Bitch

Shortly before Christmas, I was driving home from work in my little Toyota Matrix, the sun slanting through the back windshield, which definitely needed to be washed. Then I saw it: someone had written the word "Bitch" in the  dust on my windshield.

I was stunned. Why would anyone write such a thing on my car? Where was the car when it was written? In a store parking lot? In the garage at work? In my own damn driveway?

Driving along, my obsessiveness goes into hyper-drive. Who dislikes me enough to do such a thing? Being a bitch, to me, is someone's way of saying I have infringed upon someone's happiness; I have asserted myself over them; I have somehow made them feel miserable; I have rained on someone's parade.

So I do a quick  inventory, and here is the thing: Apart from my position as the Mom in my own family, I have made a career out of not being in charge of anyone. I have no power to assert. I can, sometimes, be abrupt or demanding insofar as I need something to do my job--so I guess maybe someone doesn't like my attitude? But frankly, the people that are most likely to see this side of me are the ones I work with, and writing "Bitch" on someone's car window in the garage of a family attraction that's under 24-hour surveillance seems a little risky. Seems like a stretch.

So I think about more random interactions--could it have been someone I did business with in a store? But I have a well-developed reflex of being extra nice to anyone who works in a store of any kind. I can't think of a single negative interaction.


Could it be my driving? This is possible, as I am well-known for driving the speed limit like a little old lady. And some people really seem to hate it when I follow the rules. (Cars give everyone a suit of armor and turn many simple traffic interactions into fierce jousting matches.) Or could it be my parking? I'll admit, I park in some tight spaces just because I can--my car is little. Maybe someone was thinking that by parking their SUV at a 45-degree-angle across two spaces meant that no one would be able to park next to them, and when I dared to do it, it made them mad?

Finally, I conclude that any of these reasons for writing "Bitch" on my car leads to me write off the writer. I have tried, but I cannot take this seriously--except for the part where it's cowardly and just plain mean. And that tells me far more about the writer than anything else he or she was trying to say.

Don't. be. mean.

My Weekend with Andre

I just finished Andre Agassi's autobiography, Open.

It took more than a weekend--I think I polished it off in 9 days. It was so hard to put down.

Strangely enough, it's not so much about tennis. It's about growing up, making choices or being unable to make choices, friendship, family, celebrity, normalcy, luck, and accepting who you are.

It is hard to fathom that this guy started his career playing against McEnroe and Connors (yup) and finished it playing Federer and Nadal. I kept tabs on him through all of it. I recall the big hair, the no hair, Brooke-cam, the Barbara Streisand "he's highly evolved" statement, becoming number one and falling so far down in the rankings that he had to to play the qualifiers. I also recall the first time I saw him hit a ball in person--it was a backhand return of serve down the line that was absolutely on fire. Put his opponent on notice.

But the Andre I recall best is the one from 1999-2006, after he found Steffi and committed himself to the game for good. I had no idea that he endured such physical pain, nor that his psyche had so much scar tissue. Or that he dropped out of school in the 9th grade. Or that his personal life had such an affect on his game--that he brought home to the office every day and every match. I admire his honesty. Great read.

IU v. SCAD

It has been one year and one week. I have been cross country skiing again in the last week. I think I need to take note: February is when it happens. Forget December.

My daughter is growing up and trying to grow away. She is trying to choose between IU and Savannah College of Art and Design. Meanwhile she awaits word from Tulane, though she does not really care.

This is art school. Thanks to her wonderful father--she can choose whatever she wants. She can do it. And I am trying hard to sit on my hands and let her be--because if I remember correctly, that's the right thing to do.

So, I am doing some deep breathing.

Ommmm.....stay with me...no matter where you go?

muscle memory

Today I went cross-country skiing alone. I was not far from my home--just up the street at a church that adjoins some soccer and baseball fields. A little woods bisects the area.

For me, cross country skiing is nothing like playing tennis. I learned to play tennis when I was seven or eight--and I played until I was 16. Then I picked it up again at age 36, and have been at it 2-3 times a week for 15 years.

My body learned tennis from those seemingly endless hours on the country club courts. The lessons were reinforced by watching some of the greatest tennis players of the 1970s, all of whom came to play at out club every summer, including Billie Jean King, Evonne Goolagong, Margaret Court, Chris Evert, Linda Tuero (OK--Linda was just excellent on clay, but whatever), Arthur Ashe, Ilie Nastase, Stan Smith, Jimmy Connors, Bjorn Borg.

So when the time came to take the game back up, it wasn't all that hard for me to figure out what to do. In fact, it was not hard at all. I wasn't great at 16 and I am certainly not now, but despite a 20-year layoff, my body knew the motions. Every shot had made an imprint on my mind in the 1960s and 1970s, and if I could just exert precise muscle control (the problem), I could make the shot.

Not so with XC skiing. Vaunted as one the very best forms of exercise, I just happen to love feeling nice-and-warm in the midst of the snow and wind. But I have no idea how to do it. The sport uses muscles I did not know I had. I try to grip phantasmal things with things inside my insides--just to stay upright. No balance, wobbly wobbly, all fall down. Sitzmark. But I ski along because it is bright and beautiful and quiet and chances are--for just a moment--you are the ONLY one who sees what you see.

The most beautiful thing I saw today was a simple streak in the snow--a track that started in the middle of nothing and ended just beyond. No tracks in or out. Just a relatively broad point of impact, and a narrow streak leading up into nothing. Oh....and a small explosion of downy feathers littered a cross the undisturbed snow just before the mark begins. Some raptor swooped in and picked up...what..a mouse? Another bird?

It was weird--like a drawing of a death.

return of a legend, and so easy on the eyzz

Australian tennis great Patrick Rafter plays the Australian Open today, entered in men's dubs, Legends division, with partner and fellow Aussie Wally Masur.

I always liked watching Rafter play because he was intense, displayed a lot a heart, and was always a good sport--always respectful of opponents. He peaked during the era of Sampras, and though he could not dominate like Pete (who was living magic), he was way more interesting to watch.

Rafter won the RCA Championship in Indy in 2001--his last year on the tour.

The magic revisited:

Thanks to Richard McCoy

Thanks to Richard at the IMA for sharing this.

This should be required viewing for anyone who attends a museum. All true. Even when Pinky dies.

Brain Rot and Dancing Bears

So, this is what happens when you spend too much time job hunting. You think ads like this one from Craig's List are really, really funny, and you send an email to all your friends to let them know about your latest potential pursuit.

Dancing Bear
I need someone to dress up in a bear costume and dance around.
$12/hr
Telecommuting OK

I think I may pushing the limits of friendship with this one!


But just when I think I am onto something, my son Elliot sends me this video clip by his Brooklyn friends Claymation Velociraptor. Wonder if I can make this work in Indy?

a wedding reading

Steve and I are spiritual, but not necessarily religious. When we were married, we chose this reading, from Shakespeare (a good one for the death-obsessed):

Sonnet 60

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end,
Each changing place with that which goes before
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith, being crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight
And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of natures truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow;
And yet, to times, in hope, my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

so much to watch, not enough time to take it in

What can I possibly do? Wall-to-wall coverage of the Obama inauguration already, and live coverage of the Australian Open (the Happy Slam) starts in just moments. For me, this means two solid weeks of TV viewing, and over the next couple of days, it means I will be flipping back and forth between coverage of these events. Morning, afternoon, and all night until the next morning in the case of the Australian Open.

Of course, the Obama inauguration is far more important, but in these bleak times, it's impossible to do too much Happy Slammin'. Only downer--Maria Sharapova won't be back to defend her title because of a shoulder injury. Too bad--the Williams sisters are the only other players on the w omen's side right now who consistently entertain and amaze. Get well soon Maria!

Leonardo's bad day....

This work is Leonardo's St. Jerome Praying in the Wilderness, now in the collection of the Vatican Museums. It is an unfinished painting that was at one time, apparently, cut into smaller pieces and separated among different owners to live separate lives in separate environmental conditions. At a later date, the various pieces were located and rejoined. You can see one of the sections that lived a separate life in the center of the saint's torso.

But, I don't really want to write about the oddities of this particular work's life--I want to talk about why I think it is not a very good piece by Leonardo. Please note that any work by Leonardo is at the very least a good work--and given their rarity, maybe I should say by great...but by Leonardine standards, this one seems pretty weak to me.

The problem, in my view, is in the rendering of muscles and tendons in the neck where they attach to the collarbone. It has the appearance of a big, flat, formless X cutting Jerome's head away from his body. It looks to me like a rendering error--a failure to create a sense of depth, which is precisely the sort of frustration that can put an artist in a dismal mood--especially if you cannot figure out how to correct it.

I am no art historian or conservationist. I just look long and hard at lots and lots of work. Leonardo's paintings are so rare--and I think I can actually say I have seen most of them in the flesh. They are always shimmering and elegant, and seem to have almost infinite depth.

This painting, like so many other things Da Vinci approached, was left unfinished. In the back of my mind I wonder--I would almost bet--that the artist was frustrated and unhappy with it. Of course, he may have just stopped working on it because he found himself in the midst of one of his major relocations, and just left it behind and never took it back up once he got to Milan, or wherever. But that harsh X would be enough for me to put down the brush.

As for St. Jerome, he is one of the most famous biblical scholars and considered a Doctor of the Catholic church. He is often depicted with a lion (as here in Leonardo's version) referencing a medieval story in which Jerome removed a thorn from the paw of a lion. Jerome also spent time in the Syrian desert studying the Bible and purportedly had a vision there. While there are many other documented aspects of his life and his important theological contributions--the wilderness and the lion seem to hold the greatest interest for Renaissance artists and their audiences.