Thursday, November 4, 2004

While I did the dishes yesterday after a most excellent dinner, Muse looked up from her newspaper and drummed her fingers.

“You know, we should go on vacation,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s been a while. Dinner was very tasty, by the way. I always like it when turns of phrase are cooked just right,” I complimented.

I let the water run over a dirty dish.

“Hey, that’s my specialty,” she replied. “So where do you want to go?”

The last dish was a challenge, which made it all the more satisfying when I did a final rinse.

“Well,” I said, drying my hands off and sitting down at the table, “someplace different. Doesn’t have to be exotic, just different.”

“That’s going to be tough. We’ve been to most places.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Hey, could I get a piece of that?”

I reached over and fished out the “Lifestyles” section from the newspaper.

“How about Tortuga?” Muse suddenly proposed.

“What?”

“Tortuga, isle of pirates,” she explained excitedly.

“Does this place even exist?”

“Probably. Definitely. I’ve seen brochures,” she sighed wistfully.

The thought of flying thousands of miles to a place that might still have pirates didn’t appeal to me in the least bit. I must’ve shaken my head or sighed, because Muse promptly assumed her lawyerly tone.

“There’s going to be sun,” she began, “and beaches. Nature. We could go swimming, hiking, all that fun stuff.”

“Beaches?”

“Yeah, beaches,” she nodded.

“That means there’s going to be booty as well,” I murmured.

“What? What did you just say?” asked Muse.

“Uh, I said there’s going to be treasure. Swag. I do so love swag,” I sputtered.

Good save.

“It looks like someone has his mind in the gutters,” said Muse with a huff. “I’m trying to plan a nice vacation and all you’re thinking about is booty?”

“I started collecting doubloons! Yesterday!” I protested.

She snapped her newspaper shut, got up from the table, and stormed out the room.

“Ass! All you were thinking about was ass!” she said accusingly as she rounded the corner.

“You mean, like, donkeys? Are there going to be donkeys in Tortuga?

“No donkeys, dear,” she shouted, “although there is a gigantic asshole sitting in the dining room right now. I’ll be back in an hour. If you’re lucky.”

She blew through the portico for a walk. And that was that. I was alone.

I cleaned off the dining table and breathed a sigh of relief. Sure, I got out of traveling and spending thousands of dollars on a pirate cove, for crying out loud, but at what cost?

Wednesday, November 3, 2004

Best line of the day:

“If you threw up on me, would you hold my hair back?”

If you say it really quickly, it’s almost like a tongue twister, except none of the words rhyme. We really haven’t had a good tongue twister in a while, come to think of it, and I’m beginning to tire of the one with woodchucks.

Should you invent one, share it with me by all means. I’d make one myself, but I’m feeling a little uncompetent today.

Tuesday, November 2, 2004

For the first time in a long while, I sat myself down and listened to a full hour of music, gentle reader, and boy was it satisfying. There’s a reason why notes have been around for so long. When you hear a certain tune or a few thoughtful words at just the right time, there’s something damn nigh therapeutic about the whole process.

My violin teacher lives in what she calls a “chicken coop,” and in the corner of this coop sits an ivory-colored bowl. It’s a gigantic bowl, as big as a bucket, and I assumed she used it to catch rainwater whenever her roof failed to do so. One day, after I remarked as much to her, she chuckled at my ignorance and calmly walked over to the bowl. She picked up a baton-like object, held it along the inner lip of the bowl, and went ’round and ’round the circumference.

At first, you couldn’t hear much, but the room soon vibrated with a rich, powerful note. Turns out it wasn’t a fancy bucket. It was a singing bowl, and while it sang my teacher dashed over to her shelves and fetched some smaller ones. Within moments, all the bowls were happily pulsing, and the room sounded positively primeval.

I could feel the sound–on my skin, in my gut, inside my very bones–and I knew these frequencies preceded my silly little life and would continue long after I left. The same thing happens, I believe, when you savor the right song. It resonates so much that it shakes out all your stress, all your cares and worries, and you gain a fresh pair of eyes when you’re still again.

Whether you’re studying tonight, reading the news, or watching those electoral votes like a hawk, you may want to enjoy some music. I linked to eSpew a few days ago, but this is so much better.