On Using Objects

Today, on a Sunday afternoon, I sit at my dining room table (thanks, Craigslist!) and sip mint tea, working on an article. The sun has been steaming in the apartment windows all morning, and the outside air is warm, so the windows are open for most likely one of the last times for the next five months. Winter? It's coming.

While I sit here, trying hard not to work, I can't help but think about the objects I've surrounded myself with. Handmade cups and a tea pot; a plate made by the potter TJ apprenticed with in Germany and inscribed with a lovely poem hangs on the wall next to a painting of the studio in Marble, Colorado, where TJ worked as an apprentice at the age of 17. Each of these objects tells a story, and serves a function or reminds us of beauty in the every day.

Of course, the fact that so many of these objects are handmade relates directly to the fact that my husband is a potter, a craftsman, and an artist. And I realize that this spoils me--my daily interactions are with art objects, not objects that simply serve a purpose, or objects that were designed one place and then manufactured elsewhere to cost as little as possible. There's an investment in these objects, of time, material, and the identity of the maker, and this investment changes the way that I relate back to the object.

Back when I lived on my own, I had the same mug that I favored using every day, a light blue mug with a matte glaze. The handle was larger than most, and the mug sat comfortably in my hand. While the mug was nothing worth writing home about, I loved the smooth feel, the daily ritual of drinking my morning coffee from the mug as I struggled to wake up and start my day. I bought it at Target when I went off to college; it's stamped made in Thailand. I went there, once. But I didn't visit any factories, especially not this one. Chances are good I'll never meet the people who helped make the mug. Now, that mug sits on our top shelf, buried behind all of the handmade mugs I've inherited through marriage. During the first months I used these new mugs, I'd ask TJ where each one was from, who made it, how he got it. The same holds true for our plates, bowls, and the art work on our walls.

Why is this worth thinking about? While I sometimes miss the pristine white of a well-made porcelain plate, there's something to be said for using objects that clearly have their own value. Value because of the process, and, more importantly, value because of who made them and their stories. As a result, I realize that I'm ok with owning less, and making the things I use a part of my story. And I'm more thoughtful about the objects that I use. I love the bend in the tea pot's handle, the intricate treatment on the handleless cup. Even when I do the washing up, I'm reminded about the object in and of itself (the Ding an sich?), not taking for granted its utility, and not limiting myself to considering it as an object for use or an aesthetic object. I get to think about Alex who made the blue mug, or Finkelberg who made the maroon mug that has just enough room for my morning coffee. These relateable objects add depth to my daily life, where the inclination might be to use and cast aside. Here, there is simply use, re-use, and relationship between myself, the object, the maker, and the stories that result.

I know why they can't agree on money in the EU!

Angela Merkel keeps counting like a German.

Soooooo tiiiiirrreeddd

It's the 11th hour in dissertation-land. If I were to continue the child bearing metaphor, I'm in labor pains. And...

...I just want this thing done.

Saturday we leave for Utah to go see T's family, and then go camping in Idaho. It will be a glorious time, with many many many children (we have 9 nieces and nephews!) and fishing and reading.

It's just that this thing stands in between me and leaving.

So, enough blogging for now. Hopefully I'll see you all in another week or so!

Carlessness

It quite nearly looks like "carelessness", but it's a different state of being that I'm trying out for the next month or so: my young man is out of town (he drove to Tennessee) for work, and so I'm here in the mid-west, making due with just my two legs and my bike.

For some, this might be a big deal. But I realize that I drive just once or twice a week--to go on a larger grocery shopping trip, or to bring the laundry to the laundromat, or to take out the recycling. Before my young man left town, we went for a larger shop to Trader Joe's, where we picked up all sorts of frozen food (while I finish the dissertation, I'm trying to eat well while not cooking so very much) and a few bottles of wine (to supplement all the yummy cucumber-vodka sodas I'm enjoying in the down hours). I did five loads of laundry, and I should be ok for the time being (we'll see if I wind up using the landlord's machine a time or two; with it just being me, the loads of laundry are far, far smaller), and we got rid of most of the recycling.

Today I made two bike trips, and I'll probably make a third before the end of the day. This morning, I went to the downtown farmer's market, where I bought my next bar of soap (amazing, goat's milk soap with lavender and oats--P.C., they also have honey goat's milk soap, would you want a few bars?) and spinach to make a salad to go with tonight's onion tart. While I love the farmer's market, especially the fact that it's just 2.5 miles away, I much prefer the one Sunday mornings: more farmers, including their locally raised meat, and far fewer people. It's around a 5 mile ride, so totally doable, but it takes a bit more coordination.

Later today, while taking a break from the dissertation, I went back downtown to go to the library. Thanks to a bike lane downtown (the same one I use to take to work), I can make it down in pretty good time and fairly comfortably. After picking up a few books and dvds (best deal ever: I don't have to pay an arm and a leg to see the new "Marilyn" or "Benjamin Button", which I still haven't seen), I could ride home again. Easy peasy.

Other than a few stops by the recycling center on my way to work, I don't anticipate my days changing so very much from their regular patterns. We'll see how strawberry picking goes a week from now--I might ride, or see if friends will drive down and with me.

While I'd love to go carless long term (how much money we'd save on gas and insurance!), we're already doing pretty well considering. We only fill up every one or two months (except for the odd trip to Tennessee) and bike most everywhere we can. Being a one-car household has been really comfortable; just a handful of times have we had to coordinate our days so that young man could get supplies for the studio and I could run other errands. But, mostly, it works seamlessly.

Now, back to work on this dissertation thing/beast/Satan. With a timeline (and a finish line!) in sight, I need to buckle down now so I can enjoy the rest of my summer.

The Big Turns

Not my picture. Click on the picture for a link to the copyright holder's site.

A few weeks ago, I celebrated a "0" birthday--I turned 30. Since T was going to be in Seattle at a clay conference (yes, before you ask, I was jealous, and instructed him to eat as much seafood as possible), we had our special outing a week early.




Every year, hundreds of thousands of cranes migrate between Canada and Mexico. In the spring, when they head back north, they stop in a strip of Nebraska no more than 50 miles wide--the jet stream creates a natural bridge across the state, so that birds from all over Mexico headed all over the place in Canada, all funnel over corn fields and across blue skies. While I only have a few cranes in each picture, you can't see the sheer number that gather. (Google "Sandhill cranes" and you can see how impressive the cranes are.)

At dusk, the cranes move from the fields, where they gobble up corn left from last year's harvest, to the Platte River, where they settle on the little islands to sleep, away from predator. We spent some time along the river, where a single-lane bridge crossed the river and we watched the sun sink lower on the horizon.



Sadly, we discovered ticks were everywhere, and so we headed back into the van and off to find more cranes.

We did spot many in the fields, and sat for maybe 15 minutes, watching little groups of cranes take off together. How do they know which group they belong to? Do the annoying cranes who constantly ask, "are we there yet?" get ostracised?


The day ended, and my handsome birdwatcher and myself headed back to town. Along the way we stopped in a cute little town, where their restaurant, Chances R, is the big draw.

It was a lovely outing, and, paired with the Avett Brothers concert here last week, made for a great few birthday weeks.




Now, just to look forward to the next "0" birthday, when I turn 40. Oh, goodness.

Resurrections and Incarnations

The slow plodding of work on the dissertation continues. I'm now in the Endspurt, trying to make edits before the chapters go back to my advisor. While so much has been done (the whole thing's written! It looks like it's fairly cohesive!), I see how much is left to go. The little things, the minutiae that bring a project from a decent draft to a manuscript--those I haven't begun. Rereading it to try and catch repetitions? Proofreading? I know that these will add up, and trying to get them done a little at a time, after work and on the weekends. I don't look forward to the next month or so.

In addition to working on the dissertation, I have edits due on an article. I have three weeks to turn the article around. All of the edits are extremely helpful, and having an expert read my work and point out how the article can be strengthened and how I can make a better argument--these comments are gold. Every now and again, I see the edits to my English prose and I want to object. Yes, I know that "that" is for a restrictive clauses and "which" for nonrestrictive. But I prefer the British approach--"which" just sounds better to my ears, no matter if the clause is restrictive or not. Still, these are minuscule compared with the insight that the edits to the article give me, and how they prepare me for tackling the edits to my final chapter. Then the chapters are off for feedback, and I'll hopefully be able to get this dissertation done and out the door.

Celebrities and Arrests

Yesterday, I saw that George Clooney had been arrested, and my little heart skipped a beat.

Not because I think that he's a heartthrob, but because he, along with a man named John Prendergast were arrested for protesting in front of the Sudanese Embassy. Now, you may not know John Prendergast, mostly because he's not every woman's celebrity crush, but only works relentlessly to address the atrocity we call genocide. If you weren't at Vanderbilt when he spoke a few years back, I'll forgive you for not knowing.

What Clooney has done is brought attention to something that receives negligible attention in the States. How often do you think the Sudan makes headline news? Shows up in the news most people listen to or watch on a daily basis? Now how often do you think those people are interested in the daily lives of celebrities? What they wear and where they've been sighted?

To the folks who have commented on the Washington Post about Clooney's celebrity and negatively viewed his involvement, I encourage them to look past the man and on to the murders they've so simply overlooked.