Ten Things

I have a list. It is written in ink in my scrawlish handwriting and has a dead duck on it. Wait. Here:

 

 

This is a schedule of sorts. Things I want to write about. A few things from the list:

Welsh rarebit story.

My love of the underdog.

Circus @ Wisc Dells…Burned.

Shamrock Hotel.

Mrs. Seipkowski’s head.

 

I haven’t yet written/blogged (TWO DIFFERENT THINGS!) (SOMETIMES!) about any of these topics yet. They’re all dead ducks. Which brings me to my point:

I need a jumpstart. A catalyst. A prompt if you will. Because sure as ducks can’t fly*, I’m not motivating myself these days.

 

So it’s a friend to the rescue with a “Ten Things That Make Me Happy” me-me.

 

It gave me something to write about today, and for that, I am grateful. Also, no ducks were plucked wing-to-wing in the writing of this post, which is always a good thing unless the duck is a turbo-quacking, butt-nipping cracker-stealer.

 

You know those kinda ducks?

Very unducky if you ask me.

 

Meanwhile, the list:

 

TEN THINGS THAT MAKE ME HAPPY

 

Family.

Both the one I grew up with and the one living in my house right now as I write. Every single of ’em is loud, randy, and pragmatically inappropriate. And those are my favorite kind of people, family or not.

 

Get togethers.

All kinds. I love the dinner parties, the impromptu driveway parties, girl time, boy time, appetizers-and-wine, dessert-and-spiked coffee, swappin,’ poppin’ and the hipahoppin’ parties. Each and every one.

 

Music

Oh shit, don’t even get me started. LOVE. Cannot get enough of…love it ALL, ALL, ALL.

Except for interpretive jazz.

 

Anyway, you know the drill: music instantly melts, transports, inspires, enlivens, mellows, stirs, bloodies, explodes, implodes, loses, finds me. Makes. Me. Happy.

 

Except for interpretive jazz.

 

And the latest cool-ass music I found?

THIS. I will play it in the background at parties and at private things that I do.

 

Words

Poems especially. The rawness and the sensibility and the unbounded emotion. The images. The detail, the non-detail, the enigma, the obtuse, the possibility of interpretation. Or not. Just let the stanzas wash over you. I like that too.

 

And lyrics.

 

And books.

 

It’s like words are blocks and we’re building playgrounds.

Or churches.

 

Tired metaphor. I need better words.

 

Putting together outfits and stuff.

I’m no good at it. But I like it, I like it a lot. Look, I have a friend who is an artist. She’s high-tops crazy and I love her like bananas. When we worked together more than 18 years ago (holy fucking shit), she wore the most inventive, ambiguous, awesomely concocted outfits your imagination could conjure. When she bought her white low-top boots and called them “Rick James Kickers,” I thought I’d die from the swooning.

 

Anyway. STILL. I try to be like her. STILL. She’s like the French: easily bizarre, irreverent and enviably fashionable.

 

And just so you know: THIS isn’t where attained the heights of fashion. I know that.

 

No need to rub it in.

 

Thrift stores.

I probably don’t need to cover this with you all again, but shit howdy on a stick, these places make me happy.

 

Suffice to say, in the last week I thrifted a Chinese-like puzzle table that sort of looks like the Hellraiser cube but less evil, a leaning bookcase, an asymmetrical black wall shelf, a floor lamp, wide-leg jeans, and a navy double-breasted, big-buttoned, spring jacket. For like $40. TOTAL. (Oh, and also a bathing suit. But it still had that pube-protector glued into the crotch so I am assuming it’s new. Bargain shopping hope springs eternal.)

 

Hills. And valleys.

I like not knowing everything, and I don’t like it, all at the same exact time. Which is my way of saying, change transforms you and in hindsight, that is a very good thing.

 

A good plot.

Dee-lish-us. When I sense the mechanisms of an effective plot (good vs. evil, hero’s quest, mentor encounter, etc.) in a book, movie, or even a song, it’s so satisfying as to render me speechless. Pancho and Lefty had it, Harry Potter had it, Star Wars had it, and most recently, Avatar had it. I love good plot structure from a creator standpoint AND as a third-party experiencer.

 

Inspirers.

My inspirers aren’t who you think. In fact, I think people who package themselves as inspirers (most of The Secret clan) are just that: packagers. Marketers. Inspirers to me are people who quietly live according to a code and don’t care how much attention they get for it. I have a few well-chosen inspirers, but I’m not publicizing them here, because they don’t want that, I don’t think. (You know who you are, BTM.)

 

To be determined.

And that’s the way I like it. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Gotta be something to look forward to.

 

*Do ducks fly?

 

Meme rules usually call for me to tag other bloggers to answer the same question posed to me (“What are ten things that make you happy?”), but this is what I’m going to do. I say think about it and post about this topic if you want to…and if you find yourself so inclined? Give me the link. I’d like to read all about it.