the middle one

I had a talk with my dad the other day about the particularly legal ramifications of telling, well, the truth, yeah, but without going into details, or even really figuring out which details might be relevant.

The thing is, a lie necessarily includes the intent to decieve—someone uttering perfectly false information, if he himself is completely deluded, is not actually lying. On the other hand, socially at least, we manage to delude ourselves (and others) about our veracity by failing (intentionally or not) to make ourselves aware of the extent of contextual relevance. By extension of the first excuse, I suppose, if someone were honestly deluded in his impressions of a given context, he's still not /lying/...

On the other hand, there are legal (/logical?) devices for chipping away at the middle ground. (Ignorance of the law is no excuse, for one.)

So I guess I spent all day chewing on why I /like/ to avoid that kind of rigidity; whether it isn't self-delusion (or lack of self-respect) that allows me to sail through things, with no context at all, blissfully enjoying every "seriously?!" as much as every "of course"; whether the recognition of one's (eternal) ignorance can actually ride that line between wisdom and enduring guilelessness (naivete?); or if you have to be actually crazy to manage that (or if, that (and being crazy) are just handy excuses to avoid blame).

and then, against all odds, I am asked to type this out:

I am aware of the fact that whoever, in any matter within the jurisdiction of any department or agency of the U.S. knowingly and willingly falsifies, conceals or covers up by any trick, scheme, or device, a material fact, or makes any false, fictitious or fraudulent writing or document knowing the same to contain false, fictitious or fraudulent statement or entry, shall be fined not more than $10,000 or imprisoned not more than 5 years, or both. (18 USC 1001).

Wouldn't you like to know what was in the rest of the document?

update

I thought there wasn't going to be much (here) scarier than being in charge of provisioning a boat that's supposed to be at sea for a year with the (not non-existent, but) not terribly substantial experience I have in doing such things. But, apparently there's also

• Provisioning a boat that's supposed to be at sea for a year, with no experience, and no one coming to the store with me.


• Planning to provision a boat that's supposed to be at sea for a year with no experience, and no one coming to the store with me, but several people who have much more authority, and conflicting theories about the whole thing.


• Sitting around, waiting to plan to provision a boat, while also maintaining a delicate balance of power between people who have authority, and conflicting theories, but can't seem to nail down exactly how or when I should be doing this shopping they keep disagreeing about.


• Getting anxious about sitting around waiting to plan to provision a boat and, trying to be useful, taking a recently purchased (tiny—BMX-style) folding bike (with no helmet) down the (unfamiliar) streets of (I might add, scary) San Diego to the bookstore, and riding back with fifty pounds of instruction manuals over my (unbalanced) shoulder, narrowly missing collisions with
  
  
  1. a completely tanned, white-haired man in a matching pickup (think new paint /and/ rust stains)
  2. a couple of guys in a low-riding shiny black thing with sunglasses like the Blind Boys of Alabama who apparently thought that if they buzzed me, Top Gun-style, while whistling and catcalling, they might really get somewhere
  3. a discount liquor store called "Trader Mort's"
  4. at least fifteen dozen HUGE seagulls

All of which is, sadly, no where near as scary as thinking I'd gotten over a few things, but, having been reminded yesterday, being suddenly aware of how much I've managed to, just, you know, ignore (though, I'm still managing, I think)...

"this love is full of insane demands, and packed with fitful abstractions"

"I don't know exactly what he said, but it was the right thing because we didn't get annoyed."

Do you ever hear about something an old (substantial) crush is doing, and instead of making you feel bad and lonely (and all "what happened to that, anyway?") it just makes you remember that it's really good that he exists?

how to pack

(leaving aside the "before the last four hours before you get on a plane, planning to be gone for several weeks")

It's funny how packing, and particularly packing for a long trip(, and particularly packing for a long trip in a tight space) puts things in perspective. But this time, what I've been struck by is not the things I'm bringing, or the things I'm leaving behind, but the things other people have left behind. I wasn't tempted (as I often am) to muse on the nature of ownership as being, just, arbitrarily deliniated space; or to go through and catalog, library-style, absolutely everything I own (with a cross-referenced index that could take, literally, years).

Instead, I spent the last week returning things (mostly with the help of the good ol' USPS). Some of these things are obvious (an iPod, some old clothes, a board game). Some of them are a little less tangible (a strange sort of invitation; an acknowledgement that is (I hope) already outdated).

Some of them are yet to come (notably, some house keys).

But, you know, if you think I owe you something, you might watch your mailbox while I'm at sea. I'm sure we'll talk about it when I get back.

love,
me

if you catch the historical reference

nothing of consequence happened today.

Arthur-Miller Pink

I used to always envy people with collections, or even, just, kinda shticky taste, because it seemed like they were always getting stuff. If there was something you were really into (particularly if it was something that walked that line between specific enough to seem personal, and ubiquitous enough to be excessively over-marketed (ballet; soccer; softball)), people just bought you stuff that seemed to fit. All the time.

And it wasn't like they'd wait until your birthday. If they saw a little pink ballerina binder at the drugstore, you got a new binder. If they saw an Edgar Martinez baseball cap, you got a new hat.

I thought this was really cool. Until I realized that, first of all, that leads to you having all kinds of stuff you probably don't want; and also, while I now consider my taste (and my circumstances in life) to be specific enough to serve as such a category, other people seem to find it hard to nail down (a few amazing gifts from the last year in particular notwithstanding).

But I see this stuff all the time. And sometimes ... right?



Or is it just where I shop? (Or am I just the most narcissitic person who ever lived?)

after five days, forget it

In the next 96 hours, I have to

1. Make a two-week menu.


2. Photocopy the relevant recipes and paste them in my little book.




3. Mail all the hard to find ingredients, along with some collapsable measuring cups, to a recent acquaintance in San Diego.


4. Fill out—truthfully—Chinese and Cambodian visa applications.


5. Send them off.


6. Fill out traverlers' insurance information.


7. Fax it off.


8. Learn the chords to "Apology Song".


9. Practice it a few dozen times.


10. Make (and mail) forty or so buttons, preferably in some cutesy little bag or bundle.


11. Find my neoprene camera case (or buy a new one).


12. Attend my first-ever Seder dinner.


13. Play ping-pong on Queen Anne.


14. Make another hundred or so buttons.


15. Stuff them in a Crown Royal bag and into my carry-on (what will the TSA say?).


16. Take a red-eye to Orlando to hang out with my friend's parents.


17. Love it.


18. Stand awkwardly at the back of a movie theater, totally unimportant.


19. Feel special anyway.


20. Fly to San Diego.


21. Wonder what I'm doing there (while preparing a blog, a broadcast, a fridge and pantry, several computers and a beautiful little bed).




22. Make a few more lists.


23. Lose them.


24. Blog about it.

"feeling liked is tonic"

announcement

I'm leaving on a boat. It's hard to say when I'll be back.

(but I will be, so it's probably no big deal)

"generationally, we're all longing for rock and roll stardom"

Can somebody please explain to me why it is that it /always/ seems like a good idea to confess your deepest fears to a total stranger? (And, more importantly, how fascinatingly that plays out now that we've reached the age where people we once knew are basically total strangers, so that fake feeling of intimacy is even more convincing...)

hint

cheesy radio stations do it, why can't I?

If, hypothetically, you were going to be on a 55-foot yacht cruising around the world with four TVs, a full seven-speaker Bose surround-sound system (integrated into three distinct sections of the boat), and a whole collection of XMradio and TV subscriptions that don't work in the middle of the Pacific...

What are, say, four books you would bring, which movies would you buy, and what are the six or eight albums you simply can't live without?

I need

• those old standbys that are so obvious I'll forget them
• a few new things, to be opened like birthday presents every few days/weeks
• at least one category of material (maybe even with a little genre cross-pollenation) that could feel like a project of sorts

(p.s. Is it funny how this often gets to be the best part? I remember in seventh grade when we spent /weeks/ making mix tapes, because it was the only thing we (as helpless teenagers) could do to prepare for a three day road trip...).

such a good idea

a totally new context

I just overheard a guy say, "You know, it's like my dad used to always say: You can't judge a man's wealth by the stuff he has, or the car he drives." and I'm completely sure he wasn't talking about wealth metaphorically.

disregard all previous

Sometimes I hate that, even when I say things I don't mean to say—they're still true.

listen up, boys and girls

In the past week I've been reminded of a number of things, many of which have been sorted out in dreams (or via cell phones). But the best ones are probably those done in person.

Without going into details, I will mention only that last night I was reminded

1. That some boys are just good, you know?


2. That good boys rarely find good girls. (I know—what the hell, right?)


3. That it's harder than you'd think to be one of the good girls. (I'm working on it, ok?)


4. and also That infectious people can affect your judgement just as much as whiskey.

I was /also/ reminded That there's this band I've always loved the name (and members) of and, I now realize, had maybe never listened to until this afternoon, but that I'm definitely grooving to, suddenly (infection or no).

(Did I mention you can download their whole album for free on their website? Did I mention, also, that the strange world of publicity actually does appeal to me, though probably only aesthetically...)

And also, I love the clever use of domain names.

standards (all dressed up in jeans)

I can remember on any number of occasions (and also one in particular) being told, "I mean, I know you have a [figure]—I just never see it in all those [baggy jeans/hippy skirts/flannel pjs] you always wear" and all I ever did was giggle (or do that bemused, sideways, "really?").

And this afternoon some jerk came on the radio and announced (several times, I might add) that some poll somewhere (I know exactly where, but damned if they're getting my valuable publicity) had determined that yes, in fact, it's ok to ogle a woman if she's wearing "skanky" clothes and I was riled and remembered why it is I started wearing baggy pants in the first place (and also had this interesting moment where I realized I'm always claiming to act as though the world were the way it should be, but, hmm, this seems like a contradiction...)

and when I went out after work to buy a new pair of jeans (because in the last week I split /both/ of the two pairs I own, I kid you not), all it took was one feisty salesgirl announcing "Oh, those are /way/ too big" (well, and tossing the smaller pair into the dressing room straight past me) to get me into these:

intentions and (karmic?) investment

A while back I asked a friend of mine a strange question (surprise surprise). But it was one of those questions that I meant honestly (exactly as I phrased it) that was taken as criticism. He had all these obligations that looked to me like opportunities. But they were clearly weighing him down (in all kinds of ways, each one distinct). And as he told me about them (in a way that, I guess, might have sounded like complaining) I couldn't help but wonder how that worked, internally. I guess if I'd meant it as criticism, I would have phrased the question more carefully, but since I already felt like I was on his side (like, somehow, we were part of the same mystery) I just asked, "How is it that these things—these wonderful things that you're, far as I can tell, fortunate to get to do—get you down? Don't you like doing all that neat stuff? Shouldn't it be exciting and invigorating, not burdensome and exhausting?"

I meant it with an implicit "I'm on your side; I believe you; I really do want to understand(; I'm not suggesting that you don't, somehow, deserve to react exactly as you do)".

I asked because I felt myself completely capable of—and scared to death of—that kind of reaction.

I guess I'm nervous about prioritizing. I'm nervous about making the wrong decision about anything. And I guess that I've avoided this conundrum so far in my life by limiting myself to only the maximum number of commitments—personal, professional, or otherwise—that I could conceivably handle, were they to hit me all at once (though, admittedly, only by overextending myself from time to time).

You could do the same thing, I suppose, by refusing to make specific time commitments, to allow room for reshuffling right up to the last minute, but at some point it became clear to me that doing that conferred the same kind of lack of respect that I was trying to avoid by limiting my commitments in the first place.

But this seems an awful lot like my solution to teenage lack of self-esteem: I decided not to care. (And, obviously, everyone cares (from time to time, at least).)

So I guess the problem is, I avoided the question this time around by deciding that no one /else/ cared. And I still can't quite believe that they do (though, of course, I understand it intellectually). So now, suddenly (as another friend of mine put it this afternoon), I seem to have put enough out into the universe that some of it is coming back around. And it's coming back around in amazing ways. And it's coming back around in all kinds of different forms, each one distinct. And it's coming back around in the form of passive commitments, and necessary prioritization, and a desperate need to explain, explicitly, everything I thought I knew or had implied, and (suddenly!) an understanding that the synchronicity of values systems that only seem to be in lockstep because they've never quite competed is actually really important.

But I think the point is, when I say "I love you" it basically means—you're at the top of my list. You have the trump card, whenever you want to use it. And also, it's high time I figured out what /my/ trump card is.

thanks

to everyone who came out—it really meant a lot to us



And thanks, especially, to The Moondoggies for playing a fantastic set in my dining room. I will forever treasure that shard of broken cymbal. (Tyson thanks everybody, too.)

like flies on rice

Ok, fine, everything we've ever thought or felt has been thought or felt by a million other people (though, strangely, not the things we claim to devote our lives to, only the ones that are supposedly the most personal). (though, perhaps more importantly...) But why is that thought (that we've been having periodically since halfway through first grade) sometimes comforting and other times just embarrassing?

Also, how do you explain (without sounding like a musical theater snob, if that's not oxymoronic) that there's a difference between the delightful, ecstatic puns of, say, Cole Porter, and those of the jerk who named this shop.

a run of one

I recently purchased a button maker. Professional-style. And

(while I don't have any plans to sell my services to struggling indy bands who can't even afford to pay for internet access to find a local store that will do a run of 100 for roughly twenty bucks, (though, actually, the first 200 or so are being made to promote this film a friend of mine made that people seem to go back and forth on, but that at least his mother seems to have decided she likes, and that is, incidentally, being premiered at a couple of festivals later this month))

to cover the initial cost, I am hereby offering exclusive one-offs. Send me (a donation of) 1 dollar + 39 cents for postage, along with your name and address, and a copy of the image you'd like on your pin (digital or otherwise) and I will send you one, professionally handmade, 1" button.


Remember, these are small, and exclusive, so choose wisely (and be sure to include cropping instructions, if applicable).

Limit one per image; up to five per household—add a buck for each additional pin.



Oh, p.s. If you want to round up a dollar or two, I'll toss in one of my own (or some other poor sap's) design. (Be sure to include a note about whether your image can be entered in the general pool.)

If you don't have my mailing address (or, if you do, but you'd rather send a digital file than mail a cd) send me an e-mail and we can correspond about the state of things.

Please allow a week or two for production delays—waiting will only make it that much more special. (Your money must arrive first, natch.)

---

p.p.s. Though it really seems like it'd be more fun for me to get cash in the mail, it's been suggested that PayPal might be a nice option (/speed things up) so I have reluctantly (temporarily) added a "donation" link to the sidebar. (It won't work from within a post.) Click if you dare. (And don't forget, given the convenience, to send me your image.)

I'm totally famous already

The other day, gmail analytics told me I'd gotten two hits from people searching for "OCD Kate Chapman". Sure. Why not? I talk about it enough (though it is a little strange to think of people googling it...).

But today I got an e-mail from someone thanking me for the cd I sent over. Something about some guy having sent it and really appreciating who knows what. And I almost responded saying, "Um, I think you've got the wrong Kate Chapman." but then I remembered that sometimes SPAM sites wait until they get a response before doing something really nasty like launching a tapeworm into your hard drive through the browser window, so I thought better of it, googled myself (+OCD) and voila!



So, basically, yeah, I've made it, guys. Who needs to have a show when I already have a cd (and people e-mailing me to thank me for it)? (But, does anyone know if I'm any good?)

once more

Saturday, 10 March 9pm.

from The Fabulous Girl's Guide to Decorum:

Flowers, while a lovely thought, are actually quite inconvenient, because the host or hostess has to find a vase, cut the flowers and arrange them all while greeting other guests. If flowers are her choice of gift, the FG will have them delivered ahead of time.

(photo by Sarah)

my life, in barcodes

I think this program is about to change my life.

And it was made right here in Seattle? (At the world's worst coffee shop, but hey...) Still, if anyone knows any reason why I ought not to shell out forty bucks I /shouldn't/ spend to organize my library (mostly because that money is going towards fruits, veggies, olive oil, and stuff made from scratch), or wants to pay me $40 to organize /their/ library, speak now before I am overcome with barcode scanning joy.

help?

So, there is some chance I will be gone. And for some time. Don't hold your breath just yet (I'm trying not to count chickens), but it might be a good time to start thinking specifically about those "desert island books".

in addition

Yesterday my house smelled like cookies.

Today it's just burnt, stale cookie dough.

Don't you love it when things like that actually happen, and you don't have to explain whether or not there's justice to go with the poetic?

the spud gun analogy

Once, walking home from third grade, my best friend and I came around the corner onto our little street and there was this huge "BOOM [pause] splAT". We were confused, on our guard, but also giddy. It happened again. Finally it happened and the splat at the end was close enough that we could locate it, and we ran over, and it really looked like a smashed potato. And we thought, "Really? Did a series of potatoes just fall out of the sky very near to us? What on /earth/ is going on? [but in more of a giggly third-grader way]".

Of course, we sort of knew. Or, at least, could venture a very accurate, if non-specific, guess. It was the neighbor boys. (and we didn't get the thermodynamics lesson until later, but) They had built a potato cannon (out of PVC piping and, I think, the WD40 they'd been killing ants with earlier).

I tell this story all the time, but I told it to a friend of mine last night (in the context of, I guess, a dozen other things), and I hadn't realized until just then that what's really miraculous about it is, I don't remember feeling (even for a moment) scared, defensive, alientated, excluded, or even, really, attacked. It was clear from the moment we heard the first sound that we were part of some new game that we didn't yet know the rules to.

And I know the rest of the world doesn't work like this, but I think this is what I revert to in intimate relationships. At a certain level of familiarity, I expect that we're in (whatever) it (is) together. And I'm not exactly aware any longer of me bringing one thing and him bringing another. The whole world works a little differently. (Which, maybe, is why I'm always saying, "I don't want to play.")

And I think this is why people often feel attacked by something completely out of left field. And also why I don't see how it's not fun.

antique shopping

engraving

How do you get people to be /continutally/ excited about things? Because I've managed to, say, get a bunch of people to sit down on the porch and read through a Pinter play several hours into a night of drinking, but what if you wanted to do it regularly? Or, like, how many people like to get together and sing?

context/attitude

(once again)

well, maybe not exactly subtle. And, I suppose, maybe /twice/...

this is going to sound strange, but

What if someone's really twisted? Like, torqued around a particularly sticky set of intercostal joints. And what if, maybe, all of this stems from sleeping 25 years on one shoulder? D'you think such a person could wear, say, an arm band full of spikes as a reminder not to turn over during the night?

what makes some parodies disappointingly derivative

and others just really funny?



(click my 'pretty things' link to the right, if you don't get it)

I love Shakespeare

I love musical theater. I love the big band jazzy sounds of the twenties and thirties. (And I (used to) literally skip down the street, fairly bursting with song, so the term 'believable' actually means something to me in the context of musicals.)

I love it when people refer to things academically (or encyclopediaclly) as "flamboyantly intellectual".

I love unconventional casting choices (and I /love/ that girl who always plays either an IRA member or some kind of Russian spy) and I even love people who lisp out of the sides of their mouths (though, I saw this production of The Pirates of Penzance once that was indecipherable).

Hell, I love Kenneth Branagh. (Did you see Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets? Exactly.)

But this movie



is unforgivable.

Why didn't anyone warn me?

(and Please don't tell me it's just because I fell asleep halfway through and I really should start again and watch the whole thing, because I don't think I can take it.)