A Wrinkle in Time

Sometimes while reading A Wrinkle in Time to my kids, I fantasize that life in The Netherlands is not unlike life on Camazotz, that I've been "tesserd" here, that IT, the evil brain, is controlling the deadened Dutch population to think in mindless stereotypes, with few exceptions, and that I must use my creativity to find my way back to earth before it's too late, and I, too, am zapped up into ITs unthinking void.

Zzzzzzzzzz.......

My most interesting post, yet, you say. Written while sleepwalking. Sleep is so delicious these days. Can't seem to get enough. Guilty of nine+ hours each night this week. Still, I'm normal. Drifting in and out of it, my mind telling me each time I drift into consciousness, you must blog, you must blog. So there. I've done it. Now I'm going to lay down my heavy head once again. Crawl under my crispy down comforter, and warmly, softly, nod back off into a luscious never world, perchance to dream... Good night. Sleep tight. Don't forget to brush your teeth... zzzzzzzzzzzzz........

Playing Dolls

It's the chance of a lifetime. Now's the time. The golden moment to play dolls, My Little Pony, school, all day long, for hours. I have the cutest playmate, too. She's ever so sweet and charming. She's full of energy, creativity, positivity, and her mother is a dolt. I wish I were still good at building Lego, and making ponies flutter around, or fighting with Bionicles, complete with sound effects.

She's such a cooperative playmate, she tells me what to say and do the entire time. It's really a grand opportunity, and I'm blowing it. I could be using my acting skills. It's like a free improve course with my kids, and we're all in it together. All I have to do is let loose, be silly, act dumb, ham it up, throw in some voices.

It isn't over yet. There's always tomorrow, and all of the other days that follow, until they've grown out of their toys, and out of me, and are gone. This could be my second childhood. I could laugh, and be free. I could be a good housewife, and love it all, instead of pining for my own time.

There was a day, when I was much, much younger, that I was very good at all of these things. I try. I vouch to myself every time. I will play sincerely, with gusto and creativity. After days of the same, my ability to become enchanted is sucked dry. Perhaps I'm just not very good at this. Maybe I just need a break, or a little balance in my life. Perhaps.

By the way, I tried turning the photo several times, but it's uncooperative. Maybe there's a message in there somewhere.

Vintage German Sweater

It could be in preparation for my trip to Munich in a few weeks, I'm not sure yet. Today at the Rotterdam market, I bought this sweater. It was only five Euros. I'm not sure if I'll ever dare wear it, but it got the approval of my husband.

Since moving to The Netherlands my clothing style has become standard American, Old Navy, Gap. In the past several months I've started wearing running shoes almost everyday. My clothing budget is frugal, and I've come to see the infinite futility in shopping and buying. Fashion has come to bore me ultimately. Where I once prided myself on a unique vintage find in New York, and collected designer clothes from sales at high end boutiques and department stores, I can now wear the same pants several days in a row. It seems common here for people to do the same. I don't think most people in the US would wear the same clothes in the same week.

This afternoon we went on a rare trip to the market in Rotterdam, the largest open air market in Europe. They sell flowers, vegetables and fruits, fish, cheese, clothes, furniture, all manner of gadgets, jewelry, cutlery, bikes, the list goes on, all at reasonable prices. I needed to get out of the house after spending a few hours playing with dolls. It took me a while, but I finally convinced my daughter that we needed to get out. There's a Nepalese guy there who sells "fair trade" Nepalese clothing, and I was on my way to check him out, when I came across a stand selling mostly 1970s polyester, unbreathable and unbearably bright neon garb. My daughter was awed by the glitzy costume dresses, so I decided to take a look, and I ended up with this sweater, a poncho for my daughter, a 1970s biking shirt, and a Fraulein Greta shirt. Pictured, the sweater. It's German, perhaps in preparation for my trip to Munich in a few weeks for an opening of a good friend. I'm not sure if, in my utilitarian fashion mode, I'll ever dare put it on, since I've come to prefer sensible clothes, but it might be fun. I felt the "leaves," and they feel like suede. Ooohhh.

No Boarders

When I visited Monument Valley in 1996 I was interested to see people living in red huts in the middle of the valley, out in the scorching hot sun. Of course, Indians don't believe in boundaries, which is an interesting concept. They believe in keeping close to the land, that the earth is our mother, and that modern society has taken us too far away from our mother. They've been living in that desert for thousands of years, so I guess they've adapted to living in the scorching heat well enough.

Most recently, I picked up a book called Almanac of the Dead by Leslie Marmon Silko in the Rotterdam library. A lot of it is so unlike what I usually read, that I've had to plow through sections, but it's rewarding and educational in places. I wouldn't have known that the real Geronimo was never captured otherwise, or the extent of the brutality tribal people experienced at the hands of settlers.

Here's a nice passage:

"We don't believe in boundaries. Borders. Nothing like that. We are here thousands of years before the first whites. We are here before maps and quit claims. We know where we belong on this earth. We have always moved freely. North-south. East-west. We pay no attention to what isn't real. Imaginary lines. Imaginary minutes and hours."

I wonder what such a rootless existence would be like. On the one hand, the land is your roots. On the other hand, you move freely about the land, setting up camp in different places. I guess I'd have time for my blog, but no, a computer would take me too far away from mother earth. It would be yet another barrier between me and the natural world, where I belong.

It might be interesting to be a person whose ancestors had lived in a place for generations, but that isn't true in my case. I'd have to visit several North European countries, and learn several languages before I came into contact with all of my roots. An idea that intrigues me. I learned Dutch, already knew English, am currently learning Swedish. That leaves Norwegian and Welsh, and then I've covered it.

Here's what Silko writes about Europeans:

The ancestors called the Europeans the orphan people and had noted that as with orphans taken by a selfish and cold hearted clans people, few Europeans had remained whole. They failed to recognize the earth was their mother. Europeans were like their first parents, Adam and Eve, wandering aimlessly because the insane God who had sired them had abandoned them.

I can definitely feel the disconnect, but I'm not sure if moving out to the countryside is the solution for me. For one thing, I'd have to learn to drive. It wouldn't be practical living remotely without a car. I'm also not certain that The Bible is really our roots, but I get the point. Gore Vidal calls it "a Bronze Age book." It is.

I considered briefly becoming a mountain woman in Utah, until I found out about the price of mountain real estate. We'd have to win the lotto.

He also warns that Native Americans were loosing touch with mother earth as they became more entrenched in "white gadgets," like cars.

I can understand a lot of this on a gut level, but I'm also aware that many of the tribes were engaged in brutal warfare. I do however believe that this point of view has something to tell us, if not that we all need to get out of our cars more and walk places.

I've started a walking campaign. Many days I walk four miles to pick up my kids from school instead of taking the Metro. It isn't the most scenic walk, and my feet touch concrete the entire way, but at least I'm moving closer into contact with myself. It's an important "step" to take.

Blond Native American

As a child growing up in Ann Arbor, I liked to tell other children that I was part Native American. My mother was studying multi-cultural studies. She wrote her Ph.D on the Trickster myth. This was back in the 70s, when long haired, pot smoking hippies weren't an uncommon sight on campus.

We didn't have much money. I had a pair of pants with bulbous, worn out knees. I was also probably the only girl in the class with sweaters knitted by her great-grandmother. Our Dodge Hornet was rusting from the bottom out. Kids at the rich school I was bused to were snobs, but I survived. I attribute part of my ability to survive to my days as a child in Ann Arbor. It gave me a sense of security I've carried around with me all my life, even as I've longed to return to there. It had a special kind of flawed perfection.

One day my mother invited all of her Native American students to our wooden row house for a party. Someone baked a muskrat, and brought that along. I remember that the fur was still on, and it had an unusually pungent smell. They also brought a case of Budweiser. Even though my parents were Mormons, and didn't drink beer, they accepted gracefully. I'm not sure what they did with all of that beer. We all had to go to bed, and weren't allowed to witness all of the festivities.

I'm also not too sure why I told the kids at school that I was part Native American. I couldn't have looked more Swedish, blond, white, with light blue eyes. I wonder if any of them believed me.

Perhaps it was a need that I had to distinguish myself as unique, special, among the rich girls in their nice clothes that made me tell them I was part Native American. I also just thought it was cool. It might also have been a way of telling them that they might be rich snobs, but that I had something they could never have. My blood really ran red. I was part Cherokee, or Chippewa, or whatever. I was genuine. It was a subtle line of defense.

Toward the end of my stay in Ann Arbor, I started hanging around with girls from other cultures. Girls with dark skin, and thick, silky black hair. They were the new girls, probably also bused from outside of the rich areas.

I've always easily identified with people unlike myself on the surface. It never mattered to me. I didn't make those kinds of divisions. Skin color, accent, broken English. None of that ever mattered to me. I could have friends from all over the world, and I did. That was the America that I knew, valued and loved.

Happy Halloween!

Okay, it's already November, but I can still wish you all a happy Halloween! :-)

I am so proud of this pumpkin carving, done by my eight-year-old son, that I've decided to share. He carved his first pumpkin when he was four. It makes me a little nervous, but he handles the knife well, and he surprises me with his adeptness every year. It looks a bit more sinister from this angle than from another angle. It's actually quite sweet looking...