Philosophical Ramblings

Strapped for Time?

/ Pam Goode / 19 Comments

Strapped for TimeSo the good news is that it’s 2016 and I’m wandering down an empty lane in Paris on lle St. Louis. I’m thrilled to be here, but a bit anxious. “In Paris?” you ask? Well, yes. My conundrum is worrying how I’m going to meld myself into this fabulous opportunity while simultaneuosly meeting a deadline. Cause, you know — Paris/Work … Paris/Work ….. Yes, time has me by the short hairs, and I don’t like it one bit.

And then I glance up, and in an instant my entire attitude changes and I burst out laughing, my feelings blatantly displayed for all to see. Honestly, how likely is it that someone would have taped up this clock and dropped it onto my path on the very day that I’m (more than) tremblingly overloaded?

Strapped for time — that’s me, and a big THANK YOU to the universe for letting me laugh it out in a big way.

Time is so often a deterrent, isn’t it? We all want more of it, but we’re quick to specify that we want *this* kind of time and not *that* kind of time. More time with those we love, and less time paying bills. More time to learn and create, and less time studying for finals. More time to savor a good meal, and less time standing in supermarket lines. Of course there are a few enlightened souls among us who can make the most of the lines and the numbers and the tests and even find joy there, but mostly we tend to try bargaining. “Dear Time, I will gladly pay you Thursday for a Cheeseburger on Wednesday.” And so it seems we spend our lives racing toward the world we think we want rather than changing the way we experience it.

Is this the way I want to live? Nope. Nope. And Nope.

I want to look at life, live life, and love life in a way that feeds my soul now and forever. Doing so isn’t impossible — the truth is that so much of it is up to us. So change isn’t dependent on time, and time doesn’t always equal change. Look at it this way: If I allot eight hours and fifteen minutes to a flight, I can walk the streets of Paris tomorrow instead of Charlotte. That’s a huge plus, but I wonder — can I *feel* Paris in an instant on any day of any year?

To an extent, yes. But I can also dedicate eight hours to writing a proposal and get absolutely nothing of value accomplished. So the concept of time is pretty wishy washy in my book, and how can I hold myself so accountable to wishy washy?

I can’t, and I won’t, and I don’t have to. I need to step it up. Now.

Let’s say I have ten great years left, fifteen good ones, and five glad-to-be-here years. At 25, I figured I was young enough to feel my way through it, and I did. But forty hit me like a deer in the headlights. And now at 60 (or so), planning my Next Ten Fabulous Years has became high priority, and I’m working it in every direction I can grab. Fortunately I’ve learned along the path that life is pretty much exactly what you make it.

Get going.

And today I plan to look at this giant, banded timepiece a new way: I’m not the one  who’s strapped. I won’t be the one who’s strapped. I think it’s time to breathe, dream, plan, work, and grab my joy. Sometimes You Gotta.

Night

/ Pam Goode / 6 Comments

Not the beating, but the
breath
of a motor, nearly silent,
alerts me and I turn
to see
into myself,
and into you, and into this
wild universe
faintly
suggesting life ….
a tiny boat sputters along
without lights this
moonless night …
black sky, black sea, black mountains …
black, black, black is everywhere.
It scares me just a bit and yet
he moves …
a man at peace
alone
in the vast.

Beach Poetry

/ Pam Goode / 4 Comments

Some days the wind is so merciless
that the few birds venturing out
hasten in their flight,
cursing the rougher movements, the lack of food,
the strain of wings.

Some days the sand blows so briskly that it stings,
minuscule dots of quartz and glass
co-mingling
with the sharper air that
pulls my breath away.

Some days seem ripe for staying in
and lolling here and there on
softer sofas than this.

Yet some days lay splendidly before us,
mingling breath and sea and quartz
into our dreams.

© Pam Goode 2023 (Poem)

Image by Ben Wiid

The Really, Really, Really Bad Day

/ Pam Goode / 12 Comments

“You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocket ship underpants don’t help.”
(Quote by Bill Watterson)

Today I was totally prepped for a great day. My husband has been on the other side of the continent for a week, and he flies home tonight. I’m wearing my Happy Clothes, saved for special days. The house is clean. Ish. I’ve amassed a neatly folded give-away pile with oooooooodles of my favorite (too small) outfits, we’re deep in the dregs of summer, which means we’ll soon be cooler (right?), I’m on break from cleaning the attic (self-imposed), and the garden flowers are joyously blooming despite daily basking in the bowels of hell.

But then — who knows, but something clicked — or unclicked, and hell threw open that door. And I’d say I haven’t been able to shake this Very Bad Day, but the truth is that I’m just not ready. Because you have to be real. You have to walk through these things rather than around. Otherwise they never go away, and just bury themselves in your psyche instead.

So I looked up Bad Day quotes. And honestly, they totally sucked except for Hobbes and Bill, so I made my own.

Snark: an attitude or expression of mocking irreverence and sarcasm.

Blech. I really, really don’t like snarky people. We all have so much goodness deep in our hearts — why waste it on the opportunity to hurt someone?

And I guess that’s the extent of it. I haven’t been shot or robbed or suffered a great loss. I have endless happy choices at my fingertips. But today, I guess what I really am is sad.

And I am. I’m really, really sad.

Footnote: Hobbes, named for philosopher Thomas Hobbes, is Calvin’s stuffed tiger and best friend.

Pam Water? Let’s Check that Out …

/ Pam Goode / 9 Comments


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?

And then of course we have these:

PAM is an acronym for: Pacific Armies Management, Pacific Aviation Museum (Honolulu, HI), Packetized Audio Mixer, Page Allocation Map (CICS), Pain Awareness Month, Pamir (linguistics), Pamphlet, Pan African Mining (various locations), Pan African Movement (conference), Parque de Atracciones de Madrid (amusement park), Partitioning Around Medoids (statistics), Partner Account Manager (sales), Pass Along Message, Passband Amplitude Modulation, Passport to Advanced Math (education), Password Authentication Module, Patent Application Management, Patient Access Manager (various businesses), Patient Assessment and Management (optometry examination), Payload Accommodation Manager

Sigh.

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 Spray Seriously?????

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.

Those Days

/ Pam Goode / 5 Comments

I got a fast car.
You got a car with a little bit of rubber,
keeping us slow when the slow is good,
and we’re loving the life in between,
in between.

Dolled up right for yesterday
and hunting tomorrow
in a hungry way,
gotta go, gotta go, gotta
go again, cause that’s surely
most all that we know.

Oh that’s surely most all
That we know.

We know.

© Pam Goode

At the Grocery: The Good, the Bad, and the Curious

/ Pam Goode / 2 Comments

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 Can’t Believe I Ate the . . .

/ Pam Goode / 3 Comments

It’s cold. Not as cold as it is at my sister’s, with a wind chill in single digits and 49 mph gusts of other-people’s-trash, and not as cold as it is for friends in Edmonton, Alberta, due to hit -25 on Wednesday, and certainly not as cold as the -80 recorded in Alaska in 1971. We won’t even talk about Antarctica, because no one is intended to live in that sort of frozen perpetuity.  But I am cold, nonetheless, and it’s the sort of cold that triggers the hunched-shoulder-body-tensing daylong headaches. Unpleasant for me and a bitchiness-breeder that haunts my husband, but cured rather nicely by hot tea with honey, languid baths, and browsing wildflower catalogues. However, there’s one winter reflex that I find more difficult to control.

No tail, no arboreal agility, no penchant for darting back and forth across streets, but suddenly I’ve triggered the squirrel syndrome. I can’t stop eating. And I’m not even picky, and though I haven’t yet stooped to scooping acorns, pretty much anything else is fair game. Something in my brain is craving the feeling of fullness, the defense against winter and sparsity.

I hear that creeping age lowers the  appetite, and I’ve seen mothers and grandmothers who ate like birds, and great grandmothers who refused food of any kind. I’m old enough to witness the skin begin to sag beneath my jawline, but apparently young enough to eat like, well, a squirrel. Saggy skin does not pair well with bulging midriffs, and I expect to sprout bristly hair across my chubby cheeks at any moment.

We have a gargantuan turkey, beautiful breads, Spoons barbecue, fennel slaw, caramelized butternut squash, a huge tin of sugar-molested pecans, boxes of mint cookies, sweet pomegranate seeds, sugared cranberries, lots of prosecco, those smashable dark chocolate oranges, and a 10X-dusted pear clafouti, which is some sort of French Kiss made by pouring heavy cream and butter over a few sliced pears and cooking it into a 2000 calorie romp through the Jardin des Tuileries. Scratch that — I finished it off last night. Heading back in for some barbecue now.

When I was a girl, my father once came in from the garden muttering blasphemous un-niceties after the crusty man-over-the-fence grinningly brandished his .22 and a handful of dead squirrels dangling by the tails from his fist. We were not a “gun” family, and were even less enamored of the idea that a crotchety old man was shooting in our city neighborhood full of young children. My dad probably figured he shot them because they dropped nuts on his car. My mom probably thought it was the ticks, fleas, chiggers and mites.  At the time, I just thought he was crazy. Now I know why.

But seriously, what’s the deal with binging? I don’t need the extra food for energy and I don’t need the extra fat for warmth. I’m blessed to have heat, fire, a stove,  warm water, sweaters, coats, scarves, and ear muffs, and it rarely dips below freezing here. There’s food in the pantry and I can still use a can opener. No twitchy tail, no pointy black toenails, and no visible mites, but, apparently, a generous set of expandable cheeks.

Sigh.

Paris: Beyond the Croissants

/ Pam Goode / 2 Comments

Sure, they melt in your mouth. Sure, every layer is laced with butter. Sure, it’s really, really, really GOOD butter. Sure, it’s a three-day process with 27 layers. But no matter how delicious the authentic Parisian croissant may be (and trust me, it is), you might be surprised at how much more — so much more — there is to do in Paris.

Why does a long, dark rain in North Carolina make me feel like I might as well take a pass on the day — lolling about in a giant white cotton sleep shirt, sipping tea, and considering dreams in the grayness passing by my window just a bit too slowly. Is this punishment for a day wasted last week? A gift of possibility following too many days of work? A Dream Machine that fell out of that last cloud and into my lap? Let’s go with Dream Machine. Today I’ve decided to do something rather impractical and guaranteed to cure the blahs.

Don’t laugh, but I’m going to plan my dream day.

I’ll wake with the sunrise (again, no laughing) in Paris, stretching like a cat who hasn’t yet caught a whiff of the mouse, rustle around for some French yogurt, and sip a cup of tea at my windowsill facing Rue du Pré aux Clercs. After a quick shower, I’ll stroll over to Rue de Raspail, a delightful market so crammed with gorgeous edibles that you could walk through and fill your basket blindfolded and still return home with with the makings of a fabulously fresh, flavorful and delicately presented feast. But let’s pass on the blindfold because you’ll want to see it all, including the French babies. French babies rock. The jury’s split on French dogs.

Veggies grabbed and stashed in my flat, I’m off across the Seine to the Right Bank in search of the Marais Dance School, nestled into the upper floors of a 17th century building on a delightful square. And co-ed changing rooms, because of course it’s France and the bodies are beautiful and no one feels the need to hide them. Since my toes last eased into ballet slippers a few decades ago, I’ll choose the beginner class and have at it with the gusto of a spring robin, hitting every plié, relevé, and glissé with a smile on my face bigger than my wealth of accrued blisters. Who cares about blisters?

I’ll still leave feeling as if I’ve conquered the world — in Paris — wearing tights — Ka-Ching!.

I’ll be hyped, heady and ready for Act 2, and the walk to my next adventure feels great. Here I’m trading movement for a more tactile eroticism — clay. My tutor, a graduate in both fine arts and Beaux-Arts, will take the reins and delightfully overwhelm me with more types of clay than I ever knew existed. That’s a good thing, right? I’ve tried clay in the past, with rather grisly results, but this time, right????? Because it’s Paris! I work it like nobody’s business, but at the end of the day, I still suck at clay (and that’s okay). I’ve met new friends, laughed more than most, and shaken off a lot of new-student anxiety. I’m calling it a win.

After a couple of hours strolling The Seine and my favorite Gothic gorgeousness Sainte-Chapelle, and my hunger for all things French points me back toward the Left Bank. No one has ever tacked a Best Cook Ever sign to my forehead, but neither am I the worst, and surely a late afternoon dedicated to faire la cuisine is just what I need, crave, hunger for. Drooling with lust, I haul it over to LeFoodist, where I’ll learn to make the most perfect, most exquisite, most shockingly life-changing baguette known to woman. But first I need an address and, no surprise, it’s smack between two of my favorite Paris haunts, Île Saint Louis and Le Jardin du Luxembourg — a very good sign indeed.

How does it go?

Okay, so it turns out that a true French croissant is no easy roll in the hay, but it really does change your life, not only because it’s a previously un-imagined wonder, but because it’s literally possible to make it yourself … if you really love baking, layering, experimenting, buttering, perfect measurements, and starting over. All part of the fun, right? When you’re in Paris, absolutely.

My imaginary day is one I’ll visit again and again when I’m feeling a little dreamy. Every moment teaches. Every moment inspires. And no matter the magnificence of my French experiences, the best of them will always, always, include the croissant.

———-

Disclaimer: The locations listed are accurate and currently operating as of this post and are well-respected businesses I look forward to visiting. At this writing, I haven’t yet had the pleasure, so no, they’re not yet legitimate recommendations. Emphasis on Yet. But I can promise you I’m headed that way.

At the Bookstore, Dreaming

/ Pam Goode / Leave a comment

It’s a cloudy, drizzly Sunday, and there are 30 people in the check-out line at Barnes and Noble. There are 12 in the cafe/caffeine line. I head for the second, mostly because I perused (and occasionally bought) everything in the first line a few weeks ago.

One of those heavy gray days with crows flying about, and the sky so wet that dribbles of moisture keep sliding down the sides of me like a cold bath. It’s dreary, and no one looks quite normal as they hunch this way or that trying to ward off discomfort.

The young girl across from me sits in the cafe section by way of the cash register section, and the belongings that cover her small table and quite a bit of the floor include giftwrap (a roll of gold and a roll of white with gold stars), a furry stuffed cat (orange), a science kit on Climate Control, nine record albums whose titles are sadly just beyond my view, a black purse, Monopoly (with Hello Kitty gracing the box), and two hefty hardcover books. The girl is midway through an even heftier paperback. I like her.

Every person in the cafe is wearing black on at least half of their body, with the exception of one girl wearing pajamas.

I got here just before the crowd. I get here every day just before the crowd, no matter what time I arrive. I’m lucky that way. I love bookstores, probably because they’re filled with minimally comfortable humans making their way in a world that generally includes few and excludes many, most of whom love to read.

I used to read. I pulled back when so many novels suddenly became harder to handle, and indeed happy books seem not to be in style these days. There were decades when I could handle the murders and loss, mostly because there was always a happy enough ending, and of course the good girl or good guy in charge of it all always saved the day. Now just as often, the good guy dies. Realism, they call it. It’s the third Saturday before Christmas. I’m in no mood for murders. Or much realism, for that matter. When I started writing, I devoured books until they began to hurt — when books came too close to reality.

So now I write. Growing up, I had no use for fiction and was all about truth and evolution, or as close as you can get from a carefully selected book chosen at least partially because you liked the cover. I still tiptoe around fiction a bit, but I love the process and the character creation. Those girls live with me always.

I envy the girl with the hefty book and the orange cat. I miss the days when I could read a slightly disturbing book, find the silver lining, and move on with a bit of new understanding enlightening my brain.