tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558027373178656852024-02-25T00:47:29.181-08:00The Good TypistProse. Poetry. Wicked Lies.Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.comBlogger645125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-73268807758838400262022-07-02T14:38:00.000-07:002022-07-02T14:38:29.830-07:00The Good Typist Blog has Moved to Substack!<p> The Good Typist blog has moved to Substack! <a href="https://kristenmchenry.substack.com">Click here to go there now</a><br />
</p>Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-10548729139207490152022-06-19T09:46:00.000-07:002022-06-19T09:46:13.520-07:00Poem of the Month: Hermit Crab's Lament<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-W6z79OD09UH1i5xn2ebGK4aPf6iiY_6ZJVYSW94rMrQe88pvH51_S9r_Y4baqPb6EBo4qdm05wln5ZgVVFeV25-VCE7mwxJC63wJ0KA38rj__hdHKvGNRPP4k8GYqnqSoKDM43Bd7CShHVydOk-lHY4kwKsyLbTBqOQgjwTPkBoXCmaUxq2yl-Av/s1600/hermit%20crab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1030" data-original-width="1600" height="96" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-W6z79OD09UH1i5xn2ebGK4aPf6iiY_6ZJVYSW94rMrQe88pvH51_S9r_Y4baqPb6EBo4qdm05wln5ZgVVFeV25-VCE7mwxJC63wJ0KA38rj__hdHKvGNRPP4k8GYqnqSoKDM43Bd7CShHVydOk-lHY4kwKsyLbTBqOQgjwTPkBoXCmaUxq2yl-Av/w150-h96/hermit%20crab.jpg" width="150" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> Hermit Crab's Lament</b><br /><br /><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You who call us<br />house proud and vapid<br />have misunderstood.<br />Do you think we merely <br />fumble our way by instinct <br />into any hollow object? <br />You can't comprehend<br />the arithmetic of our choices; the ecstasy <br />of toil in a hard, rank womb.<br /><br />I will admit to a touch of pride.<br />I’ve always been keen on headroom,<br />though we can ill afford <br />to be choosy in these times. <br />I remember the days of abalone ceilings, the yolk<br />of my belly nestled in porcelain ribs, nights<br />when we met the <i>Pylochelidae </i>in secret,<br />to whirl across the sodden dune,<br />showing off our spiral cloches. <br />We danced to forget that our shelters <br />would again abandon us.<br /><br />It’s of no consequence<br />these days, I suppose. They’re all a poor fit now.<br />The wind oozes through, no matter the rental.<br />The shore is a wasteland of broken cups.<br />It’s about the seeking, they tell me.<br />Well cold comfort. My whole<br />damn species are fools, always skittering<br />toward some fresh perfection, always<br />outgrowing what loves us. <br /><br />Only God has the courage <br />to go without a crust, to linger <br />as tender as a polyp in these barrens. <br />When he taps our walls for the final eviction,<br />We will be unable to hang on, unable<br />to refuse. He will stagger with us<br />towards our first, most perfect home. <br /><br /><br /><i>--Kristen McHenry</i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> </i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> </i></span></span></p>Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-27910678334192370912022-06-12T11:52:00.001-07:002022-06-12T11:54:20.369-07:00The Stairs in the Woods<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh73qZ47B6x5Km4TTzPE4RmwQ82m3au89UehzWRGSIJMgiljzdrHsn9cu7DP2830qnh75k6VpQcfrlmFz0GPh3Zog0Fb9SgWAJzB6RDiDAu51dxixcfRfuaXa9uEsfQGfYfGKG5ZNCh5DxNHMDFYC9gvaqBkQwuMxxTRIWrsMFHBxVGQ8bWIvdLcQFt/s759/stairs-in-the-woods-759x500.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="759" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh73qZ47B6x5Km4TTzPE4RmwQ82m3au89UehzWRGSIJMgiljzdrHsn9cu7DP2830qnh75k6VpQcfrlmFz0GPh3Zog0Fb9SgWAJzB6RDiDAu51dxixcfRfuaXa9uEsfQGfYfGKG5ZNCh5DxNHMDFYC9gvaqBkQwuMxxTRIWrsMFHBxVGQ8bWIvdLcQFt/s320/stairs-in-the-woods-759x500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">recently started watching
the YouTube channel of a gentleman who goes by the moniker of
Wendigoon. He does really in-depth, well-researched videos on topics
such as the paranormal, weird history, biblical tales, angels and
conspiracies. I was humming away watching his vids and flipping
digital houses this week when I came across a video of his that
freaked me the eff out. Like, gave-me-chills-and-made-me-feel-like-there-was-a-cold-finger-on-the-back</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">-</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">of-my-neck
kind of freaked me out. I got totally sucked in until I thought about
it rationally later and realized that the whole story had to be a
</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">fiendish</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
hoax, but boy did it ever work on me until then. The video was about
</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">the mysterious phenomenon of
</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">stairs in the woods.
Apparently, a few years ago, a story popped up on Reddit, supposedly
posted by a Search and Rescue professional, about coming across </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">a
set of stairs in deep in the woods while on a rescue mission. The
whole tale got more and more elaborate over time, but the gist of was
that he was told in no uncertain terms never to go near one of these
staircases or even </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">to </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">touch
them, and his higher-ups warned him not n</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">ot</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
to talk about </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">them</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
publicly. </span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">According
to the post, these staircases </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">are
very deep in the woods and</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">always</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
show up </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">within a few miles
proximity to where a person has gone missing. They lead to nowhere
and they are usually in pristine condition, free of moss, dirt and
droppings. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">Some of them </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">have
</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">even </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">been
reported to be covered in clean, white carpeting</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">.</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
Those who come across such stairs report feelings of deep foreboding,
</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">dread and</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
fear, and instinctively stay away from them. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">After
this person posted his story, more and more people began posting
their own tales of coming across stairs in the woods </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">while hiking in national parks or while deep in the forest for work
expeditions or humanitarian missions.</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
A cursory Google search reveals that a stairway sighting is often
accompanied by some sort of paranormal phenomenon or even sightings
of aliens or cryptids. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">There
are tales of people ascending these staircases and losing a hand, or
thinking that just a few minutes have passed when in actuality, they
went missing for five years. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">There
are some eerie tales out there, my friends. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
whole thing had me really weirded out. Then I realized </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">the</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
stairs-in-the-woods thing has all of the perfect secret-sauce
ingredients for </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">cooking up a
</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">giant hoax to goose gullible
people like me. It has deep forests (spooky) and a weird, anomalous out-of-place
structure (scary). People are told by authorities not to talk about
it, thereby adding a conspiratorial element that increases the sense
of a cover-up, </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">and you throw
freaky but totally unverifiable tales of paranormal happenings and
alien sightings in and boom—you got yourself a class-A click-bait
bamboozle. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">Between
that and the giant freaking spider I found in the kitchen sink this
morning, I’m a bit on edge, folks. I’m going to head out to my
nice, well-lit gym where the only staircases are automated ones that
belong there. I have to shake the</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">se</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
heeby-jeebies.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">If
you enjoy quirky history, you will love this video from Windigoon
about the short-lived country of Fordlandia. </span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span>
</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8EQcBL5v9To" width="320" youtube-src-id="8EQcBL5v9To"></iframe></div><br /><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">--Kristen McHenry</span></span></i><br />
</p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-90024225241476153192022-06-05T12:12:00.008-07:002022-06-05T16:09:32.251-07:00Weather Caprice, A Not-Totally-Sensible Plan, Mysteries of the Missing<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnTdXtSfvZlHC-vv5oEDF3FpKtuFSxLz7glLNS2Td8BWxXq2BdXhSKp0Oxc5oPVH29klI_k0BofN2rtELdGbbTBfTXz_9-NnHGaE7rrc0mrchWXf-A9jAnCf_oTYs2oXWsnAuCKAb1SDKx2__qZkmHL_KpQys2WKon-FaCJ10VwvEPARhis0cotMmz/s2868/storm.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2151" data-original-width="2868" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnTdXtSfvZlHC-vv5oEDF3FpKtuFSxLz7glLNS2Td8BWxXq2BdXhSKp0Oxc5oPVH29klI_k0BofN2rtELdGbbTBfTXz_9-NnHGaE7rrc0mrchWXf-A9jAnCf_oTYs2oXWsnAuCKAb1SDKx2__qZkmHL_KpQys2WKon-FaCJ10VwvEPARhis0cotMmz/w262-h197/storm.jpg" width="262" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I don’t understand what is
happening with Seattle weather lately. It’s absolutely bizarre.
It’s hot and cold by the hour and I never know which coat to wear.
I have a white-noise machine I turn on before bed with a “gentle
thunderstorm” program, and a few nights ago, I awoke startled to
the crack of ear-splitting thunder, wondering if something had gone
haywire with the volume, only to realize that we were in the middle
of real-life thunderstorm. It stormed and raged freezing rain for
hours, and by the time I left the office that day, it was so hot I
had to take off my coat and sweater. Spring and early summer in
Seattle is always a bit temperamental, but this is ridiculous. I
cannot abide these bipolar weather swings. There is only so much
layering one can do, and I just want an iota of predictability
<i><span style="text-decoration: none;">somewhere</span></i> in my
life, for goodness sake. Also, I can’t wait to ditch my overcoat
for a few months. The day that I can walk to work in a light jacket
is the symbolic beacon of hope that we will actually have something
resembling a summer in Seattle.</span></span></span><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was delighted to
meet with a friend/co-worker for lunch recently. I never even have a
proper lunch anymore, much less go out with co-workers, so this was a
real treat. After multiple forced cancellations, we were finally able
to make it to our arranged date at a neighborhood Italian place, at
which I ordered what turned out to be a huge platter of spaghetti,
another rarity for me. Pasta smack in the middle of the day! But the
company was the real delight. I have always admired this person, and
she was generous enough to spend some time listening to me when I
found myself in a crisis a few years ago. At our lunch, she told me
that her whole life, she had always longed to go to graduate school,
and she finally did when she was in her early fifties. She was drawn to a surprising passion and
has no regrets that she pursued it despite the
late-ish stage of her career. She told me this because according to
her, I lit up with passion when talking to her about my own surprising, perhaps-not-totally-sensible career direction that has
been forming over the process of working with my mentor. The excitement I feel about this
potential direction is unwavering and undeniable. It doesn't involve
graduate school, thank goodness, but it does involve some very
do-able education and classes. We’ll see what comes of it. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I’m not a big true crime fan—I
think it’s a bit morbid to find entertainment in the violent deaths
of our fellow human beings—but recently I’ve been listening to a
Missing Persons podcast, which I find less grisly than true crime and
which leaves the door open to some hope. These podcasts give my mind
a mystery to latch onto so I don’t obsess over stupid things that I
can’t control. The missing persons stories are extremely
vexing—people just vanishing from the world under mundane or
sometimes very odd circumstances. The mundane ones are the most
upsetting to me; the ones where someone is just gone, with their car
keys on the hall table and a half-drunk cup of tea still sitting on
the counter. Some of the stories are from earlier decades when we
didn’t have cell phone tracking and cameras on every corner, but
some of them are very recent, and I find it extremely puzzling that
such a thing could happen with all of the technology we have and
everything being recorded 24/7. It’s my hope that as many of these
people as possible are found and that their families get the closure
they deserve. I think about each and everyone of them more than I
probably should.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">On a cheerier note, just because,
enjoy this quite fascinating video about the miraculous sea star.
(Warning: references to Satan and glue-sniffing.) </span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/dZ20KsgVeu0" width="320" youtube-src-id="dZ20KsgVeu0"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<p></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>--Kristen McHenry</i></span></span><br />
</p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-4647975039636977372022-05-29T12:38:00.001-07:002022-05-29T12:39:37.873-07:00Coping by Crafting, No-Leave Sunday Revival, Litmus Test <p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6iXSM7UY4ZLJEVUtObTkRaQD_yGx1NS4_AMDPPCSirRdskbYI2onXTkk60ZHmYY2zSXJdOQ3giLSWxLuZzyefkGssTgBKj3FLNljCbO8phSrw4NhNf6IB2GWRWbFjW_VX-5JH2rRQvc6fZzB9ywUt4EgvkITfYqux6xVyOD27hiCQRc9bfkZ0GI8p/s936/blanket.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="936" data-original-width="750" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6iXSM7UY4ZLJEVUtObTkRaQD_yGx1NS4_AMDPPCSirRdskbYI2onXTkk60ZHmYY2zSXJdOQ3giLSWxLuZzyefkGssTgBKj3FLNljCbO8phSrw4NhNf6IB2GWRWbFjW_VX-5JH2rRQvc6fZzB9ywUt4EgvkITfYqux6xVyOD27hiCQRc9bfkZ0GI8p/w179-h224/blanket.jpg" width="179" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was listening to a podcast
recently with a guest who explained that after a terrible period of
psychological distress, she decided that she needed a project in
order to focus her mind on something besides her own emotional pain.
She bought an enormous amount of yarn and spent the next six months
steadily knitting a gigantic blanket, working on it every single day
no matter what. At the end of the project, she felt a little better,
but just as importantly, she learned the value of persistence and
consistency, and her faith in her ability to heal herself was
restored. I think that was a very wise thing for her to do for
herself. As a culture, we seem to have abandoned the value of pushing
through and persisting in the face of adversity. Fuddy-duddy concepts
like patience, stoicism, and simply taking our minds off of our pain
for a little while with something productive like work or creative
pursuits is considered old-fashioned. The trendy way to cope with
mental distress is to make TikTok videos and engage in pathological
wallowing. I say this as someone who has wallowed in many bouts of
psychological distress, especially when I was younger. I have since
learned that emotional distress is often passing and that it’s okay to
subsume it in work, physical activity or other distractions.
Contrary to popular counseling wisdom, I believe that distraction is
a very useful tool. In many cases, the distress simply resolves
itself on its own due to not having been fed. As the Brits tend to
say, sometimes you just need to get on with it. I’m also reminded
that I still have a punch needle embroidery project to finish and I
should get on with <i>that</i>.</span></span></span><p></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Today
would probably be a good day for </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">it</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
as it is a pre-planned No-Leave Sunday, wherein I stay in pajamas all
day, </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">eschew
make-up</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
and don’t leave the house, </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">not
</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">even
to </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">check
the mail. I used to engage in No-Leave Sundays fairly regularly, but
they have fallen by the wayside over the years for various reasons. I
find No-Leave Sundays very restorative. I like to have what feels
like an enormous expanse of unscheduled time in front of me in which
to knock around, putter and waste. It helps my brain unravel from the
work stress of having way too freaking much to do all of the time and
n</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ever</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
enough to time do all of it. It feels lavish and indulgent and a
little transgressive.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Speaking
of wasting time, House Flipper has become a sort of psychological
litmus test for whatever is going on with me in the moment. I went
crazy with the pets, having indulged every single one of my
pet-owning fantasies. In addition to my dream dog, the Husky, I got a
guinea pig because I owned one once in real life and ended up having
to give him away due to allergies. I got a rag-doll cat, a turtle (I
also used to own a turtle), a parrot, an exotic fish aquarium, and an
iguana. I’m considering a bunny, too, although in real life they
don’t make good pets. Now that I have the pets out of my system, I
am working on refurbishing a high-end office building, a job which I
find myself taking very seriously because in real-life, </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
am </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">smack
in the middle of a big office move at one of my campuses and am
learning a fair bit about office design and construction as a result.
I am hyper-alert to functionality, aesthetics and quality, </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">an</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">d
I want the imaginary future residents of this building to have an
excellent space to work in.</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">It’s
also a great displacement activity to subvert my own real-life
new-office anxiety. Who needs a therapist when you have House
Flipper?</span></span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/V_Qq1H2ceQk" width="320" youtube-src-id="V_Qq1H2ceQk"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">--Kristen McHenry </span></span></i><br /></span></span></p>
<p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-54600169719732272982022-05-21T10:29:00.003-07:002022-05-21T10:29:45.942-07:00Dental Shaming, Overly-Specific Greeting Cards, Cat Lady Hero<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYuKDDsrxHMydJn1GbE5-okToKQSFAMt54abltB4zpFBWXsHDEo8rFU6zsJ23HoUSg-XQM8IBP4iJ2RTgxX5-TMnOhJ-MdwStrUYggeUKUTXRuNpeInxTck_wQOp_kywV11PXC5mcYXLLrTTwzSuj3WpNmgXQHjqqeTDp6r7w1fGYw8WwBiVyDzphs/s3442/Husky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2452" data-original-width="3442" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYuKDDsrxHMydJn1GbE5-okToKQSFAMt54abltB4zpFBWXsHDEo8rFU6zsJ23HoUSg-XQM8IBP4iJ2RTgxX5-TMnOhJ-MdwStrUYggeUKUTXRuNpeInxTck_wQOp_kywV11PXC5mcYXLLrTTwzSuj3WpNmgXQHjqqeTDp6r7w1fGYw8WwBiVyDzphs/s320/Husky.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Well, it’s finally time. Time
that I suck it up and go to the dentist, that is. Before you judge me
for avoiding the dentist, just Google “<a href="https://directionsindentistry.net/redheads-feel-more-dental-pain/">redheads and dental pain</a>”
for about two seconds and you shall be enlightened as to how my
freakish genetics cause a routine trip the dentist to be a
dread-and-pain-filled experience for both me and the poor staff, who
have to deal with my nuttiness and my need for massive doses of
numbing agents. I was hoping to put my impending visit off just a
little bit longer, but my dentist office sent me a shockingly
dental-shaming email this week akin to a “Dear John” letter,
basically telling me they aren’t having any more of my bs and that
they “hope” that if I don’t want to see them anymore that I am
getting dental care somewhere else and not “neglecting my oral
hygiene.” First of all, I take umbrage to that phrasing. I am not
neglecting my oral hygiene! I brush and floss and rinse with
mouthwash twice or more a day. It’s not like my teeth are rotting
out of my head and my breath smells like a garbage barge. My teeth
are fully intact and my breath smells as sweet as spearmint thanks to
all of the sugarless gum I chew. Then, they went on to flat-out
threaten to abandon me if I didn’t make an appointment soon,
telling me that they would inactivate my chart if they didn’t hear
from me within 30 days. Look, I don’t <i>want </i>to go to the
dentist but they can’t just give up on me like that. I have
abandonment issues. I can’t believe they threatened to break up
with me. So I made the darned appointment already. Sheesh. I hope
they’re happy now.</span></span></span><p></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Although in theory I love cards
and stationary and all things beautiful paper and Papyrus-y, I don’t
actually send out cards or letters very often. I had to buy a card
for a momentous occasion recently, and I was completely addled by how
oddly specific greeting cards have gotten. They had greeting cards
for every type of couple, every obscure occasion, every combination
of life events, and every age, country of origin, and creed. I had to
wade through a ton of cards to find just a general one that didn’t
list an exhaustive bio and specify the date of the event in question.
There used to just be birthday cards, anniversary cards, and sympathy
cards, with the occasional, coveted blank card. I don’t know why
there now needs to be card for every type of vacation, vocation, and
possible life incident. I can’t put my finger on exactly why, but I
don’t feel like this speaks well of us as a society. I feel that it
indicates a certain lack of faith in our imaginations and our ability
to express ourselves. I think it should be a routine practice to buy
a blank card, write your own message on it, and send it to a friend
or relative at least once a quarter to keep those expressive juices
flowing, and to remind people that email and text is not the only
mode of communication available to humans.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My beloved House Flipper game
recently released new content, in which you can have pets! I
downloaded it right away, and was completely delighted during the
tutorial when you open a random box and are greeted with an adorable,
writhing golden retriever puppy. I was captivated, but even more
excited when I discovered I could adopt a Husky. I have always wanted
a Husky and I have been living out my Husky-owning desires with my
adoptee Junebug, who I take with me on all of my flipping jobs. It’s
me and Junebug against the house-flipping world. She’s fun and very
low-maintaince. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With the new content came some
new jobs, one of which is for the world’s most controlling cat
lady. I was in awe of her. She said that she didn’t trust me and
that she was very risk-averse, so she laid out every single piece of
furniture, tile and paint that she wanted on big palettes on her lawn
so as to idiot-proof the job. She even went so far as to build a
special ladder so I could get to the higher ceilings. I appreciate
the way she thinks. She was very organized and really thought ahead.
The event planner in me applauds Controlling Cat Lady. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Eventually, I’m going to build
myself a giant House Flipper pet empire, full of turtles and iguanas
and bunnies and tropical fish, but for now I am content with Junebug.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/sjp-fyjbkmk" width="320" youtube-src-id="sjp-fyjbkmk"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /> <i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">--Kristen McHenry</span></span></i><br /></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-47519293908719358502022-05-08T13:26:00.002-07:002022-05-08T13:30:07.835-07:00Bells of Venice, Latent Strategist, Too Far In<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lAQMN6Tdm19AoBFxigQkoTxxE14rrbrEu_eRnkGvRxjegQ2TqrcJjOhJm_VdWqPh-RgU6VC1fH-HGBSPGEiZXvmwZ6VBjLdNlH8rYTeQ2SrRNRvYHMtCn8sWc4B7JnPza5LKAmH9A70lvKyvGRQ0i6kAqrLZvcqEYc1cuFq3pniwxytvEbdmqWZH/s900/bells.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="722" data-original-width="900" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lAQMN6Tdm19AoBFxigQkoTxxE14rrbrEu_eRnkGvRxjegQ2TqrcJjOhJm_VdWqPh-RgU6VC1fH-HGBSPGEiZXvmwZ6VBjLdNlH8rYTeQ2SrRNRvYHMtCn8sWc4B7JnPza5LKAmH9A70lvKyvGRQ0i6kAqrLZvcqEYc1cuFq3pniwxytvEbdmqWZH/w276-h221/bells.jpg" width="276" /></a></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">T<span style="font-family: georgia;">hanks to “Range,” the book
I reviewed in last week’s post, I recently made the astonishing
discovery that in 18<sup>th</sup> century Venice, there was a famous
orphanage called the Ospedale della Pietà (Orphanage of Pity) that
became known for producing some of the world’s most accomplished
female musicians. For some reason, I was captivated by the detail
that outside of the orphanage, there was a stand of drawers. If a
baby was small enough to fit into a drawer, it could be left there,
and when the drawer was closed, a bell would go off and one of the
nuns would come and collect the baby. Many of the babies left there
were born of ladies of ill repute, but some were illegitimate
children born to members of royal families. The story of how the
orphanage developed their young musicians is fascinating, but not as
interesting to me as pondering how many times a day that bell rang. I
imagine early-morning misty Venetian skies, the mournful sound of the
bell, and the mother scuttling furtively away, her figure hidden in a
bonnet and voluminous skirt. There is a whole other story to be told
there aside from the virtuoso musicians. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div><p></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Along
with reading “Range,” I also took a test. I’ve take many a
“personality test” before, mostly work-related and many of them
quite pricey and elaborate affairs with dubious results. This latest
test/survey/analysis was the <a href="https://www.gallup.com/cliftonstrengths/en/253715/34-cliftonstrengths-themes.aspx">CliftonStrengths</a> assessment, which
reveals your top five strengths. I found the assessment itself quite
stressful because it’s timed, and many of the statements you are
supposed to “agree” or “disagree” </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">with</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">require
a lot of thought and processing, but you only have twenty seconds to
make a decision on each one. I suppose that makes sense, since they
don’t want you endlessly prevaricating, but it really put the
pressure on. I wasn’t super-surprised at most of my results:
Empathy, Connectedness, Developer, Adaptability—all of which fall
into the Relationship Building category—but I was quite surprised
to find that “Strategic” came up in my top five. I’m still
puzzling my way through that one. I have never thought of myself as
particularly strategic. I think </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">ahead</span></i></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
but I have always felt that is based more on a</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">n</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">xiety
than any innate chess-champion-</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">like</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
instincts. (In fact, I hate chess and have a whole story about when I
worked for a chess company once and had </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">to
fake passion </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">for
</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">it
for</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
a year and half.</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">)
But maybe I’m selling myself short and I could have a second career
as a brilliant </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">strategist,
creating...strategies, or whatever it is they do.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Speaking
of strategies, I am inching ever-closer to that elusive pull-up by
getting uber-agressive with the assisted pull-up machine, lowering
the assist weight further and further each time and holding myself in
place when I can’t pull myself up any further. I’m about 30-35
pounds away from a single pull-up. It’s disheartening that it’s
taking forever to get there, but I have also gained a fair bit of
muscle in my legs, making them heavier, and have put </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">on
</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">a
little more weight after upping my calories, which I need to increase
</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">even
more</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
to keep up with all of the weight lifting. It’s like a dog chasing
its tail at this point, but I’m in too far now to give up. </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
day will come, my chickadees, I have no doubt of it.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Last
week’s video featured Vivaldi, who was a fixture at the Ospedale
della Pietà, </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">teaching
violin and writing many pieces for their orchestra. Here’s some
more Vivaldi to tickle your ears:</span></span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/aFATDqU4c78" width="320" youtube-src-id="aFATDqU4c78"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /> --Kristen McHenry<br /></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-49173843312508717222022-05-01T11:51:00.000-07:002022-05-01T11:51:29.837-07:00Book Review: Range: Why Generalists Triumph in a Specialized World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO4LotqSabBdMuMhlNMUpB7oByXpbaaDk4JcAgi_rUk5nsDyba-cxCyynmqH2NZGpUXs6ym2V_nbEfeJIWEHgFnfzYGVaxf3sjpiorItk6riyIc9e53mYr1aV3DP6ng3U7pvPncJZ2DKc1bGLdHbvqGWbPhr3NjGiQckQR-XFraIpGjkYuWl7RpDjI/s286/gen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="176" data-original-width="286" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO4LotqSabBdMuMhlNMUpB7oByXpbaaDk4JcAgi_rUk5nsDyba-cxCyynmqH2NZGpUXs6ym2V_nbEfeJIWEHgFnfzYGVaxf3sjpiorItk6riyIc9e53mYr1aV3DP6ng3U7pvPncJZ2DKc1bGLdHbvqGWbPhr3NjGiQckQR-XFraIpGjkYuWl7RpDjI/s1600/gen.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Recently, I was blessed to have been able to establish a formal mentorship at work with a very accomplished leader. Although we’ve only had a few sessions so far, I’ve really been enjoying the experience. She recommended a book called “<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Range-Generalists-Triumph-Specialized-World/dp/0735214484">Range: Why Generalists Triumph in a Specialized World</a>” by David Epstein. It’s a fascinating read with much food for thought. I work in the health care field and it’s brimming with narrowly hyper-specialized roles, so it’s been very heartening to read about the power of a good generalist, which I believe I am. My work life in mostly scrappy non-profits forced me to get competent quickly at a lot of different things and to be constantly adaptable because I’ve always had to take on multiple roles within a single job. I’ve generally worked without a map, pre-established guidelines, or a linear path. I never thought much about this style as having specific advantages and benefits--it’s just how things played out, and I discovered that I preferred it that way. I don’t like the feeling of being locked into any one thing. So reading Epstein’s book has opened my eyes to the wisdom of this approach, which is hard to see when the cultural message is the opposite. I couldn’t say it better than author Daniel H. Pink in his review of “Range:”<br /><br /><i>“For too long, we’ve believed in a single path to excellence. Start early, specialize soon, narrow your focus, aim for efficiency. But in this groundbreaking book, David Epstein shows that in most domains, the way to excel is something altogether different. Sample widely, gain a breadth of experiences, take detours, and experiment relentlessly.”</i><br /><br />I’m a few chapters in and although so far there has been a<i> lot</i> of chess talk, I understand where Epstein is going with all of it. Someone has to champion and defend us Jacks-of-all-Trades, those of us who can apply our skills to multiple domains and who can adapt on the fly. I think that the overwhelming cultural push to narrow our career paths, stick to the known road and God forbid, <i>never</i> experiment has damaged our ability to innovate as a nation. I remember the intense frustration I would feel when I interviewed for jobs and would be turned down because I didn’t have experience in the <i>particular</i> industry the job was in, although I demonstratively had the skills to perform the job itself. My attitude has always been that you can almost always learn an industry on the job; the important thing is having transferable skills, which is something that still seems pretty lost on corporate America. I read some ago about how difficult it was for ex-military folks to find work because companies simply couldn’t fathom how to use them, which I find astounding. Ex-military would be the first people I would hire were I in a position to hire people.<br /><br />I realize that my “Just plunk me down anywhere and I’ll figure it out” career approach may not be the stuff of LinkedIn advice articles, but it’s baked into my career cake now and even if I wanted to change it, I wouldn’t be able to without enormous cost and little benefit. And that’s okay. Somehow, mysteriously, I always manage to find a place for myself.<br /><br />It’s the first day of May, which is astonishing to me. Spring is bleary-eyed and slow to wake up in Seattle this year. I’m not generally a fan of the sun, but I wouldn’t say no to a little more light and warmth. While we wait for Spring to drag herself out of bed, enjoy some Vivaldi!</span></span><br /></div><div><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/nY_pJoTUIDw" width="320" youtube-src-id="nY_pJoTUIDw"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>--Kristen McHenry</i></span></span><br />
</p>
</div>Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-2721553318430942322022-04-24T14:19:00.004-07:002022-05-01T11:35:23.013-07:00Poem of the Month: The Odyssey<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikmmFuOECO5FWVBV_pL34nr4fswZ2oTR1jq_n6qihdAHowyz8BlIGNRb3s5JnCJMdt3RJEQJI3xRsIblTSD_vExtAseRIbG79syrnRX3sICFGOJeLkJqa8GRc3-PXS8eOtBzsFnlGckmgqSPjVvyAWCUHXR0crEKunZA84_4-n1OfgDrw2Eo0NH2pI/s600/sea.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="600" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikmmFuOECO5FWVBV_pL34nr4fswZ2oTR1jq_n6qihdAHowyz8BlIGNRb3s5JnCJMdt3RJEQJI3xRsIblTSD_vExtAseRIbG79syrnRX3sICFGOJeLkJqa8GRc3-PXS8eOtBzsFnlGckmgqSPjVvyAWCUHXR0crEKunZA84_4-n1OfgDrw2Eo0NH2pI/w245-h128/sea.jpg" width="245" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">’m posting this poem here
today without much commentary. I wrote it after coming out of a
certain calamity a number of years ago, and now it feels to me that
it applies again as we are emerging from the pandemic. I had my own
ordeals with the pandemic and as I write this, I find myself feeling
the need to make sure that I let everyone know that I am fully aware
that my pain was nowhere close to the pain others suffered, that my
calamities and griefs and losses were minor in comparison to so many
who went through much worse than I did. And all of that being true
doesn’t change what I experienced or make it less painful
retroactively. I’m telling you this so that you can remember it for yourself as
well.</span></span></span><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>The
Odyssey </b></span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b> </b></span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This is the year I swam </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">length by length back into my
body.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I swam with smooth sinuous
strokes and tireless limbs.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I swam without</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">faith, or a way to mark time. I
swam in the </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">void the sea swallowed whole. I
swam in soundless </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">solitary, stupefying, terrible
and swift. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Now I rise like a heron in the
midnight pond.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My spine is infinite, my bones
divine. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Upon re-entry, I find my flesh </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">intact. It is worshipful, this
vessel. Its </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">storm of neurons, its earthen
feet, the prayer of my hips, my</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">heart’s cauldron. My ribs
engorged with grief. My belly a safe house.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I shocked the clocks into
obedience. In time, I will rise and </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">rise again, </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">come to rest in this spawning
ground.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><br />
</p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">--Kristen McHenry</span></span></i></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-50382675481018851652022-04-17T14:53:00.001-07:002022-04-17T14:53:59.581-07:00Book Bonanza, Pull-Up Potential, The Mighty Ostrich<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVau42AoRXSq9IATr4DEd_kXrAt23haQx1RVy-VVrtVu8tK3ROTNh0-LDjqb_V1RZsv6Q7iVz9I6keIKDklYXgvcQZoYs1k5sHgUs90oHa66a752hSs5YRI35_xgrQLD8Qp3neMbySujLfARRUiTRGS6xulLtMPeV5pfLlR_HwI4vZnHVD0vYtdtLH/s570/books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="456" data-original-width="570" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVau42AoRXSq9IATr4DEd_kXrAt23haQx1RVy-VVrtVu8tK3ROTNh0-LDjqb_V1RZsv6Q7iVz9I6keIKDklYXgvcQZoYs1k5sHgUs90oHa66a752hSs5YRI35_xgrQLD8Qp3neMbySujLfARRUiTRGS6xulLtMPeV5pfLlR_HwI4vZnHVD0vYtdtLH/w259-h207/books.jpg" width="259" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I find myself with a sudden
collision of books all bumping and bouncing into one another, and as a
result I am having a bad case of book ADD. This never used to happen
to me. I would read two to three books a week easily (this is before
I discovered Tomb Raider) and never felt the need to read more than
one book at at time. But you see what happened was, “Grown-Ups”
by Marian Keyes finally came out on Kindle, just at around the same
time that her long-anticipated sequel to “Rachel’s Holiday” was
released, and I downloaded the first one before knowing about the
second one’s release date, then greedily starting reading both. This
is in addition to the newest paperback edition of “Fiction” which
arrived in the mail at the same time, in tandem with me trying to
finish “Total Power,” a thriller about the take-down of the US
power grid by terrorists. This is not even to mention “The
Fountainhead” which has lain dormant in my Kindle since last
summer. I need calm down, take a deep breath, and think methodically.
I shall make a list, read one book at at time, and check them tidily
off of my mental list. Or maybe even a physical list. Lists always
help me stay on track. I need a whiteboard.</span></span></span><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In fitness news, I was very
excited yesterday when at the gym I was able to do two sets of four
reps at 35 pounds of assist on the pull-up machine! My goal upon
leaving the house had been to get to four reps at 45 pounds of
assist, but I managed it at 35, and I am finally starting to see the
pull-up goal as achievable rather than just aspirational. I had been
plateaued for a long time and I was getting discouraged. But I
managed to hold myself up on the bar for a record seven seconds the last time
I met with my trainer, and that gave me a little boost of
encouragement, so I put more time into the lats and biceps this week,
which maybe helped. At the nudging of my trainer, I also upped my
calorie and protein intake. She suggested I “supplement” with
drinks and bars, both of which I have always disliked, but I decided
to try again. I’ve learned through experience that I am not going
to succeed with powders. I hate mixing them and will just give up
after a while. But I found a sample pack of ready-to-drink protein
drinks online in different flavors, and ordered that. The first one,
vanilla, I found undrinkable after a few swallows due to a bizarre
aftertaste, but I have three more to try so I haven’t given hope on
this particular brand yet. </span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I also ordered venison bars. I know that
sounds a bit over-the-top, but I detest most of the sweet, grainy
protein bars that are on the market, and I am a fan of beef jerky, so
thought venison bars might fit the bill. They are...interesting. A
little startling at first, but not bad. Game meats are definitely an acquired taste, but I think I can get used to it. I ate venison here
and there as a kid because we lived in deer-hunting country for a
time, so I’m not totally unfamiliar with it. And once a few years
ago I documented on this blog my foray into making my own energy
bars, which I may try again. We’ll see if any of this helps. Oh,
also--I had a dream recently wherein a tall Greek woman at a carnival told
me I was dehydrated, so I guess I’ll up the water intake, too.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It’s been a working weekend for
me, so this post will be cut a little short. In lieu of my nattering,
enjoy this video by the wickedly funny Zfrank1 about the mighty
ostrich. I found it weirdly fascinating:</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1YTeasbvJ2E" width="320" youtube-src-id="1YTeasbvJ2E"></iframe></div><p></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">--Kristen McHenry</span></span></i><br />
</p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-43554523599905236082022-04-10T14:18:00.000-07:002022-04-10T14:18:54.491-07:00Game Review: Syberia: The World Before<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6zp8xMlZvhWEvJLRzvbmV0OYE7zbmG41PJ91d0d5ZrW9h47RMccMB0TJ724R9V9i5NKz7ClZIEOC4i0zXF4WqgQxtgs1BfVbNH79Hf7KxMo09OImq_6K4RTZ-xshfrG5aHa0e5vY_-EFbR_ta_AjTEp6tplJB4QFofZ6Ta59vZUylWbqW9UwgdUq3/s799/mammoths-from-the-ice-age-angus-mcbride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="585" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6zp8xMlZvhWEvJLRzvbmV0OYE7zbmG41PJ91d0d5ZrW9h47RMccMB0TJ724R9V9i5NKz7ClZIEOC4i0zXF4WqgQxtgs1BfVbNH79Hf7KxMo09OImq_6K4RTZ-xshfrG5aHa0e5vY_-EFbR_ta_AjTEp6tplJB4QFofZ6Ta59vZUylWbqW9UwgdUq3/w163-h223/mammoths-from-the-ice-age-angus-mcbride.jpg" width="163" /></a></i></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Warning: Spoiler Alerts</span></span></i></span><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In the early 2000’s, I stumbled
across a seemingly humble point-and-click adventure game called
“Syberia,” not knowing that it was destined to develop a huge,
deeply dedicated and eternally loyal fan base. I am one of those
fans. “Syberia” and its successor “Syberia 2” are works of
absolute brilliance. I still tear up sometimes thinking about the
ending to “Syberia 2” when the last, long-hidden herd of mammoths
in the world are finally revealed. The game has scenes that are so
beautiful I still remember them to this day, and its storytelling is
sublime.</span></span>
</p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As with any cult-hit game both
blessed and cursed with a legion of adoring fans, there was a lot of
pressure on the developers for more. We Syberia fans waited thirteen
long years for a third game to come out, and when it finally did, it
was an unmitigated disaster and a heartbreaking disappointment to
those of us who so loved the first two games. It was quite obviously
rushed through, and I believe there were way too many cooks in the
kitchen. It had nothing of the magic and beauty of the first two, and
I feared that all hope was lost for a resurrection and that I would
have to settle for to replaying the first two games in perpetuity. So
I was quite wary when I heard that a fourth game, Syberia: The World
Before, was out. I couldn’t stand anymore disappointment and
preferred to keep my Syberia memories unsullied by yet another
screw-up. I waited until just a few weeks ago to download The World
Before. I’m a little less than half through the game now, and I am
thrilled to report that the developers have more than redeemed
themselves. It’s magnificent, and I feel that my Syberia experience
is whole again. </span></span>
</p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The heroine of Syberia is Kate
Walker, who starts off as a straitlaced, rules-abiding attorney.
After a series of wild adventures involving a clockwork toy company
that she has been asked to manage an acquisition for, all of that
goes out the window and Kate’s conventional life is obliterated.
She throws her lot in completely with a series of eccentrics and in
trying to protect the Youkels, a remote tribe in Russia that look
after the mammoths. At the beginning of The World Before,
startlingly, Kate is imprisoned in a Russian work camp, being forced
to mine for many hours a day alongside her cellmate, Katyusha, who
she has developed a deep bond with. While trying to escape from the
camp, Kate and Katyusha come across an old train car filled with
treasure presumably stolen by the Brown Shadow, who are metaphorical
Nazis (which is a strange quirk of the game that I will address
momentarily.) Among the loot is a watercolor painting of a young
woman who Katyusha insists looks remarkably like Kate. Unfortunately,
Katyusha is killed by a guard in the escape attempt, but her last
words are to tell Kate that she must find the girl in the painting.
Thus begins Kate’s new adventure in The World Before as she
obsessively hunts down Dana Roze, the young woman depicted in the
watercolor. From that point on, the game toggles back and forth
between Dana’s life in the the 1930’s in the fictional European
city of Vaghen, and present-day Kate. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The World Before is graphically
stunning, with top notch voice acting, a beautiful soundtrack and a
well-paced, intricate plot that unfolds in a way that provides a
satisfyingly clear sense of progression. And the puzzles are
delightful. Most are only mildly challenging, but designed in such a
way that I personally feel like a total genius when I solve them.
(Hello, dopamine hit!) The game is also emotionally rich, with many
mournful flashbacks as well as one quite harrowing fight over the
phone with Kate’s estranged sister. This game was very well-thought
out and lovingly made. The developers truly took time with every
detail and nothing was passed over or rushed through. I have been
absolutely rapt following Kate's’ journey to track down Dana and
can’t wait to see how this mystery is going unfold. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The only thing that puzzles me a
bit is the choice the writers made to cloak the history of the Nazi
persecution of Jews in a metaphorical alternate history. The story
follows the exact historical trajectory of the rise of the National
Socialists in Europe and the lead up to World War Two, but the names
are different. The Nazis are the Brown Shadow and the ethnic
minorities are the Vaghen people. I understand that they wanted to
create a new world that borders somewhat on fantasy, but this conceit
is a little bit distracting. However, this is a totally forgivable
quirk in an otherwise breathtaking game.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">For a small taste of what I’m
raving about, watch this epic opening scene of the concert in the
Musical Square in Vaghen. I knew when I saw it that my beloved
Syberia is once again in good hands.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Uu2a_Ad8hDk" width="320" youtube-src-id="Uu2a_Ad8hDk"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> --Kristen McHenry</i></span></span><br /></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-70616111935693695142022-04-03T10:48:00.001-07:002022-04-03T10:49:01.338-07:00Poem of the Month: Themes<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMI2x6Dl8U5YyscCFMes7qzjUdrFiE8pqHZJapUhjQ45-8c_zmrox8LkzpF_hIiUunLyYZ5MJDMoe5rAnqloAKs8B4V_JF8AtdmwQHQm3v9ok3k0tAFHqGByo7BbuZ-F-oeKIvasfZ_ZkMhZQ-fSig0NCkZGnuvwpdvfDet9O5yem4JQtSZWIzwyZF/s1500/abstract-space-nebula-storm-clouds-prints.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1500" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMI2x6Dl8U5YyscCFMes7qzjUdrFiE8pqHZJapUhjQ45-8c_zmrox8LkzpF_hIiUunLyYZ5MJDMoe5rAnqloAKs8B4V_JF8AtdmwQHQm3v9ok3k0tAFHqGByo7BbuZ-F-oeKIvasfZ_ZkMhZQ-fSig0NCkZGnuvwpdvfDet9O5yem4JQtSZWIzwyZF/w224-h224/abstract-space-nebula-storm-clouds-prints.webp" width="224" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A book that I semi-read some time
ago will be making a fresh appearance in my life soon, and it
reminded me that I wrote a poem in response to it a number of years
ago. I don’t know if this breaks the rules of poetry or not, but I
actually did some edits on it this morning, as I wasn’t happy with
the first stanza especially. I see no reason why a poem has to remain
carved unchanging in concrete for all of eternity once it’s
declared finished. Also, I might write a sequel to it because I have
different thoughts about it now. </span></span></div>
<p></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The poem is called “Themes”
and it’s based on the book “Now, Discover your Strengths” by
Marcus Buckingham and Donald O. Clifton. It’s a pretty well-known
book that has undergone several editions over the years, but the core
of it remains the same. In my estimation, their assessment system is
heads-and-shoulders above most “personality test” or skills
survey systems. I could go on a whole other rant about the dubious
nature of most of these systems and their outlandish proclamations of
pin-point accuracy and seer-like insight into the human condition,
but I’ll save that for another time. </span></span>
</p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Theme</b></span></span>
</p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>After: “Now, Discover your
Strengths” by Marcus Buckingham and Donald O. Clifton</i></span></span>
</p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Oasis</b></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You sense the famine in the empty
veins of leaves. Bone-birds summon you from frozen wires. Your
restless need for banquets may not be logical, but you understand the
hollow tuck in their frail and downy wings. You carry smoke and bells
with grace. When faced with complex factors, you draw down mica and
paint spirals on all locked gates in sight. Your friends call you
ghost orchid, amethyst, cleric of water wheels and bright fat plums.
Some are puzzled by your sprawl of bread and lilacs, but still
consume your bounty. It’s your nature to know the genus of every
hunger, to shimmer in the distance without effort. For you starvation
is abstract. If necessary, you will grind the hulls yourself.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Star
Language</b></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Patron saint of planetariums, you
negotiate the chatter of the cosmos with gentle instinct, you watch
over those who watch the night from telescopes and bonfires, and send
their wild prayers to Nut. To you it’s nothing, this holding of a
billion silver murmurs, this rapt interpretation of the furies of the
sky. You’re counted on for your precision in the loom of star
ancestors. Each stitch forms a story that is granted and re-told.
Some would say you speak too quickly but you know full well the
urgency. You cannot stop speaking prophecy, for the stars have
charmed your tongue. You are bridge and lullaby, and we will
free-fall in your sound.</span></span>
</p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Blue</b></span></span>
</p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And not just cooling shades of
sooth-song, but the white-blue sear of rage, warning blue, what comes to
us in spits and sparks, danger of first illumination, wild ignition
of touch and blissful transfer. Light to use your earthen body as its
holy host. Blue of over-worn, blue of standing on the shore in late
December twilight, blue of eggs and Sunday sweaters, blue of lone
boys and low note afternoons in the only open bar, blue of going
home, blue of intimate winters, blue of the enlightened heron who
keeps exquisite equilibrium with cobalt sky and pond.</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> </i></span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>-Kristen McHenry</i></span></span></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-83061865201736151962022-03-27T11:58:00.001-07:002022-03-27T11:58:49.051-07:00Fashion Woes Part 7,038<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWKjFDSLdJhdckdCrPmXgQgxKmK3Ml1i3qk7qmPF4PSw9B8tfdq28HjjvX66seax8erua8QW8si7gQgLbnhy9le7K11u_QqHy4PaVeE4dZKIwojBN6dDNRfHJM7XmWZpqCYc0HsCMg2lCBt7eVa6WAW44hKSMtoaGHdnbP2hDRSDpJlylNAprJF8_7/s736/fashion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="736" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWKjFDSLdJhdckdCrPmXgQgxKmK3Ml1i3qk7qmPF4PSw9B8tfdq28HjjvX66seax8erua8QW8si7gQgLbnhy9le7K11u_QqHy4PaVeE4dZKIwojBN6dDNRfHJM7XmWZpqCYc0HsCMg2lCBt7eVa6WAW44hKSMtoaGHdnbP2hDRSDpJlylNAprJF8_7/w242-h242/fashion.jpg" width="242" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was recently brought to my
attention that the horrific 90’s trend of super-low rise jeans is
back, which confused me because I thought that high-rise jeans were
all the rage now. Either style can only be worn if you have an
iron-flat stomach akin to a Mobius strip, so I won’t be running out
to snap them up any time soon, but it did remind me that I am
perpetually in a fashion crisis that I never really get full on top
of. I have a scarcity mindset when it comes to clothes, and I am
loathe to throw anything away if it even slightly “works.” I have
convinced myself that finding an item of clothing that fits my tall,
outlier-shaped body is like finding gold and that once I have it in
my possession I am morally obligated to wear it until it crumbles to dust and falls off
of my body. This tendency has only gotten worse since the pandemic,
during which I have been enabled to double-down on my worst fashion
impulses because I am mostly locked away in my private office at work
and haven’t been to a face-to-face meeting in two and half years. </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I currently have a total of three
pairs of jeans, none of which fit anymore, but I don’t want to get
rid of them because I bought them at Cabella’s and I was so
thrilled at the time to find jeans that were long enough. I need a
new swimsuit now that the pool is open again, (finally!) but there
are no brick and mortar shops for swimwear anymore and the thought of
ordering one online fills me with existential dread. I finally threw
out five pairs of shoes yesterday, most of which I held onto for an
absurd amount of time because I convinced myself that sandals and
dress shoes that fit my giant feet are almost impossible to come by.
And let’s not even start with the hair situation. I am going
through the grueling process of growing out what was once a very
cute, highly-stylized asymmetrical pixie cut and it ain’t pretty,
folks. I don’t know if I’m going to make it. Each day I’m
seconds away from screaming “uncle” and speed-dialing my stylist.
On top of it, one of these days I am going to have deal with my
workout clothes situation. I’m not one of those slinky chicks who
works out in revealing Gym Shark regalia (kudos to them in all
sincerity; they look adorable), but I need to replace the ratty stuff
out of pure self-respect. Sometimes it just astonishes me how anyone
has the wherewithal to keep up on looking presentable at all. It’s
exhausting. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Despite all of this, I remain
irrationally optimistic that one day I will hit some sort of wardrobe
sweet spot, where all of my garments are on-trend yet also somehow
fit me, my jeans are a reasonable mid-rise and long enough, and my
hair is in a state that doesn’t require sixteen barrettes and half
a bottle of hairspray. A girl can dream. In the meantime, I comfort
myself with the thought that there is one tiny, niche area in which I
do have my sartorial game together: Summer nightwear. Last summer,
there was a horrific and highly-unusual heatwave in Seattle, and I
went a bit crazy in my delirium and bought eight pairs of silky,
richly-colored nightwear sets (some even have lace trim!) so I will
look like a proper feminine-type woman on summer nights, instead of a
lumberjack like I do now. So at least in one area I’m not a
complete disaster. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Since the world is a sad and
scary place these days, enjoy this hilarious and suspenseful clip of
a Husky throwing a temper tantrum. Will he <i>ever</i> get out of
that tub?</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/i82528KGDdo" width="320" youtube-src-id="i82528KGDdo"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">--Kristen McHenry</span></span><br />
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-41734501842213452082022-03-20T12:36:00.003-07:002022-03-20T13:15:15.021-07:00Poem Review: The Marshes of Glynn by Sidney Lanier<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_x-iNcd4MqNFmC9auZpSXRyuB3eGtg6pPx1AWfmDwvm72t134qud9HcaMDRfHBIeAXgZVDKQ_LkErjO-IqxcY_SyA94j0A8Z_I5XKbMNkVRL0ZAWimNL0H_PRBQj056pwTtzczMATj6-yWip9kn0IJiDAuZY6xDwClQYbhLk4s4N2qvXBJh-y81hA/s940/Sunrise_In_The_Marsh.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="940" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_x-iNcd4MqNFmC9auZpSXRyuB3eGtg6pPx1AWfmDwvm72t134qud9HcaMDRfHBIeAXgZVDKQ_LkErjO-IqxcY_SyA94j0A8Z_I5XKbMNkVRL0ZAWimNL0H_PRBQj056pwTtzczMATj6-yWip9kn0IJiDAuZY6xDwClQYbhLk4s4N2qvXBJh-y81hA/w288-h143/Sunrise_In_The_Marsh.jpg" width="288" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Once upon a recent walk, I picked
up from a Free Little Library a fragile, yellowing paperback entitled
“American Verse from the Colonial Days to the Present.” Until
recently, I haven’t been able to actually read it due to the
glasses situation being so out of whack and the book’s print being
so tiny and faded, but alas! I have finally been able to peruse some
of the amazing work in the book and I have been discovering a lot of
poets that I knew little to nothing about, Sidney Lanier being the
one I shall discuss here, and specifically, his poem “The Marshes
of Glynn.” Why everyone on the planet is not intimately familiar
with “The Marshes of Glynn” is a crime and a tragedy. It’s a
jaw-dropping, epic poem of pure genius and I can’t believe this is
the first I’ve heard of it.
</span></span></div><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sidney Lanier was born in 1842 in
Macon, Georgia. He was as equally fond of music as poetry, and
enormously talented at both. Unfortunately, his life was cut short at
the age of 39 due to a long battle with tuberculosis, which he
contracted after being captured and imprisoned during the Civil War.
However, he left behind a significant body of work, including his
most famous poem, “The Marshes of Glynn.” It’s a work of
spiritually and passion, a love letter to nature, and, I believe,
quite possibly an inspiration to some of Walt Whitman’s later work.
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Reading “The Marshes of Glynn,”
it is apparent that Lanier was musician in his soul. “Marshes”
reads like a symphony, with long, sweeping passages that reach
dramatic heights, then slowly ratchet down until climbing back up
again into grand, crashing crescendos. Lanier uses repetition and
pacing in the same way that a musician does, slowing and speeding the
work to reflect his deep emotions tied to the marshes—feelings of
ecstasy and joy, the soothing of despair, and a deep, boundary-less
connection to nature. This small passage from the very long poem
encapsulates it’s spirit: </span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight,<br />Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light.<br />And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high?<br />The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky!<br />A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade,<br />Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade,<br />Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain,<br />To the terminal blue of the main.<br />Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea?<br /> Somehow my soul seems suddenly free<br />From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin,<br />By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn.<br /><br />“Marshes” is also a story of redemption, healing and forgiveness through the love of beauty:<br /></span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won <br />God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain <br />And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. <br />As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, <br />Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God: <br />I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies <br />In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies: <br /></span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Long ago, I had a minor goal of memorizing one poem a month, which fell by the wayside fairly quickly. “Marshes” has inspired me to start memorizing poems again. I will never memorize the whole thing, but definitely small passages, to comfort myself and also, let’s face it—impress people at parties, should I ever attend one again.<br /><br />If you would like to read “Marshes” in its entirety, you can do so at <a href="https://poets.org/poem/marshes-glynn">this link</a>. If you would like it read to you, watch the video below:</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/dhgz6N33j3o" width="320" youtube-src-id="dhgz6N33j3o"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i> --Kristen McHenry</i></span><i><br /> </i><p></p>Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-35327939056592337142022-03-13T11:18:00.000-07:002022-03-13T11:18:39.424-07:00Lessons from the Squat Rack, Farming Simulation Hell, Glasses Glory<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjV1o4hW0Xf355oqo3PMixazKb3y3CgeqA1lYfUe4QKEnQqeamzvA_3s3-qsDazBEMId67ROeYbqrFbBoZbAB9twDaTC2OxqmyWiNp7Y6VddAmvE08KmLuwbkmmHA5Sn3tpNOBKGv_TsRxuCgNKmF1D4VGvQ9-UHkC-X8mjP1ioB4yLnFZ45EMcUPKB=s612" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="368" data-original-width="612" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjV1o4hW0Xf355oqo3PMixazKb3y3CgeqA1lYfUe4QKEnQqeamzvA_3s3-qsDazBEMId67ROeYbqrFbBoZbAB9twDaTC2OxqmyWiNp7Y6VddAmvE08KmLuwbkmmHA5Sn3tpNOBKGv_TsRxuCgNKmF1D4VGvQ9-UHkC-X8mjP1ioB4yLnFZ45EMcUPKB=w275-h165" width="275" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Over the last six weeks or so,
I’ve been working with my trainer on learning the squat rack. I can
now semi-competently dip under the (unloaded) bar, position it on my
upper back, and lift it out of the rack without teetering wildly.
It’s almost more of a balancing exercise than a strength exercise.
And it’s the most frustrating and emotionally charged exercise I’ve
learned to date. The first few times I did it, I felt genuinely
angry. I resented the feeling of carrying that much weight on my back
and my struggle to balance the bar properly. Even though I freely
chose to learn it, it felt burdensome and chore-like. I’ve come to
love the feeling of physically challenging myself and getting through
hard sets, but somehow this one caused me angst—perhaps because
it’s such a literal, physical manifestation of carrying weight on
my back. I have weight to carry in my life and a part of me doesn’t
want it. But each time I successfully lift that bar, my back gets
more adjusted to the sensation of the weight, my body and brain work
more quickly to coordinate properly, and the whole process becomes
smoother. And I feel like I’ve won the fight--just like I plan to
in life.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Speaking of winning the fight,
after having played Stardew Valley to death, I’ve become obsessed
with a new farming simulator called “No Place Like Home.” The
premise is that the earth got so polluted and trash-laden that almost
everyone peaced out to live in a pre-fab colony on Mars, and only you
and a few stalwarts decided to stick around on earth, clean up, and
start growing things again. It’s a very fun, colorful, meditative
game, and deeply satisfying in that a great deal of time is spent
vacuuming up huge mounds of garbage with a super-powered vacuum pack.
It’s great...however the developers, in preparing for the full
release of the game, released one patch and really cocked it up, then
rapidly released another patch to fix the screw up, which made
everything even worse. At first there weren’t enough goats, then there were a comical number of goats everywhere, then the goats
vanished from your farm entirely, you couldn’t find the parts to
fix the dam, the robots llamas went haywire, the dog you were
supposed to tame glitched out, and the lady in the desert wouldn’t
give you the final quest so you could move on to the Sunken City and
find your long-lost grandpa. Also, they changed the previously
relaxing sound of the vacuuming to a jarring, jangely, “pop, pop,
pop” sound, instantly enraging most of the players, who ranted
about it in en-masse on the Steam forums. It was a disaster, folks.
You have no idea what I’ve been going through over here. I had to
start over three times, and I’m just holding my breath and trusting
that in this last iteration, everything’s finally been fixed. I’m
not too mad at the developers though—they actually took the time to
personally respond to one of my e-mails, and they seem to be really
trying. It’s not easy to be a small indy developer these days, and
I laud them for their efforts. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I mentioned on Facebook that my
new glasses finally came in, and earlier than expected! The instant I
got the text from the optometrist, I took off from work, dashed over to
the eye doc’s, collected my new and glorious specs, and came home
to pop out my contacts and try them on. The first thing I did was
test out an old paperback poetry book that I’ve had on my list to
read forever, but haven’t been able to with a 15-year old
prescription. Voila! I was actually able to read the print. I wanted
to cry. The new specs are so nice that I’ve even overcome my vanity
enough to wear them to work a few times a week. Also, unbeknownst to
me, it turns out that the frames are Kate Spade, so not only can I
see, I’m also fancy. Look out world. I’m watching you—through
my new, properly-prescribed lenses. <i>I can see everything.</i></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Enjoy this instructional video on
how to cure chronic nice-lady-ness. I learned a lot!</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/fsgGsCbdEAM" width="320" youtube-src-id="fsgGsCbdEAM"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Kristen McHenry</span></span></i><br /></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</p>
<p align="justify" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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</p>
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<br />
</p>
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<br />
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-89673558258432584242022-02-27T10:30:00.000-08:002022-02-27T10:30:14.804-08:00The Artist<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwFOf2ajGuiIAzQ_Mfvfrm8eQ_s16WnV7ZnrBoWM9ATyQfBd5eb5VU9ok86pNK2RIgG_cCYVpjiI_hreyVFPjveGHfeHcyQVZ1iPUBjHMnxvJkFD_Ybbntytie8bQYh0ENoE05QwWj4dUiH1jX84xpBWy5utAVwjC6XRtxmIn-YkMrbKqYNhrNGw3_=s900" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="746" data-original-width="900" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwFOf2ajGuiIAzQ_Mfvfrm8eQ_s16WnV7ZnrBoWM9ATyQfBd5eb5VU9ok86pNK2RIgG_cCYVpjiI_hreyVFPjveGHfeHcyQVZ1iPUBjHMnxvJkFD_Ybbntytie8bQYh0ENoE05QwWj4dUiH1jX84xpBWy5utAVwjC6XRtxmIn-YkMrbKqYNhrNGw3_=w245-h203" width="245" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As the world burns, I feel that
this week calls for something uplifting, yet tinged with
mournfulness. I found this poem that I wrote some years ago about an
artist in the Arizona desert facing his last days. I had almost
forgotten about it. It seems fitting somehow. </span></span></span><p></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hold tight and keep
looking for the humanity in each person.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The
Artist</b></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Near
blind </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">from
years of letting in the sky, </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">deaf
from the coyote songs </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">that
score the naked desert--</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">my
last act: to lift </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">a
wizened brush and draft</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">the
horizon of my crossing. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
gods will ask me</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">did
I do right by what resides</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">in
all the lavish desert—for the lizard's eyesight,</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">for
Coyote </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">who
dissolves into the bush? </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For
the disgraced </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">night
sky, mottled with a light that isn't hers.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And
I will say, it wasn't love as I have known it.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Instead
it was a falling in.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A
disability of love.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
could do nothing</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">but
paint the nothing I became.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tell
the ones who come </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">to
leave my body.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Let
it fall to scavengers. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My
eyes</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">have
taught me</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">that
God</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">is
generous:</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">those,
leave open </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">so
they might offer </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">sky
</span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">back
to sky.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
I
will be savage with peace.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>--Kristen
McHenry</i></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> </i></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i></i></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/EEhpKadFfRA" width="320" youtube-src-id="EEhpKadFfRA"></iframe></i></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /> </i></span><p></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-1692596224310291182022-02-20T11:25:00.002-08:002022-02-20T11:37:50.986-08:00I’m That Girl!<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3VfTwMT3LgHg6A1TpvP3rqNCAgzTu68GDQW8KpwfziwcPM6QhD3PIOKK7C_Jtp5aJAXdJdwey0CeMbAhu5v_mksnjF7R9_gAjSrmCB_OmdlwXruBNjQ-doZPL2EwEZIIIbI4Iub-ULG5Q96MbGyDSD1mNi9KkVltuMd3HLIqFp4Rm5Lmveon4WRsn=s437" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="437" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3VfTwMT3LgHg6A1TpvP3rqNCAgzTu68GDQW8KpwfziwcPM6QhD3PIOKK7C_Jtp5aJAXdJdwey0CeMbAhu5v_mksnjF7R9_gAjSrmCB_OmdlwXruBNjQ-doZPL2EwEZIIIbI4Iub-ULG5Q96MbGyDSD1mNi9KkVltuMd3HLIqFp4Rm5Lmveon4WRsn=w218-h202" width="218" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Since I live in a bat cave, only
to emerge for work, the gym, and a weekly grocery run, until recently
I was blissfully unaware of the “That Girl” YouTube trend. I came
across it while I was perusing videos by Abby Sharp, a common-sense
dietitian who I watch now and then. Abby was very fired up about the
proliferation of “That Girl” videos, which I have come to learn
are self-improvement videos, usually made by models, minor internet
stars or fitness gurus, detailing their uber-healthy morning
routines. From what I’ve seen from my relatively shallow dive into
these videos, these routines invariably involve a “gratitude
journal,” a green drink, fruit, a workout, and a skincare regimen.
The idea is that these routines will lead to a healthier physical and
mental mindset, improve your productivity, and allow you to be “the
best version of yourself.” The problem is that they are laughably
unrealistic for the average person, which is why Abby took umbrage
with the whole thing while reviewing a “That Girl” video by
someone named Vanessa Tiiu. I have no idea who Vanessa Tiiu is, but
she certainly seems to have some leisure time on her hands. Her
morning routine is lovely. She gets up early, spends about fifteen
minutes rubbing various products onto her face, drinks a big glass of
lemon water, and then writes in not one, but two journals, followed
by a breakfast of some sort of oatmeal-looking thing topped with
berries, and the inevitable green drink. She follows all of that with
a full workout and a long walk, all while encouraging her viewers to
do the same. Personally, I think how out of touch Vanessa is with the
average working person is hilarious, but Abby is a bit of a
perfectionist and I could tell it got under her skin and made
her feel inferior. It didn’t make me feel inferior in the least. I
found the whole thing quite inspiring, in fact. I shall now present,
for your edification, my own “That Girl” routine. Feel free to
take from it whatever works for you:</span></span></span><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Switch alarm off at 5:45 a.m. and
cover head with blanket, trying to stave off creeping existential
despair. Fall vaguely back asleep until jerked awake by the terror of
having possibly overslept. Check clock and groan. Throw off blanket
and head to the bathroom for morning pee. Vacillate on whether or not
to weigh self, scrutinize body in contact-lens-less eyes, and decide
against it. Stumble to kitchen for cup of coffee and head to computer
room to look at news. Give up in horror after about three minutes and
switch on video game instead. Play video game for too long in attempt
to tame cows so I can trade milk to the local tinker for weapons
upgrade. Reluctantly switch off video game and go to living room to
get dressed. Hate what I picked out the night before and creep into
bedroom (if Mr. Typist is still sleeping) to get new clothes. Pick
out another wrong thing in the dark and decide to just give up and go
with original wrong thing. Suck down another cup of coffee while
getting dressed and debating whether or not to do morning ab
exercises. Ultimately negotiate with self to do them at work on my
lunch break knowing full well I likely won’t do them at work on my
lunch break. Decidedly skip the gratitude journal, as it dulls my
anger and I need my anger for fuel. Mindlessly wolf down a few
breakfast pickles while deciding whether or not to make my typical
fried egg over tuna or just get something quick from the case at
work. (This one is 50-50.) Head back to the bathroom to brush teeth
and slather on makeup while feeling vaguely resentful about the
professional necessity of slathering on makeup. Do final face check
and decide it will have to do. Suck down one more hasty cup of coffee
before popping an Altoid (coffee breath) and shambling into coat.
Grab purse, adjust headphones, fire up a podcast so I don’t have to
be alone with my thoughts, and head out the door. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I don’t detail all of this to
make you feel inferior. After all, as Abby points out, we must all do
what is best for us personally and not compare ourselves to others.
I’m just telling you what makes me my best self, that’s all. It
has taken years of practice to cultivate this routine, and you
shouldn’t feel bad if you can’t achieve those heights right out
of the gate. Start small and build up! Before you know it, you too will
be That Girl.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I leave you with this quick and
funny video from comedian Kallmekris, because we could all use a good
laugh these days:</span></span></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/NQRVj5f8eRI" width="320" youtube-src-id="NQRVj5f8eRI"></iframe></div><p></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">--Kristen McHenry</span></span></i><br />
</p>Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-18067086484298107562022-02-13T11:20:00.000-08:002022-02-13T11:20:41.560-08:00Fun with Paramecia, Gym Fail, Appeasing the Coffee God<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7ZUhOnsDfToIghFDr0Z0egtugsf1WidhEhFIduHbkLJBsWuD5O9jea6kyMnzAp1MbJQNS8ElqAeLC1TyHiKhs3dQojgkoI8cQ5LwrQ2olznxjOfJNwQvcpwG8Z1E_yf67C5FnxRet8Ju8GrxH-DPD9qlfDrMOSi6H2mqtAM2HYObuJQLENXZNZoN5=s964" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="528" data-original-width="964" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7ZUhOnsDfToIghFDr0Z0egtugsf1WidhEhFIduHbkLJBsWuD5O9jea6kyMnzAp1MbJQNS8ElqAeLC1TyHiKhs3dQojgkoI8cQ5LwrQ2olznxjOfJNwQvcpwG8Z1E_yf67C5FnxRet8Ju8GrxH-DPD9qlfDrMOSi6H2mqtAM2HYObuJQLENXZNZoN5=w273-h149" width="273" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Recently Mr. Typist bought a
microscope, and it took me back to a strangely happy memory of when I
was in grade school and we would go out into the woods behind the
school, gather pond water in baby food jars, then look at it under a
microscope. The first time I saw a paramecium, it filled me with
elation and a deep sense of spiritual comfort. It felt like such a
miracle that there could be an entire unseen universe of tiny busy
life forms carrying on their functions, breathing, excreting and
pulsating deep under the surface. I loved looking at the paramecia,
and if I had a better brain for science and math, it would have
inspired me to become a biologist. When it warms up a bit and we get
through a fairly daunting apartment-improvement project, Mr. Typist
and I are going to go gather up some water samples from our local
parks and shorelines and see what we find under the lens. I’m
super-excited about it.</span></span></span><p></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My trainer recently advanced me
to the big girl stuff: hip thrusts and the squat rack--the real squat
rack, not the safe and contained Smith machine that does all of the
stabilization for you. Both have had mixed results. I’d always see
these women at the gym doing this mysterious exercise where they lean
their backs against a weight bench with a loaded deadlifting bar
across their hips and lift their butts and up and down. It looks
very cool and next-level, but I didn’t understand the purpose. My
trainer explained that it’s <i>the</i> most effective glut-building
exercise and took me through how to do it. I’ve tried it a few times
on my own and so far I’ve found it horribly awkward and
uncomfortable. It’s a feat of dexterity just to wrestle the
45-pound bar onto to my hips and at the same get myself positioned
onto the bench with my back in the right place. And damn—those
thrusts do indeed work the gluts like crazy, but each time after I do
them my hips are vaguely achy for days. I think hip thrusts are best
left to those who are going for the Kim Kardashian look, which I do
not want and will never achieve anyway. My butt has always been
relatively flat no matter what weight I’m at. I just comfort myself
by looking at ads from the 70’s when flat butts were all the rage.
There was a similar situation with the squat rack—lifting the bar
out of the rack was laborious and awkward, I flailed around trying to
balance it on my shoulders, and this morning I woke up with fiery
nerve pain shooting from my right knee into the top of my quads. I’m
guessing this is from squatting with an unbalanced bar yesterday. I
hope to God this just means that I need better technique and not
that I’m simply too old to be doing athlete-level moves in the gym.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As part of the aforementioned
apartment improvement project, Mr. Typist and I bought a new, fancy,
stainless steel coffee maker. It looks nice and it’s very high tech
and all, but the first morning it brewed coffee, we discovered a
quirk: Just as it’s about to finish brewing a pot, it emits a
tremendous, ear-shattering, volcanic roar akin to the sound the Blue
Angels make during their practice runs. It’s only once, and it’s
only at the end of the brew cycle, but it’s so loud it wakes me up
every single morning. Mr. Typist and have speculated that perhaps it
is demanding a virgin sacrifice. We don’t know how to appease the
coffee pot god and as such, this seems to be a permanent condition.
I’m just considering it a pre-alarm and calling it a feature.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Enjoy this aquatic romp through
the mysteries of the deep with our friend Zefrank1. Warning: corny
dad jokes and sac talk abound. </span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/giqtGYLQ_xM" width="320" youtube-src-id="giqtGYLQ_xM"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> --Kirsten McHenry</i></span></span>
<p></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-59767272865235188952022-02-06T13:58:00.000-08:002022-02-06T13:58:04.455-08:00The Trouble with Ravens<div align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwN9zsJkPFeFRi4RCWdI9my_io5pHAHXJbuH43LXYuJ4DGmV3_PhmZD6gKa8tXS-MkXzQw8KDANWFxA5gZJBrqFfrcCPlh_lcZMNQx_T2nyHO-vWx1swJ7PBssKDtwPu7IlVehMo10XMcigcWZ5ExPK8IbJou4Bj0sGo0ljWYbNf_WvS3HPieKgoTo=s720" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="610" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwN9zsJkPFeFRi4RCWdI9my_io5pHAHXJbuH43LXYuJ4DGmV3_PhmZD6gKa8tXS-MkXzQw8KDANWFxA5gZJBrqFfrcCPlh_lcZMNQx_T2nyHO-vWx1swJ7PBssKDtwPu7IlVehMo10XMcigcWZ5ExPK8IbJou4Bj0sGo0ljWYbNf_WvS3HPieKgoTo=w146-h174" width="146" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I’ve had all kinds of stuff
going on this weekend and cranking out an entire post seems like a
bridge too far, so today you shall be “treated” to another old
poem of mine. I will return to my regularly scheduled posts next
week, as I do have a lot to talk about. (We got a microscope! I
learned Hip Thrusts!) For now, I hope you enjoy this poem about the
wily raven. A proper post is to come next week.</span></span></span></div><div align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b> </b></span></span></div><div align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>The Trouble with Ravens </b><br /></span></span></div><div align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">is who they were born from.<br />The first one ever<br />was wicked beyond imagining.<br />Who else could steal the sun,<br />regurgitate stars, drag<br />Night into the world<br />with such a frail and lazy mouth? This<br />is their cunning legacy, <br />wrapped in their DNA like a long<br />stray hair.<br />Because of this,<br />they have no shame.<br /><br />So be careful when Raven<br />beguiles you from telephone wires<br />or worse yet, those<br />misty reeds; when he twists <br />his head and peers at you, quick-faced, <br />grease-eyed. He wants<br />your bread, your bullets,<br />your riddles, the last <br />dreamy petal<br />fallen to the night table.<br /><br />He wants to brag<br />of how he is so beloved<br />that the brightest, most breakable girls <br />name themselves “Raven”; shape<br />their eyes like his with kohl,<br />and wander<br />in mourning through the world<br />with their glossy hearts and feathered lips.<br /><br />He will tell you all this.<br />He will sing you songs<br />you are most unprepared to hear.<br />He will flutter before you, holding<br />a volatile orb in his beak.<br /><br />He will offer it, offer it.<br /></span></span></div><div align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>--Kristen McHenry</i></span></span></div><div align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wE7ElY8VEEw" width="320" youtube-src-id="wE7ElY8VEEw"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-24054948039626483722022-01-30T10:11:00.000-08:002022-01-30T10:11:18.155-08:00Poem of the Month, Ah, Memories<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEwnV5G3txMHp_MASBmQrnNM1Kr2Gs1DCDiC3D2DdTahiHxwq929wH0dUTGjcX6-667OuVTB8kl_k4gLh6c-4kIDWCUb-fiVaeCtiX9awHvg_PyjVSEfHXUBOCAXTckem9Qzx9tTL91SpwTZZv9-Oo3NwZrQ1vurusrtE0GRGhZvQbWqkAikLtOVNK=s720" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="720" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEwnV5G3txMHp_MASBmQrnNM1Kr2Gs1DCDiC3D2DdTahiHxwq929wH0dUTGjcX6-667OuVTB8kl_k4gLh6c-4kIDWCUb-fiVaeCtiX9awHvg_PyjVSEfHXUBOCAXTckem9Qzx9tTL91SpwTZZv9-Oo3NwZrQ1vurusrtE0GRGhZvQbWqkAikLtOVNK=w202-h147" width="202" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Even though it’s still
technically January, I’m mentally bumping it ahead to February.
January has been a fiasco and I just want it to be over. I don’t
know if Mercury is in retrograde or what, but everything I have tried
to accomplish has crashed and burned and I feel like I’ve been
wading through waste-deep mud. Everything feels slow and clunky and
confusing, and I blame it all on January. I just want to start afresh
with a shiny new month. So I’m pretending it’s February. And as
such, I am posting my Poem-of-the-Month a few days ahead of schedule.</span></span></span><p></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Years ago, I was involved in a
long, drawn-out poetry competition wherein one poet was eliminated
each week over twelve weeks. It caused me a fair bit of literary
trauma and it is an experience that I shall not deem to repeat. It
was frankly quite vicious and soul-destroying, and it’s when I
first learned that poets are cruel. That having been said, I came in
fourth overall, and I won a few of the weekly challenges. This poem
is one of the winners. I can’t recall all of the specifics of the
assignment, but we had to write a poem about Dolly Parton using
phrases from some of her songs. My poem was deemed by the All-Knowing
God King of Poetry Judges to be the best one that week. The following
week I got completely brutalized, of course. Nothing like a little
psychological abuse to keep me on my toes. Enjoy!</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The Ballad of Mama, Porter,
Sinner, and Number One Fan </b></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;"> </span></span></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">When
did you love Dolly most?</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">When
she was a hummingbird, </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">thrumming
to stun.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">My
lithest daughter, my rawboned one,</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">sang
vibrato; lullaby bait</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">to
keep the grieving from our gate.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">We
joined with her, round by round.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">Little
sparrow, little sparrow, </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">your
voice has that high, lonesome sound.</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;"> </span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">
</span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">When
did you love Dolly most?</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">When
she was a raven,</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">bedraggled
with sorrow,</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">and
I sought soulfulness to borrow.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">My
first in-love-with, Lady Lament.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">We
sang together of sweet descent;</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">baptized
anguish, but never drowned.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">Little
sparrow, little sparrow, </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">your
voice has that high, lonesome sound.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">When
did you love Dolly most?</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">When
she was a swan</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">unwinding
her throat,</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">holy
host to the mercy note. </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">Her
gospel pierced like a keening wren,</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">and
Jesus made me whole again.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">Sinner
lost and poor man found.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">Little
sparrow, little sparrow, </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">your
voice has that high, lonesome sound.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">When
did you love Dolly most?</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">When
she was a Scarlet Ibis;</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">a
quick flame branding sea.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">My
voice has long been dead in me;</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">a
corpse bud on a sickly vine.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">But
it waxes bright as clementine</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">when
I sing with her, my bold unbound.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">Little
sparrow, little sparrow, </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: transparent;">your
voice has that high, lonesome sound.<br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="background: transparent;">--Kristen
McHenry</span></i></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b><span style="background: transparent;">Quoted
Songs: </span></b></span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">Little
Sparrow, Blue Valley Songbird</span></span></span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;"></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/72h_AAiEa4g" width="320" youtube-src-id="72h_AAiEa4g"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-45938544060514773292022-01-23T10:38:00.000-08:002022-01-23T10:38:30.597-08:00EZ Poetry, Busted Bubble, a Vision of Vision<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiK9ldgyccltjWSBOKZpn8XU0z2LkC7YcA1mF8gI7sZN1oatkEnUDMf2pWOrh3Rhjscu4PpmEMaQ2vjWG9RGa1Ko-kKFxXMdJZx57v_9jLFBBK3FnPI8yGNyWH-ORLt_zV6EgbgHMefeBR4FYbDITSTIrWqU3PmSqaL1OtUPO8zO4trN_tfnShpkZkG=s900" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="654" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiK9ldgyccltjWSBOKZpn8XU0z2LkC7YcA1mF8gI7sZN1oatkEnUDMf2pWOrh3Rhjscu4PpmEMaQ2vjWG9RGa1Ko-kKFxXMdJZx57v_9jLFBBK3FnPI8yGNyWH-ORLt_zV6EgbgHMefeBR4FYbDITSTIrWqU3PmSqaL1OtUPO8zO4trN_tfnShpkZkG=w275-h200" width="275" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was delighted to get a surprise
call this week from my long-time poetry mentor. Long story short, he
encouraged me to start sending out work again, so the plan of
publishing new works on this blog has now transformed into a plan to
write and submit one new poem a month. I’ll still post a previously
published poem once a month, but I’m going to save the new work for
sending out. It feels like a strange journey to be embarking on again
after all this time. I can’t pinpoint exactly why and when I
stopped sending out submissions, but at some point, I just lost
patience and got sick of the gatekeepers jealously guarding their
insular little lit mags that are only read by a niche group of other
poets, all bowing to each other in their exclusive mutual admiration
circle. I want to write poetry for the <i>people</i>, man. Seriously
though, I never had any patience for the snobbery and academic
parochialism that pervades the poetry world. There is a reason why
most non-poets are fearful and distrustful of poetry, or just plain
find it incomprehensible. First off, the way it’s taught in school
is awful. For people who do not naturally resonate with metaphorical
language, bashing them over the head with a “gotcha” about the
meaning of a poem is just cruel, not to mention unimaginative. And
these weird little “schools” that proliferate for the sole
purpose of encouraging incomprehensible poetry that only other
academics can understand is the height of pretension if you ask me.
The bottom line is that normal people want to read musical,
ear-pleasing, relatable work that has a surprise or two thrown in.
Maybe one day I’ll start the lit mag equivalent of those jumbo
crossword puzzle books and call it “EZ Poetry.”</span></span></span><p></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
literally never go anywhere but the work, the gym and the grocery
store, so my world is quite small these days, and when there is a
disturbance in one of th</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">o</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">se
worlds, it resonates. I started deadlifting a few months ago. They
only had one deadlifting mat, and there was often a wait to get it,
but once I did, it was my little square bubble of space that no one
else could invade. I could comfortably concentrate on my lift without
being crowded or feeling like I was front and center for all to see.
This week, suddenly out of nowhere, the deadlifting mat was gone and
in its place was this giant, neon-orange, industrial monstrosity of
a…</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">rack?
I don’t even know what to call it.</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
It’s a big square </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">cage
</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">of
some sort, with pulleys and cables and giant plates hung all of over
it. I took a fairly close look at it but I’m completely flummoxed
as to how to use it. It seems I’m not the only one, because it’s
been there for over a week and I have yet to see anyone actually use
it. The deadlifting bar was h</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">aphazardly</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
tossed onto the big rubber mat in the front, </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">where
it’s always crowded and people are everywhere doing their stool
jumps and lateral band walks. </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">So
</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
lost my deadlifting bubble and now I have to do it front and center
with people all around me. Ce la vie, I guess.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">It’s
only a week and a month before my insurance kicks in and I can go and
get my new glasses. I cannot wait. I have been struggling mightily
with a pair of ancient glasses in a long-defunct prescription, and
I’m convinced these new glasses are going to change my life,
increase my IQ, and make my hair shiny and glossy. </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
plan to show up at the optometrist at the stroke of midnight on March
1</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><sup><span style="font-weight: normal;">st</span></sup><span style="font-weight: normal;">
and stare into the window until they open. Of course, they have to
order them and fit them and all of that, so it will be mid-March at
the earliest before I can put them on my face, but once I do, I
expect the heavens to open and angels to sing.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">S</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">peaking
of angels singing, here’s a solid hour of Gregorian chants. Enjoy!</span></span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SWLkPJpmBBU" width="320" youtube-src-id="SWLkPJpmBBU"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> --Kristen McHenry</span></span></i><br /></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-82545385517632037392022-01-16T10:47:00.001-08:002022-01-16T10:47:12.437-08:00Learning How to Be Bad Again, The Illustrious Mango<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgU_DnXbwCQSLthZU3bU9tUJ3LkqjoOm423Dl2Ch-fMsk-WV9hrU9i0_zxf5HQw7gH1syS3xqPGoMSnbHIzsWN-DqDxwaKXjeuQDQwio_ztT0sYFQyieIifywa2taWr6GY5lV02icoMTUYCp_UI-Ry17-vGDOZ18IooHDq3JqYL2jQhHccPubjVqibS=s501" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="501" data-original-width="498" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgU_DnXbwCQSLthZU3bU9tUJ3LkqjoOm423Dl2Ch-fMsk-WV9hrU9i0_zxf5HQw7gH1syS3xqPGoMSnbHIzsWN-DqDxwaKXjeuQDQwio_ztT0sYFQyieIifywa2taWr6GY5lV02icoMTUYCp_UI-Ry17-vGDOZ18IooHDq3JqYL2jQhHccPubjVqibS=w157-h158" width="157" /></a></div><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To my surprise, ahead of my
self-imposed schedule is the first poem from the Poem-a-Month
series—a simple rhyming ode to mangoes, one of the few fruits I
have found I like since embarking on my goal to add more fruit to my
diet. I bought a mango for the first time in my life a few weeks ago,
and I didn’t know how to slice it. I had to look it up on YouTube.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The hardest thing for me about
diving into writing poetry again has been learning to embrace the
crap. I wrote pages and pages of utter dreck this week and had to
remind myself that the dreck is essential. It’s the fertilizer from
which the good stuff grows. And who do I think I am anyway, that
every word flowing from my pen shall be transcendent perfection?
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this imperfect little ditty about the
illustrious mango:</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Meditation
on My First Time Slicing a Mango</b></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This
flushed oval jewel, dense and dumb</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Demands
devotion to its common mystery.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Board
and blade sing a reverent hum</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">to
the cherished mango's sacred history.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
bury the blade in its flecked moon cheek</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And
yield a cradle of amber meat </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
dice the pulp, sinewy-sleek</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And
sample its harvest, tang and sweet.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
rue the decades of my life deprived</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">of
this incandescent, lavish glory. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My
love of the luscious is thus revived </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">and
the illustrious mango shall be my quarry!</span></span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/sc26E5rsyDs" width="320" youtube-src-id="sc26E5rsyDs"></iframe></i></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /> </i></span><p></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>--Kristen McHenry</i></span></span></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i> </i></span><p align="justify" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-23668337143690155172022-01-09T11:05:00.000-08:002022-01-09T11:05:38.592-08:00Affairs of Honor, Poem Promise<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiV5phUG3zD3llOY7fpX09bnEC9YSTfoYPR0T8I6UW33XwvYSDwtp2sK2NJwuJV6XXY98aNbZEyjz6CSQN6_jBwMcskf4r_n_PySuP2gILgNqgD9_X0yHuTQwjRCXUCVXmUn2Ud1e-c9jm-UG-hbQTyuCeEpa6HYId7KGAmd-SgLxcrAYNn_SZYxTWQ=s1920" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiV5phUG3zD3llOY7fpX09bnEC9YSTfoYPR0T8I6UW33XwvYSDwtp2sK2NJwuJV6XXY98aNbZEyjz6CSQN6_jBwMcskf4r_n_PySuP2gILgNqgD9_X0yHuTQwjRCXUCVXmUn2Ud1e-c9jm-UG-hbQTyuCeEpa6HYId7KGAmd-SgLxcrAYNn_SZYxTWQ=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As a side effect of my new-found
interest in the American Revolutionary War, I recently went down an
internet rabbit hole on the practice of pistol dueling. This is about
the last thing I ever thought I would take an interest in, but I
can’t stop reading about it. There was a highly complex and
elaborate set of rules surrounding this extreme-by-today’s-standards
ritual that I find fascinating. But more than that, I have been
thinking about the parallels between the 17<sup>th</sup> and 18<sup>th</sup>
century obsession with honor, and today’s obsession with respect. I
try very hard not to apply the thought standards of today’s world
to an era two or three hundred years ago, but as I was reading more
about the infamous Burr vs. Hamilton duel, I found myself doing
exactly that. The night before the duel, Hamilton wrote a mournful
missive about how much pain and devastation it would cause his family
and the country if he was killed in this duel. Knowing that his
promising young son died in exactly the same manner only three years
earlier, I found myself mentally beating my head against a wall and
internally shouting, <i>“You don’t have to go, Hamilton! Just
don’t go. Don’t get killed over something as ephemeral and
</i><i>in</i><i>definitive as “honor.” </i><span style="font-style: normal;">But
as I read more about that era and dueling, I came to understand that
honor was</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> indeed</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
a very real thing. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">It may
seem silly to us now, but t</span><span style="font-style: normal;">o
lose honor could hurl someone into career and financial ruin and
cause never-ending shame. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">Honor</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
was taken very seriously—so seriously that a pistol duel was
considered a reasonable response to </span><span style="font-style: normal;">an
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">insult. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-style: normal;">To
be fair, it seems that the majority of these duels were mostly just
theatrical posing and were ended without harm to either party as soon
as </span><span style="font-style: normal;">it was satisfied that both
had saved face. If it went as far as firing, shots were usually
“wasted”--fired into the ground </span><span style="font-style: normal;">(which
is nonetheless very dangerous.)</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
I’m hardly an expert, but my understanding is that most of the time
neither person was intent on harming the other, but they had to go
through the elaborate ritual anyway. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">However,
this perilous practice </span><span style="font-style: normal;">was
beginning to be banned in many states </span><span style="font-style: normal;">around</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
the time of </span><span style="font-style: normal;">the </span><span style="font-style: normal;">Burr
vs. Hamilton duel. Ironically, in New York, the penalty for dueling
was death. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">Ah, the things one
learns when one spends too much time on the internet.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-style: normal;">At
the behest of a long-time poetry mentor and friend of mine, I made a
commitment recently that I’m both nervous and excited about. I’ve
agreed to write and post one new poem per month on this blog. There,
I’ve said it publically and now I’m accountable. For a number of
reasons I’m not going to detail </span><span style="font-style: normal;">here,</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
I’ve been in a hopeless funk for a long time about writing poetry
and have struggled to find the calling. So I appreciate this nudge—or
more like the light kick in the pants I needed to get going again.
Because I am me, of course I decided to re-start this endeavor b</span><span style="font-style: normal;">y
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">writing a sestina about the
Burr vs. Hamilton duel, but quickly discovered that this </span><span style="font-style: normal;">was
far </span><span style="font-style: normal;">too ambitious a plan for
my weakened, out-of-shape poetry muscles. It’s like when I go ham
at the gym after a long absence and end up </span><span style="font-style: normal;">debilitatlingly</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
sore the next day. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">So I’m
going to start with something a little simpler and work my way up. I
can’t guarantee when the first new poem will show up, but it will
be some time in January. I also offer no guarantees as to the quality
or literary worth </span><span style="font-style: normal;">of any new
poem</span><span style="font-style: normal;">. However, if you insult
one of my poems, I shall challenge you to a duel! </span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-style: normal;">E</span><span style="font-style: normal;">njoy
this brief video on the basics of dueling:</span></span></span></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yGu9jriYpp4" width="320" youtube-src-id="yGu9jriYpp4"></iframe></div><br />
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;">--Kristen
McHenry</span></span></span></p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-37664412837338321182022-01-01T11:51:00.001-08:002022-01-01T11:51:32.099-08:00Days of Loafing, Re-Discovering Dorothy, History Buff<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhccXUQvgcxCFvFAAjgXQ-yjpFoKsDwk4rETKfK-FTOisugP8u1zAjirvKLj5tYj1cXgwGhiclXUfEPqkMSVMmIhKAU5dwF2PmlxZPBpXwYF_c0hFWVLkCtkMrb1iF6Cobl6_FDZnhMtGmDJ3wCxct4ZU26Zl0_jjnPRiVWYH1fKLVH5Wx9nL1VTpt3=s900" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="675" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhccXUQvgcxCFvFAAjgXQ-yjpFoKsDwk4rETKfK-FTOisugP8u1zAjirvKLj5tYj1cXgwGhiclXUfEPqkMSVMmIhKAU5dwF2PmlxZPBpXwYF_c0hFWVLkCtkMrb1iF6Cobl6_FDZnhMtGmDJ3wCxct4ZU26Zl0_jjnPRiVWYH1fKLVH5Wx9nL1VTpt3=w196-h261" width="196" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Years ago, I worked for an
organization that always closed down during the week between
Christmas and New Year’s, and as such I became habituated to taking
those days off and have made it something of a tradition. Nothing is
going to get accomplished in that time anyway. It’s an informal
national “down week” as it should be, because these are frozen,
dead, throw-away days in which humans are not meant to be functional.
Hence no post last week. I’ve been off since December 23<sup>rd</sup>,
doing nothing but loafing around and making a full-time job of trying
to keep warm in the 15-degree weather in our under-insulated
apartment, shivering in a turtleneck (thanks, Mom!), a hoodie, a knit
hat, and double socks.
</span></span></div><p align="justify" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">During
all of this shivering, I was delighted to receive from Mr. Typist the
newest version of the Dorothy Parker compendium. I had her
compendium before for many years, and after a while it just fell
apart </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">from
use</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
and eventually disappeared. I don’t know what happened to it, </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">but
I always missed it. I was thrilled to re-read my old favorite stories
that I had all but forgotten about, and regularly came lurching into
the computer room clutching the book and gasping with laughter as I
recounted to Mr. Typist the plot of my favorite stories. My top two
are: “Here We Are”, in which a women has an emotional breakdown
on a train because she becomes convinced that her new husband hates
her taste in hats, and “The Standard of Living”, in which two
young women enter a shop to inquire about the price of a necklace and
discover that it costs $10,000.00 dollars. Simple plots, hilarious
results. Bear with me for a moment because this<i> is</i> related: It seems
like a long time ago now, but some years back Gillian Flynn’s book
“Gone Girl” was, </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">rightfully,</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
all the rage and I read it practically in one sitting. One oft-quoted
and much-discussed passage in the book was about the “Cool Girl”,
a mythical figure of </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">easy-going</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
femini</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">nity,
a</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">“</span>hot,
brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and
burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer...and
jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth...while somehow
maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and
understanding.” The
passage goes into
a lot
more detail, and
was fodder
for many an irritated
think piece among the bloggerati. It turns out that
Dorothy
Parker beat Gillian Flynn to the punch years ago with “Dusk
Before Fireworks”, in which the
main character
spends the entire story attempting to convince a man that she’s a
Cool Girl and nothing like those other jealous, controlling harridans
he surrounds himself with. So
the
Cool Girl has been around since at least
the 20’s, it seems, and
I suspect even before that. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Besides leisure reading, the
other vacation-y thing I did was spend an entire weekday afternoon
watching a movie with Mr. Typist. For some reason, I have developed a
recent and quite uncharacteristic interest in the American
Revolutionary War. Don’t ask me why. I’ve never been much
interested in history, which I know doesn’t speak well of me, but
it always seemed so fist-gnawingly dull in school, and I didn’t
care a whit about which Persian battle pushed back which neighboring
army or who conquered who in the endless Battles of Whatever. But I
did want to get more of a grip on some things I’ve been fuzzy
about, so I started watching a series of videos by Cody Cain called
“The Founding Fathers”, which has been fascinating. Mr. Typist
was excited by my new-found interest and suggested that I would enjoy
“The Patriot”, a three-hour long opus from 2000 about the life of
Colonial militia leader Benjamin Martin. This astounding movie has
now moved into my official top five favorite films of all time. I
sobbed through a great deal of it. It is hands-down one of the best
movies ever made. It is absolutely breathtaking, with Shakespearean
themes of pride, rage, love, family, morality, war, and death. At one
point, the main character says, “I have long feared that my sins
would return to visit me, and the cost is more than I can bear.”
That is the emotional crux of the film—his sins do indeed return to
visit him, and his sons and daughters, too, in unspeakable ways. I
have a lot more to say about this movie, but this post is getting a bit on
the long side and a more formal review will need to wait for another
time. But if you find yourself with three hours to kick around, I
strongly suggest firing up “The Patriot” and arming yourself with
a box of tissues.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/R_C_dPHEWN0" width="320" youtube-src-id="R_C_dPHEWN0"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">-Kristen McHenry</span></span></i><br />
</p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855802737317865685.post-78040303585393506982021-12-19T11:51:00.002-08:002021-12-19T11:51:19.492-08:00John Denver Rabbit Hole, Bike Embroilment, Frozen Shoulder<p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmO6sVQIkrMyFuc1iuCnKgWQuF5P3plHEkm0mThs53yf0L60GxaYk5OyVTyDvs030wKKbv5qxbay1m3ehWMei7EDC1kuf64SfdWIw2RXMqo2GFeea1FLL9qvulkzRKT9Dup-INqvd5JosCQ5kHk-Xtam5kE4rxtfKa8uYO3RsGNJmjHYzhgviPpJVi=s750" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="535" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmO6sVQIkrMyFuc1iuCnKgWQuF5P3plHEkm0mThs53yf0L60GxaYk5OyVTyDvs030wKKbv5qxbay1m3ehWMei7EDC1kuf64SfdWIw2RXMqo2GFeea1FLL9qvulkzRKT9Dup-INqvd5JosCQ5kHk-Xtam5kE4rxtfKa8uYO3RsGNJmjHYzhgviPpJVi=w197-h276" width="197" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To Mr. Typist’s great
bemusement, I went down a John Denver rabbit hole this week thanks to
a casual comment on one of my Facebook posts. I hadn’t listened to
John Denver’s music or thought about him for many years, but the
comment inspired to me go and watch his concert footage from the
70’s, and I was awash with memories. I tried to explain to Mr.
Typist that when I lived in Alaska as a young child, during the
summers hippies would emerge in the early evenings on porches with
guitars and play John Denver songs, and all of us children would
gather around and sing along. We had no idea what the lyrics meant,
but we knew they felt good to sing. I don’t know why there were
hippies on an Air Force base in Alaska, but there were, in greater
numbers than you might imagine. And they have an unerring instinct
for twilight and children and catchy, emotionally compelling songs
about mountains and nature, so there you have it—spontaneous 70’s
John Denver porch concerts on an Air Force base in the middle of
Alaska.</span></span></span><p></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The stationary bike company
Peloton has managed to get itself into hot water again. The first
time was over an ad a few years ago that had everyone up in arms
because a dude bought his skinny wife the Peloton bike for Christmas.
I didn’t understand what all of the fuss was about. It was an
annoying ad in my opinion, but I didn’t find anything inherently
outrageous about a man buying his wife some exercise equipment. I
wouldn’t get mad if Mr. Typist bought me, say, a barbell set.
(Ahem, hint, hint.) I just thought the woman was grating and weirdly
neurotic. A I recall, they did some damage control with a counter-ad
and the hubbub eventually died down, but now they are embroiled in
controversy once again due to the Sex and The City reboot, in which
Carrie’s husband Mr. Big dies of a heart attack during a Peloton
workout in the premiere episode. Apparently, Peloton’s stock took
an instant nose-dive and now they are threatening to sue. I’m not
privy to the ins outs of whether or not they had a product placement
deal with the show or if this was just a creative decision on the
part of the producers, but I find it odd that a company’s stock
would tank overnight because a mediocre character dies in a reboot of
a mediocre show. And I’m annoyed that I’m thinking about it so
much. I never loved SITC, but I did watch it more than I care to
admit because I’m very interested in women’s friendship dynamics
and thought that they did a good job portraying that, and that the
writing was for the most part witty and intelligent. But I found all
of the characters morally appalling, especially Carrie. It always
irked me that she wrote one shallow, intellectually bankrupt column a
week and somehow lived like a queen from the proceeds. This is more
than I ever wanted to write or consider Peloton or SITC. Grr. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I find myself in a bit of a
fitness quandary. I used to have all kinds of problems with my right
shoulder, which have for the most part resolved over the years, but
this week the shoulder issue came back with a vengeance. For unknown
reasons, my right trapezius has completely locked up and is in an
endless pain/spasm/pain cycle that no amount of hot water bottles,
massage, Epsom salt baths or stretching has been able to stop. The
muscle is bunched up in an stiff, angry, crunchy ball and is causing
referral pain into my ear, and my neck, and even some numbness in the
tips of my fingers. I have some Biofreeze coming today, which is a
product I have great faith in, and I’m hoping it helps. But in the
meantime, I can’t lift. The most I am going to be able to do is hop
on an elliptical or do a Yoga video from home. I’m very much
leaning towards the home video option. It’s cold and rainy out and
I see no good reason to leave the apartment. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Enjoy this 70’s moment from
John Denver. I certainly did!</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/TyJRsp5t9mA" width="320" youtube-src-id="TyJRsp5t9mA"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> --Kristen McHenry</span></span></i><br /></span><p></p>
Kristen McHenryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03467256747399406710noreply@blogger.com1