I just started to get a sore throat. I noticed it while I was trying to savor a slice of flourless chocolate cake my friend John made, while simultaneously watching the movie Old Joy. The movie is a lot like Rivers and Tides, but with two humans and a dog in it and a little bit of dialogue. So of course, I adored it. The dog, Lucy, carries different sticks in her mouth throughout most of it.
Earlier, I had been thinking about someone who offered me her sun conure this week with no hesitation after she heard I had a dusky-headed. She wasn't kidding, and I totally know why. I told Sue about her and she said, too, Yeah, I know what she means.
Volume.
Mess.
Demands.
I guess you can hear a sun conure for blocks away, the loudest and most colorfully plummaged of the wee parrots. My hearing at breakfast is already challenged as I try to enjoy a cup of tea and toast. It seems we have trained the bird to scream while we eat so that we will give him a bit of our food. It's delightful. I am not one who can even make sentences for a half hour or so after waking, so the shrieking takes a lot to just be.
Charm.
Silliness.
Vivacity.
He shuffles around on the floor like a small man looking for a ride or for directions to the bus stop. Are you going that way, he asks? And when it gets dark, he ambles into his cage and into his shoebox, where he peeps and tweedles and shushshh's til my heart is aflame with love. How small a creature, how large his insistence and how great the affection.
20 May 2009
07 May 2009
Why Bother?
Slow pitch softball is a sport like none other. By that I mean it’s not really a sport. Not the way I play it, anyway. I stand out in right field, glove at the ready, with the mantra in my head: I will field the ball. I will not shame myself. A typical play goes like this: At the crack of the bat I crouch forward, poised for action. I am relieved when the ball tings off the aluminum bat and rockets straight for the 3rd baseman, who scoops it into her mitt easily, then in one fluid motion raises her arm up, hand behind her head and sling shots the ball across the infield hitting the bull’s eye of the 1st baseman’s glove with a confident thwack, long before the doomed runner even gets close. I am relieved because this is something I cannot do, the scooping, the slinging and definitely not the confident thwack. When I throw the ball it either bounces off the ground hard before making it to the target or lofts up gently creating hardly any sound at all as my teammate easily catches it. That is, she catches it if she doesn’t get bored waiting for the throw to reach her and lose focus.
When at bat I modify my mantra only slightly: I will hit the ball. I will not shame myself. The good thing is that most of the time it works. I’m a solid base hitter, if only because the pitch is often not the only thing that is slow in slow pitch softball. More often than not I hit the ball into the zone between the infield and outfield and then just run like hell. If I’m lucky the outfield is populated by those too slow and unskilled to play the infield and even though I feel like one of those cartoon characters with legs spinning round, trying but failing to gain traction (I can almost hear the sound effects), I make it to 1st base. It used to bother me that no one shouts ‘Heavy hitter!’ or ‘Look alive outfield!’ when I step up to the plate, but I’ve lowered my standards. Now I’m just pleased if I don’t have to pretend that I meant to bunt.
So, the logical question is, why bother? I mean, it certainly isn’t for exercise since most of the running I do is between the bench and right field. I’d like to say it’s to have fun, and I do have fun shouting for my teammates, but that’s not it. I suppose I do it do it because at any moment in the game I could completely screw up, but in general I don’t. The potential for error in front of a crowd makes my heart beat a little faster, makes me focus on that moment and no other. In my daily life I’m too comfortable and life, the way I see it, is all about taking risks. It might seem small, the playing of a game, but nothing makes me feel alive like the possibility of shame.
When at bat I modify my mantra only slightly: I will hit the ball. I will not shame myself. The good thing is that most of the time it works. I’m a solid base hitter, if only because the pitch is often not the only thing that is slow in slow pitch softball. More often than not I hit the ball into the zone between the infield and outfield and then just run like hell. If I’m lucky the outfield is populated by those too slow and unskilled to play the infield and even though I feel like one of those cartoon characters with legs spinning round, trying but failing to gain traction (I can almost hear the sound effects), I make it to 1st base. It used to bother me that no one shouts ‘Heavy hitter!’ or ‘Look alive outfield!’ when I step up to the plate, but I’ve lowered my standards. Now I’m just pleased if I don’t have to pretend that I meant to bunt.
So, the logical question is, why bother? I mean, it certainly isn’t for exercise since most of the running I do is between the bench and right field. I’d like to say it’s to have fun, and I do have fun shouting for my teammates, but that’s not it. I suppose I do it do it because at any moment in the game I could completely screw up, but in general I don’t. The potential for error in front of a crowd makes my heart beat a little faster, makes me focus on that moment and no other. In my daily life I’m too comfortable and life, the way I see it, is all about taking risks. It might seem small, the playing of a game, but nothing makes me feel alive like the possibility of shame.
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