Tangles and knots and confusion, scraping dried spaghetti from between the tines of my grandmother’s sterling, reading directions, coaxing nits from a toddler’s locks, de-weaving your dreads for tomorrow’s interview at Bank of America, proofreading the company’s “Five Hundred Uses of the Industrial Bolt” newsletter, scrubbing the toilet, bad sex. We’ve all been there; NO ONE needs an example of “tedium” — otherwise known as “bored and weary of it all.”
And why? Plenty of us have pretty much anything we need, and plenty more have even more. We were born in a golden age and many are still doing well. Seriously, can’t we all just be grateful and sharing? How hard is that?
And yet we hate It. We Hate It Intentionally. We Hate It until someone else does it for us. We Hate It almost enough to toss the silver. We chop the hair; we stray; we seek excitement and a Higher Level of Existence — that one just around the corner that allows us to afford maids and gardeners and cooks and a steady revue of hilarious houseguests, studly romancers, and adoring bimbettes. That one where we can . . . lie in a Barcalounger and . . . doze while the television blares. Ah yes, we’ve arrived — bored and weary of it all.
To be honest, I have very little recall of most Fourth of July festivities. I don’t dislike the day — I’m just ambivalent. Actually, wait . . . . . . . okay, maybe I’m not ambivalent at all.
The best thing I remember about the fourth of July is children. I love seeing their bright faces, watching to see which balloon figurine they’ll choose and then stand in eye-popping awe as a masterfully (and surely exhausted) moustachioed man (or woman) twists and turns and blows and wiggles his way into the skinny balloons until THWACK! And suddenly the child is magically holding a pretty darn good replica of a dog/spaceship/tuba/baby girl/….. And mind you, this is all AFTER we’ve stood in the forever-line for tiny-tot-face-painting.
The saving grace, of course, is the look in their eyes and the glee lighting the entire night sky.
When he called to say he’d be home early, an hour away at most, she hurriedly grabbed the signs of her weekend with passion: the voluptuously hot-colored glass, (a spontaneous deviation from her usual blues), the achingly sharp tools … the milky white adhesives, the markers (you are MINE!), the ubiquitous remnants of joy left strewn across the table, the chairs, the floors, her clothes… the Tears for Fears, the Prince, the Elton.
Closet closed now, the sweep of the vacuum, the stash of memories now buttoned up, but only a wisp away from tomorrow’s studio time.
I don’t mean to gloat, but … IT’S SPRING!!!! IT’S SPRING!!!!
No more cold winter nights (we had TWO this year! Horrendous!) or clamoring around the house searching for a blanket — it was just hell, I tell you! HELL!
And now that every potential frost drop has high-tailed it under the cover of your chinny chin chin, we’ve been frolicking ALL over the place. Yes indeed — every hour of the day and night, and I’m like a whole new person now that the “winter” has passed in the south. I even waved to a stranger!
Here’s hoping with all my heart that your spring is hurtling toward you as we speak. And if it’s not your turn yet, it’s headed your way. I promise.
A few weeks ago, I decided to take a leap — a big one for me. But after years of “NO, I Might Need That!” I felt in the depths of my soul that it was time to purge, to let go and live happily ever after with what I already have — mostly, to feel lighter myself.
Ohhhhh how very wrong I was. Or right. Or something in between. The truth is that I just don’t know, because purging is not in my wheelhouse. But a week or so ago, something in me changed, and I hit the LEAP button. Had I done a positive thing that would make life easier, or had I just wildly tossed all the supplies that I’ll certainly need on Monday?
And in truth I wasn’t even quite sure what my end goal was, but I was definitely certain that some sort of action needed to happen. How did I know? Honestly, that part remains a bit fuzzy, but I forged ahead anyway, enlisting the help of a friend and going at it Big Time.
So we put on old clothes and sat on the floor for hours and climbed through years of well-stashed “but I might need this!” mosaic supplies, eyeing each piece relentlessly. And then, after filling boxes upon boxes upon boxes of glass and china that I reluctantly deemed “will never be used” … I tossed it. Okay not all of it, but so many boxes that my back still hurts, AND I’ve lightened half of my supplies. What was I thinking?
It’s a funny thing. One day life seems perfect, and the next day you realize you’re only using half of what you’ve collected over the years and maybe you DON’T need it all. And maybe you don’t even know exactly why, but you see the path and it’s calling you. And then I shed my very-long-time way of seeing, and suddenly now it’s hard to remember what I gave away.
And even more surprising, I found myself joyously making art again and planning classes.
To add that extra touch of French I might call it Eau de Pam. Or in English: Pam Water? Hmmmmm.
Honestly, I have no idea what it means. I assume it involves some pipe, a tight-fitting lid that can perhaps be opened with some sort of tool for repairs, France, and my name.
PAM: French abbreviation meaning: “pression artérielle moyenne. Programme alimentaire mondial.” Google Translate delivers an English version reading “Mean blood pressure; World Food Program.”
Okay that didn’t help.
Next try: “PAM stands for Parti Authenticité et Modernité, translated from French as “Authenticity and Modernity Party; Political Party; Morocco.” … … … Morocco?
TheBump.com tells me that the name Pamela was invented by 16th-century English poet Sir Philip Sidney for his epic romance, The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia. Samuel Richardson’s novel Pamela was similarly inspired by the Greek term pán meli, meaning “all honey” and “all sweetness.” Ha. Fail.
So with absolutely nothing to go on other than two words pressed onto some sort of drain (I think), I can only assume that Pam Water translates to … City Water? Potable Water? Non-Potable Water? And most importantly, if there’s a water shortage or a water frenzy, can you drink out of it ??? ??? ???. I just don’t know ….
In the meantime, I’ve assembled a few possibilities around the mysteries of Pams, PAMs, päms, and paTs.
Etymology 1: Probably short for the French Pamphile (“a given name”), special use of man’s name. Well then.
Etymology 2: Probable alteration of panorama. Again, WTF?
Etymology 3: Noun, Pam: U.S. Cooking SpraySeriously?????
Pam Meaning According to Dictionary.Com The Jack of Clubs(I give up)
French Meaning: Common Noun – A noun that does not name a specific person, place or thing.… Hello??? Hello???
And THIS is why I studied English Lit instead of Parisian Water Supply.
Disclaimer: Since I’ve never celebrated Easter in Ireland, I’ve done a bit of (ahem) research. If you’re Irish, let me know how far off I am!
The Prequel
By Easter Saturday, the people of Ireland have had their fill of fish, and butchers are delighted that meat can be consumed again. To celebrate, local butchers host a ceremony known as Whipping the Herring Out of Town — a ‘funeral’ for the fish most widely consumed during Lent in Ireland. A procession through the streets involves hanging a dead fish from a stick that everyone whips with a birch broom. Once the butchers reach the nearest lake or river, they toss the herring into the water. Um, okay.
Traditional Foods
Traditional foods served on Easter Sunday in Ireland include leek soup, roast spring lamb, corned beef, baked ham and boiled bacon. These would be served with cabbage and potatoes. Vegetarians beware.
Cluideog
Today, children join in an Irish custom called cluideog. (NOTE: Please don’t ask me how to pronounce it.) This involves singing and dancing for the family and neighbors in the hope of receiving gifts of raw eggs. Children then gather in a field and cook the eggs over a fire. The remaining eggshells are used to decorate and hang on the May Bush the first of May. (Note: I have no clue what a May Bush is, but I can roll with it.) In Ireland, May Day – also curiously known as Bealtaine – is a traditional Celtic festival celebrating the arrival of summer.
Easter Egg Hunt
The Irish Easter bunny brings Easter eggs for the children, as you may have predicted, and the bunny hides both decorated and chocolate eggs for children to find. Easter egg hunts can be traced 17th century Germany (and I daresay will never end). Named for the Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring, Eostre, her association with hares and eggs represent fertility and plenty. In German folklore, Eostre transformed a bird into a hare and, in gratitude, the hare used its original bird function to lay eggs for the goddess on her feast day, Easter Sunday.
The Cake Dance NOTE: This will, of course, be my favorite.
The cake dance is a competitive Irish custom that dates back to mediaeval times but is probably much, much older. It involves a dance-off and the winner takes the cake, quite literally. YUM! The cake is usually a barmbrack (a sweet, eggy cake with sultanas and raisins) placed prominently on a piece of Irish linen. Queue the music, and the dancing is on! The winning dancer is likely to be the one who exerts the most effort or dances the longest. I find it rather charming that skill doesn’t seem to be an issue.
Charmingly, the Irish Easter tradition of the cake dance was practiced well into the 20th-century. Gotta say, I could go for a cake dance any day.
Inspired by a month-long artist residency graciously provided by Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, Ireland
Now let me say up front that I’ve found no food anywhere on the planet that matches the sheer bliss of Irish food. All organic, all clean, all fresh, and I just can’t get enough. Honestly, I wish everyone had the opportunity to eat this cleanly. That said, the Irish do have their quirks!
SERIOUSLY!
Left to Right and Top to Bottom:
SERIOUSLY Plant Based Chicken; The Happy Pear … ???; Jelly (or Jello?) in plastic tubs ???; Carrots and Rhubarb (LOTS of Carrots and Rhubarb), which is clearly the favorite local veggie!; Ardfert Roosters … scratching head ….; Orange Juice … with Bits???; Ardfert Eggs … Presumably these go with the roosters in some sense; Random display of a tent, some lovies, and a very large purple flower, none of which you can really access if they strike your fancy; SIX Free Range Eggs with a lively scene displayed. After some consideration, we’ve determined that SIX is the perfect number of eggs to buy at a go. Very smart indeed.
Inspired by a month-long artist residency graciously provided by Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, Ireland
“I have found it easier to identify with the characters who verge upon hysteria, who were frightened of life, who were desperate to reach out to another person. But these seemingly fragile people are the strong people really.” ― Tennessee Williams
And although the images above could very easily work to convey a group of hysterics, they are, in fact, regular people competing in a “Stella” Screaming Contest. And though I’m not a suitable Stella-Screaming prospect, I’d show up to watch in a heartbeat.
To be honest, I’m not exactly sure why. Though I’ve seen much of his work, I’m not really a Tennessee Williams fan.
Is it the full-throaters? The constant comics? The attention grabbers? Not so much. I’m just ever and always an admirer of those who can jump in and give it all they’ve got.
Are you an avid Tennessee Williams lover? Mildly interested? Begrudgingly tolerant? Trying to find the up side? Or pretty put off?
Scarlet. Vermilion. Ruby. Cherry. Cerise. Crimson. Oh, the colors that grab us and make us their own.
You know it. I know it. The question is, do we hide it or flaunt it?
We all have obsessions — some more than others of course (ahem) — and for the most part, they’re harmless and fun. Let’s face it, if you have a passion, it’s never a one-time deal. You’re definitely, without the skinniest skinny of a doubt, going back for more.
It was exhibition time, and this month it was our turn to choose, our turn to flaunt, perhaps even our turn to be a bit naughty, and we were three girls at the ready.
We named this show Accidental Obsessions, because at some point, aren’t they all? Right before you just can’t get enough.
“Accidental” is an interesting word, isn’t it? I can’t help wondering where the line is between truly “accidental” and “planned in obsessive detail over at least two thirds of my entire life.” I’ve known a lot of shoe girls over the years, and no wonder — they strike the eye like wildfire.
I’ll quickly admit that the photos to the right look vaguely like something from a murder scene. Red has no bounds, and still we gasp and grab.
P.S. This display was created by Ciel Gallery in Charlotte several years ago as a teaser for an art exhibition. We drove to the nearest Goodwill and bought all the red shoes we could find, painted a few extras, and put on our Come Hither looks. A totally delicious evening!
Pam Goode Writes 