That's, like... your opinion

So I was ready to come write this, topic chosen, inspiration at the ready, when I open my laptop and my Gmail loads with a message warning me about a new login to my account. I flip. I change my password, go through all the security checkups, this takes me all of 30 minutes. In the end, the message that loaded was from three days ago when I went to the internet cafe to print my kids' homework. FML.

Anyway, can we talk? Can we maybe come to a certain realization that we cannot mix up opinion with fact? When I told my 6th grade students about the just then coined term "alternative facts" from camp carrot face, they responded as I expected. They cocked their heads quizzically and asked "Isn't that... not even a thing?"

There is still no such thing as an alternative fact, and no such thing as a factual opinion. -A thesis. A very short one.

So look, I took film appreciation lessons in college. Our teacher, a film erudite from Argentina with stringy blonde hair and a voice that sounded like it had come to accept the fact that it would never fully convey the complexities of the mind it spoke from, would sit with a lit cigarrette and get caught in the lovingly languid parsimony of praising Fellini or German Impressionism and let the ash reach the butt before absent-mindedly putting it out on a soda can or whatever other makeshift ashtray she had at hand. She made me understand that even the things I couldn't yet understand about film at that time didn't give me the right to fling shit at her marble arches and pillars of creative expression. 

So I sat through Eraserhead, Plaff!, the original Breathless, Nosferatu, Amarcord and Dr. Calligary's Cabinet, among others, often wondering what made them great, but never trusting any initial knee-jerk reaction I might have had that maybe they weren't "all that". And seeing them through the lens of age, contrast with many other films I saw through many more years, sharpened sensitivities, and just plain discussion and willingness to learn, I eventually did learn to savor good film the way I still haven't learned to appreciate fine wine... but since that's the go-to analogy, let's go with that.

So, when you want to say a film like... saaaay... Roma... is "not even that good", just remember that maybe, just maybe, there is a set of intrinsic qualities to the art of film making you just... haven't learned to appreciate. Maybe you don't want to. And that's fine, there is no shame in that. But just realize that art does have critical appreciation guidelines. Maybe cinema is not really about art for you, just entertainment. Maybe you like your plots exposed and linear, that's cool. 

Just... remember that not knowing what makes art good can make you say all kinds of iffy things. Someone who doesn't know how to appreciate cubism could say Picasso just made "nonsense squiggly pictures that a preschooler could make", or someone who doesn't know the first thing about painting can say "anyone can paint like Van Gogh, they sell the kits and they're super easy to follow".

It's your opinion. It's VALID because it's yours. Don't make it truth, doe.

I'm just sayin'...

Truth: You will never be all things to all people. You will never even be all things to the people you know. Not even to the people you want to impress. Not even to the ones you love. You won't ever please everyone.

Advice: Don't even try to.

Trying to stay off everyone's radar, or trying to make everyone happy, or trying to please everyone, will only keep you from developing into your genuine self. 

Try. Fail. People will get hurt in the process. You will get hurt even more. You might discover your limitations only when you realize how much your power to hurt others hurts you in return.

But this is better than attempting to stay on everyone's good side. Choose. Or you will turn into something you're not. You will come off as something you're not. You might never figure out WHAT you are.

You will figure out when you've gone too far. Some will help you figure this out. They will let you know. Keep them. Is it possible some will never tell you? Will never forgive you? Definitely. But that will be for them to carry, not you. You can't change how they haul their past or what they choose to take from it with them or for how long. Forgive yourself, face your actions and move on. Decide that you can keep looking at yourself in the mirror because you have to be ok with yourself. You're the only one you have to carry for a lifetime.

Time does not stagnate. Make peace with your mistakes and let time take them away.

Toshi and Bridget

Toshi and Bridget live in my house. Our kids call us a family of six.

Toshi arrived first. The reason we went out looking to adopt was that we wanted a guard dog for the house after someone broke in during the night. While we were inside, sleeping. Not a good feeling, not reccommended, no stars, can't dance to it, did not buy the tshirt, would not buy again. But that's a story for another post... if I hadn't already posted about it and forgot, like the butterbrained donkey's rear I am.

Anyway, we considered adopting some larger dogs we could keep in the backyard, since that was the entry point for the robber. We soon realized large dogs are probably not the thing for small kids, and even smaller pockets. By the time we'd considered two or three dogs, I'd gotten it into my head I just wanted a dog, period. As in, circumstance wasn't gonna get in the way of an idea that had proven to be somewhat impractical for our family, I was getting a dog BECAUSE.

So one day we went to the shop and there was Toshi. A black, skinny bag of nerves who seemed to trust no one but her rescuer. I was worried he'd never warm up to us when we got him home, but with time and a little patience he stopped sleeping in front of the door, or on the very spot on the couch where her rescuer had sat when she dropped him off. And then he seemed to imprint on me. He still follows me around EVERYWHERE. He sits outside the bathroom. He sits wherever I stop for more than 5 seconds when I'm doing chores. He got fat. He's as happy as a neurotic little chihuahua with separation anxiety issues can be.

Then Bridget happened. Regina, my oldest, had gotten it into her head that she wanted to adopt one of the stray cats in our neighborhood. She had her eye set on one, a large, gorgeous gray tabby with the most luxurious coat you can imagine. Sadly, at the time I could only imagine it on the rug... and my love seats... and my sweaters... and my bed... We did not adopt that cat. 

There were also some smaller cats running around, and one of them caught my eye because she seemed taken with my daughter. She also had a short coat and kept herself pretty clean. So into the house she went, the queenly little calico we named Bridget.

Toshi hates other dogs. He'll run up to them and raise the hair on his back like a little tasmanian devil and bark up a storm. He's fiercely protective of his territory, which spans all of five or six houses. He'll bark at anyone of the human or dog persuasion he does not know. But he tolerates cats.

So now Toshi and Bridget share living quarters. They don't play, because for some puzzling reason, Toshi doesn't play. He has puppyhood issues we will never quite figure out. Bridget wants to play, Toshi yelps. But Toshi is sad when Bridgets stays outside climbing trees, pouncing on pigeons or hunting for bugs. They can share a bed, but not at the same time. Toshi fears the moment Bridget will get playful when they lay in close proximity. 

But they're buds. They heve an understanding. Toshi thinks Bridget's kibble is tasty and she tends to look the other way when he grabs a nibble from her bowl. Bridget will sometimes knock a pizza box off the table so they can share the spoils. Toshi keeps guard when Bridgets jumps on the counter, then acts like he's scolding her when we make her get down. Sometimes I wonder if they can tell they both went through it at some point before finding their way into this house. Toshi, small, afraid, covered in parasites. Bridget, safe and warm inside while neighbors kill off the stray cats in the neighborhood, including the beautiful tabby with the gorgeous coat.

Bullets are the new bubblegum

There are a ton of stupid fads out there right now.

The latest one everyone initially jumped on and is now questioning is the 10 year challenge. And I think everyone jumped on it because it's so simple; just post side-by-side pics of you in 2009 and one of you at the start of this brave new year. The only reason I hadn't done it before everyone went all conspiracy theorist on it was because I had been straight up lazy about it. Or maybe just caught up in all the work. Or maybe there is a God and he likes to keep me safe from Big Brother.

Now everyone thinks face recognition databases are updating their files to newer pics, perhaps in an effort to gauge how "Project Fat and Bitter" is coming along.

So, no, I didn't jump into that one... other current fads include bashing the movie Roma, being against ads that bash toxic masculinity (the people who say this aparently believe now men only come in two flavors: toxic and frail), being polarized over the gasoline situation, and loving The Good Place. EDIT: and also hating Marie Kondo for her 30 book policy. Like people have never heard of Kindles.

A more quiet pinterest fad out there that I *have* jumped into is bullet journaling. You know this one. You get a fancy notebook with dots instead of lines and a ton of exquisite stationery you have no idea how to use -except to make squiggles, wonky cursive and that fancy S from grade school- and go to town organizing every conceivable aspect of your sad life. The point I guess is to gather the various tasks and routines that run amock through your head on the daily and give them a home in neatly categorized layouts in one place. The advantage this has over regular agendas or notebooks is that you can customize the layouts and also live out your quiet but undying desire to own expensive stationery you don't know how to use.

So I started with a basic kit, and quickly discovered that not splurging for the expensive stuff comes with consequences. Fine points bleed because I didn't hack out for the $20 notebook with a name that sounds straight out of an Ikea catalog and the paper that could shield your eyes from landmine shrapnel. My tiny ruler is a mite too short for lenghtwise lines. My pulse is now the stuff of professional salt shakers. My latent OCD tests what's left of my patience after 20 years of teaching as I struggle to make EVERY. BOX. THE. SAME. SIZE. 

So once I deal and come to terms with all of that, I do the basic layouts and realize the one where one writes monthly goals is the one that has me stumped. I have never set goals for myself (surprise, surprise), but not because I have no aspirations, just because my obsessive brain doesn't need to say it wants something in order to get it done; it just runs the stoplights and acts surprised when a new skill or objective is acquired. 

This time I want to try it the normal way. So along with a bunch of others things I might never accomplish and didn't buy even as I was writing them down I snuck in a real one: I want to start blogging again. I'm not gonna just bite this bullet, I'm gonna blow bubbles with it. This should have been my third post this week but oh well, like so many things in life work for those whose brain is not mine: baby steps.

Also see:
My Amazon Bullet Journal WishList