December 24, 2008

10:19 p.m.

Cold Blow and a Rainy Night

Meditating with pink noise this evening on my iPod (further experiment suggested by geek Brother-in-Law), I separated three different kinds of tones in it -- lows, mids and highs. Pink noise is very interesting. It's kind of like something small blowing air, plus some static, plus some ants talking in the background. Anyway there was some traffic noise outside that kept me from really drifting off or hearing anything "in my head," so I switched to the 400Hz tone. During that one I had an inspiration of how to organize my application for the MacDowell Colony this year, should I choose to apply again. The deadline is next month and I have no music projects going at all. But I thought up five of my already recorded songs that belong to a theme, so I could manufacture a proposal around those.

After twelve minutes the 400Hz finished and went directly to the next track, which is the pink noise. It was so startling -- there is no blank leader before or after either track -- that I came to suddenly, my heart pounding. I have since separated them into their own folders so that won't happen again.

Still no ethereal tones. Why is it always accidentally that I hear them?

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It's terrifically windy outside tonight. Boy, is it blowing. I am glad I live indoors.

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Is it just I, who cannot get beets to cook soft? I can boil them in pieces for an hour and they'll still be crunchy. I managed to burn some today, they cooked so long, and I'd added extra water and everything. The smoke alarm went off and I thought it was the iron or something. Then I realized that nice sweet burny smell I'd been smelling wasn't cookies from downstairs. I cooked them long, unto burning, and they were still not soft.

I hereby foreswear buying beets again, no matter how good the greens look. And when I live in a house, I will plant beets just for the greens.

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Such a beautiful post on Open Salon today. I love this site now. Carey Tennis writes sometimes wonderful advice (and sometimes ill advised but still poetic) to folks who write in about all sorts of problems. Other bloggers write on themes posted each week. I've thought of joining but I just don't have much impulse to write these days, not in that way. Not essays. Journaling and essaying are two different things.

Tomorrow I'll go to Rose and Marc's, and Dar will be able to join us briefly. He'll work some in the morning and then come, but then he has to go to his sister's after us. She has had the nerve to move to New Hampshire, so his time will be even shorter than usual -- and he'll be driving all day. Time enough to exchange gifts, laugh, snack, hug... and he'll see the poppet I made him. She came out rather perfectly. I did some details on her I probably won't do when I'm trying to make a lot of them. But I was perfectly happy with the result. I forgot to take a picture and I've already wrapped her, but maybe I can get one tomorrow. Note to self: bring camera.

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I bought a wholegrain baguette yesterday as my first "wheat reintroduction" experiment. I figured that since I don't have celiac disease I could try it again. It was more delicious than I can describe. I toasted some with Italian dipping herbs and melted reduced fat cheddar cheese. Woke up today all bloated from the sodium, but it was worth it. And no obvious repercussions by this time. Wheat. What a miracle.

It feels strange to not be knitting or sewing in a frenzy. I keep telling myself, it's Christmas EVE. Take the evening off. Read. Relax. I tried watching "A Christmas Story" but I just wasn't into it. I called Wes and left a message to see if he was in town or spending Christmas at his lady friend's house in NJ. Somehow it doesn't feel quite like Christmas; that's what it is. I miss the wonder and suspense of it from when I was a kid. I'd love to put on a few minutes of 400Hz and relive a childhood Christmas. We could get up whenever we wanted, but presents were off limits until mom and dad got up at 7:00 and mom made her coffee. We could dig into our stockings before that. Chocolates, mixed nuts in the shell, little gifties. Sometimes an orange, which we might put back into the bowl in the kitchen where it came from. There were always presents for the dog. We had an English bulldog named Sam. And always mountains of presents for us. I was quite spoiled.

Now the excitement is a pale reflection of those days, yet I don't feel unhappy. The magic is deeper in. Adult magic, I guess. Tomorrow I'll go to Rose's and be steeped in it, like a Christmas teabag.

And meanwhile the wind and rain blow outside.