Lilac Colored Glasses

I’ve been noticing that many of the large scale bloggers that I read have been getting book deals lately.  Mostly they are parent bloggers and while they have admittedly often no idea what they are doing with their kid that makes them true to life and therefore they are appearing in books about loving your kid, even when you have no clue what you’re doing with them.

I can respect that.  I think they’re lucky that there is such a market for that sort of thing in this day and age, and I suppose it’s better to emphasize a genuine person who is sincere and loving as opposed to some pretentious asshole that condescendingly assumes to know the proper way to raise everyone’s child.

But another thing that I see lately is bloggers getting recognition for discussing traumas and depression and anxiety and mental illness on their blogs and something about that rubs me entirely the wrong way.

Please, oh please don’t get me wrong.  For some people, blogging about things from their past or the current issues rolling around in their head is cathartic and they have a huge network of people that give them support and advice and interwebby hugs and the like and they feel better and that is good.  I don’t respect anyone any less for wanting to discuss how they feel on their blog.  I mean, hello, that’s what a blog is supposed to be about, right?

I personally have a hard time reading blogs that only consist of self deprecating comments and/or references to depression or anxiety.  In all honesty I am not that interested in the day by day chronicling of how crappy you feel and why you don’t understand why you feel crappy and the never ending agonies of submitting to the fact that you need meds.  Again, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t think people should express those feelings or thoughts.  It’s not that I mind reading that occasionally.  I do mind it when that is what every single entry and comment on others blogs is about.  I’ve actually stopped reading two or three bloggers because I got tired of every post being a complaint or what I perceived to be a cry for interweb ego stroking.

Have I struggled with mental illness? yes.

Have I taken medication for it? yes.

Do I feel depressed sometimes and wonder what the hell is wrong with me? yes.

Did horrible things happen to me when I was younger that profoundly effect me emotionally? yes.

Do I talk about it in some dramatic confessional here on my blog? no, not really.

Occasionally I do break down and post about my struggle with my weight, being homesick or feeling depressed.  And I can understand why some people start talking exclusively about that sort of thing because I am always, always loved and supported and given overwhelming amounts of helpful offers and advice when I post about something like that and it’s nice to know that so many people care about you.

But I can’t bring myself to post about some of the deeper issues at the core me and my struggles with depression and self esteem.  I can face up to them personally and those who are the closest to me know all about my demons but I just can’t force myself to write about most of it here.  There are still two major things from my past that I have to come to terms with somehow.  I’ve been putting it off for years but I know someday I’ll have to really dig deep and find some release.

And now, when I read about these bloggers who are getting book deals based on poor decisions they made in the past, or their struggle with the very same things I struggle with, I feel cheated somehow.  I have wanted to be a writer since I was 7 years old.  And you know what, I’m good at it.  Maybe I don’t show that here because I use this blog as a casual exercise in writing, but I’m damn good at it.   I feel like skillful writing doesn’t matter though, because everyone just wants to read about someone else’s horror story; someone else’s struggle.  It’s like reading a biographical tabloid.  It makes me wonder if I was able to force my fingers to release my disgusting demons into the realm of blogland if I could somehow become a writer, just like I’ve always wanted to be.

But then my mind clears and I realize that I don’t have it in me to smear my guts all over the virtual page like that.  It’s not that I’m afraid, or even that ashamed anymore, it’s just not in me to do that.  I’m not an exhibitionist when it comes to the cobwebs in the corners of my soul.

I could go on and on telling you about the numerous traumas of my youth and I’m sure you would all be the wonderful supportive people that you always are and give me your kind words and sympathy and love.
I could do that, but I don’t want your sympathy.  I don’t want your impressions of me to be dictated by my past.  I want you to love me for me, without the tinge of the forces that created the person who I am today.

I had a very thoughtful post planned for today, two actually, although one is the beginning of a small series I want to do, so of course I’ve been procrastinating as much as possible on that one.  However, I was tagged with a rather unusual meme by the always intriguing, never ordinary Jo Beaufoix.

From what I gather, the original meme is to list 6 random things about yourself but Jo had done that already and therefore decided instead to list 6 random things about spider monkies.  Now my assignment is to list 6 random things about pygmy elks.

Well, I don’t know about you, but I know next to nothing about pygmy elks.

I do know about Flemish Giants though, so that’s what you’re going to get your 6 random things about.

1. Flemish giants prefer a nice white wine with their evening meal, preferably something fruity, like a pinot gris.
2. Flemish giants have a natural tendency to be skilled in tai chi.  Rumor has it that Pat Morita was trained by Wim, a master Flemish giant sensei, in preparation for his role as Mr. Miyagi in The Karate Kid.  The move known as “the crane” in the film is actually known as “the levitating Flemsih giant” but due to the ungainliness of the phrase as well as it’s tendency to be confused as something out of the Kama Sutra, the maneuver was renamed for the general public.
3. Flemish giants have an aversion to avocados, charcoal and bamboo bed sheets (but only the 320 thread count kind).
4. Most Flemish giants favor ecru over beige and cream.
5. Alcoholism runs rampant in Flemish giants. What else is a large rabbit supposed to do with his long days besides drink copious amounts of trappist beer and pinot gris?
6. Flemish giants belong to the phylum chordata, much like their very very very very very very distant cousin, the pygmy elk.

my first real attempt at photoshopping

And now I’m supposed to tag people but assuming the other 5 people Jo tagged do as they’re told and tag 6 others, that’s already 30 people doing this meme and I think that’s probably enough in my end of the blogosphere.

Right about the time I moved to Belgium I began reading a blog-zine called The Sneeze and that’s where I discovered Cloud Cult, an incredibly interesting group of musicians and visual artists that are pioneering a “Green band” culture in which they tour as green as possible and go out of their way to be green in their production studio, Earthology, which was fonded by Craig Minowa, the founder of Cloud Cult.

There is another bit of back story that is very significant for the song I’m going to share with you today. Craig and his wife Connie had a son, Kaidin, who died suddenly and unexpectedly at the age of two. After their son’s death Craig isolated himself in their farmhouse in Minnesota and began writing the music that ultimately became “They Live on the Sun,” Cloud Cult’s first nationally released album. You can read more about the evolution of Cloud Cult on their website. For now though, I’d like to share the song When Water Comes to Life with you. I was touched when I heard, not only the opening music for the song, but also the hopeful and comforting lyrics written by Minowa.

When Water Comes to Life – Cloud Cult

and when the angels come
they’ll cut you down the middle
to see if you’re still there
to see if you’re still there

and underneath your ribs
they’ll find the heart shaped locket
an old photograph of you in daddy’s arms

and then they’ll sew you closed
and give you back to the water
from where we’re all born
from where we’re all born

and you’ll feed the ghosts
and you’ll feed the living
you’ll be a stranger
and you’ll a friend

you’ll be the leper
and you’ll be the healer
you’ll be the hero
and the tragedy

and when they sew you closed
they’ll give you back to the water
from where we’re all born
from where we’re all born

and when they burn your body
all thats left is sand crystals
two tiny handfuls
all the rest is water, water, water

all you need to know
is you were born of water
you are made of water
you are living water, water, water

all you need to know
is you were born of water
you are made of water
you are living water, water, water

all you need to know
is you were born of water
you are made of water
you are living water, water, water

fyi- this is NOT the official video, it’s just an interpretation but it was the best recording I could find

The “Oh Crap CB took the camera I used for most of this week’s pictures to Germany” Edition (a.k.a The Kitty Edition)

Rex, the Gene Simmons of the feline world

blink….blink blink…blink

can’t…resist…the CUTENESS

For more weekly winners, go visit Lotus at Sarcastic Mom or click on the Weekly Winners banner above.

(Haiku Friday people, if you don’t want to read this first part, just scroll down, the haiku is after it)

You may remember a post about helping CB’s friends move from Gent to Zulte. Well, those are the friends that invited us out to barbecue last night. The original plan had been to meet up with them at the Gentse Feesten but when CB called his friend Willy*, we were invited to their house to cook out in the yard instead. I had no problem with this and neither did CB so he confirmed it with Willy and then, through a cluttered haze of rapid fire Dutch I was able to hear something along the lines of “we got a whole lot of kiwis in our biopakket this week so we’ll bring a fruitsalad.”

Fuck.

That pretty much meant I would be making a fruit salad for us to bring the next day.

“Why,” you may be wondering, “is making a fruit salad such a big deal?”

Simple. Because fruit salad has apparently become my “specialty.”
You know how every woman in your family over a certain age always has some sort of special dish that they’re expected to make at holidays and get togethers and functions? If not then maybe that’s just my family, which is where the Jewish mother thing comes in.

See, in my family, all of the woman over 30 seem to have a specialty. My late grandmother Marian made cranberry mould (spelling?) for Thanksgivings and apricot chicken for Friday night dinners with the family. My late great aunt Joan always made the Charosses for Passover. My Gram makes gefilte fish by hand and bakes amazing everything (but her big thing is mandel bread which is sort of like Jewish biscotti). My aunt Fran always makes jello salads and briskets and my aunt Karen, when she’s in town makes some good kasha and bows. Oh and my mom makes amazing mashed potatoes, potato salad, and dill dip with dark rye bread.

Everyone has something and no one ever steps on anyone else’s toes with who makes what (unless someone is sick, passes away, or it is cleared with the “specialist” in advance). Everyone seems proud of their chosen dishes and is always tweaking and embellishing their own recipes to make it taste better or feed a certain number of people.

But not me. What do I suddenly get tapped for every time we attend a friends’ place for dinner?

Fruit salad.

The funny thing is I’d never even made a fruit salad until I moved to Belgium. Then one day I made a container of it in an attempt to get us to eat all the fruit from the biopakket. Consequently, we were invited to Willy and Lilly’s* house for the first time on the night I made that fateful salad, so we brought it with us to dinner. It wasn’t even that good, if you ask me, but sure enough, the night we stayed for dinner after helping with the move, CB and Willy went out shopping and came back with a big bag of fruit and vegetables. I offered to help CB chop vegetables for a tossed salad but he somehow dissapeared and I ended up making the salad with some help from another woman who was helping with the move. CB reappeared and said something about Willy mentioning that Lilly like fruit salad and suddenly I had the bag of fruit in front of me and there I was, making fruit salad. Again, I didn’t think it was anything spectacular.

It’s just cut up chunks of fruit with some sort of citrus juice to prevent it all from turning brown.

But somehow (thanks to my loving boyfriend) it seems that the trend will continue and that my first official specialty has become fruit salad. So you know what? yesterday, I decided to own my specialty and I really put an effort into the salad: granny smith apples, nectarines, blueberries, bananas, kiwi, mandarins and pecans tossed in fresh squeezed orange juice and a couple teaspoons of honey.

I rocked that frickin’ fruit salad!

Which I guess pretty much sealed my fate as resident fruit salad specialist.

….sigh…

*-names have been changed

Framed by weathered wood
The grey sky is blue again
I can feel the sun.