastic flamingos in front of our house. We do use them as a landmark when we want people to find the house. When it is for sale, though? No. They are out of here.

There will be no place in condo life for cheap plastic flamingos. Our high rise will have strict rules about what can be on the balconies for safety and aesthetics. Fine with me. Sadly I once had an extensive collection based on the pink birds.

It is much easier to hang on to digital photos. This one is from May 2006, our anniversary trip to Paris. I talked about this shop window before using a different shot.

I think I have five or ten cubic feet of actual prints of photos. I have discarded (or given to the art magnet school for collages) a lot of rejects and dups. But more reduction will be needed. Some I have in physical form that started out digital and some that started out as emulsion have been scanned. But mostly it was (1) develop film; (2) stick in boxes, drawers, albums; (3) sort later until nothing can really be located; (4) despair at the collection and what to do with it. I have tried to move most prints and slides to archival quality storage. Also a lot of my mom's collection. But some are still in boxes, envelopes and cheap albums. Sigh. Yeah, it's easier to keep thousands of digital prints. If, you know, you have backup!

Keeping the Graffiti at Bay

I thought of posting this graffiti from South Congress on my Austin Daily Photo blog. But I decided to save those readers and just give it to you denizens of the Visible Woman. (The snowman is a nice touch, yes?) Not that I'm trying to protect those readers over there but, really, I need to get out and take some more 'representative' pictures for them. I've been a little under the weather with allergies (I guess, maybe cedar fever). A twelve-hour chunk of my day yesterday was devoted to sitting and drinking hot drinks and reading and watching TV and waiting for time to take more decongestant or Advil. Sad. It's good to not work so one can nurse whatever. I played tennis in the morning but the sneezing and dripping took a lot of the joy out of it. This morning I felt better until the drainage started while I was talking to my dad and I coughed some and, well, it wasn't pretty. Usually these things just take time, but I don't like giving them time.

So will I turn it around and accomplish something today? We have a stuffed to the gills garbage can going out today and a bunch of recycling. I've officially conquered the newspaper problem (for the moment, they keep showing up) with more going out than coming in until there are barely any papers that aren't today's sitting around. FFP just handed me some photographs to 'file' somewhere. I said "Yeah, I'll file them as well as I file anything around here!"

Mustn't get too discouraged, though. I have trouble looking at what I got rid of and, instead, tend to concentrate on what is still lurking. It's easy to walk around the house and see stuff that needs to be 'dealt with.' What's gone is starting to be a little more obvious: blank spaces on bookshelves (though there are still lots of books in lots of places), blank areas of rooms where something say that has been given away. But what's gone is overwhelmed by what's still here. Of course, when we are looking for something it is nowhere to be found. This morning we were looking for a spare key to someone else's house. I found unknown keys and keys to our deadbolt locks and keys to the mail box. But, well, you get the idea. Simplify, simplify. Eventually it will be easier by virtue of the fact that there will be fewer spots to look that have anything to look at. When you live somewhere thirty years things can wash up in corners of drawers and the backs of closets that are real puzzles.

Now if I can just start breathing easier I can get back into this crazy thrill ride that said we have room to keep whatever we want whether we could find it again, needed it, would ever use it or, even, remembered what its purpose was. That's hubris. A result of having too much space. The cure is painful, though. Sorting stuff and sorting it again.

By the way, I have no idea why I continue writing a blog every day. It must have something to do with displacing from everything else I need to do. There is no NaBloPoMo or Holidailies that I've signed up for. There is no requirement to meet. But 'just typing' here (and in my personal journal) feels like such an indulgence and treat that it feels like being nice to myself. And, I can do it while drinking coffee and sitting and waiting for the next sneeze or sniffle. But onward. Progress today. Just do something.

At a Glance

This picture was taken in November of 2006. I don't really remember taking it, but there is no doubt in my mind (nor probably in yours if you are a frequent visitor here or know me in person) that the shadowy figure on the left, reflected in the window is me. For visitors who aren't 'from around here' I would point out, too, that the nine-banded armadillo is having a tea party in the window. He is undoubtedly real (but stuffed). We see armadillos like this around here occasionally, live and (mostly) as road kill. But that really has nothing to do with my point today. Rather I'm interested in how certain I would be (and maybe you, too) that the dark shadow is me.

It's funny how we can recognize people at a glance with only the smallest clues. When I've only met people a couple of times, I'm terrible at it. But after being around them a while I can hear their voice or laugh around a corner or see a gesture or body type or body language from afar and know for sure who it is. I can't always describe the people I know. I may forget what color their hair is or how they groom it or even whether men have facial hair. I may not be able to describe how they walk or move their hands. But the sum total of those clues makes me recognize someone with no doubt in my mind. It's a tribute to how different each person is (even though they fall into clear 'type' categories) and to how our brains work.