The Frogg Files, Defined (Sort of)

Many thanks to the Daily Pepper, who has recently mentioned my blog in her illustrious list celebrating female bloggers ("In Praise of Blogher!"). Pepper is a good friend that I have known since my creative-writing workshop days in Berkeley and San Francisco; a top-notch writer herself whose blog is sharp, witty, and very entertaining. Moreover, she has a truly formidable command of vast amounts of random knowledge, ranging along all sorts of topics from sports to rap to literature to music videos to politics to philosophy to 80s sitcoms (did I leave anything out?). So to have her describe me as "one of the smartest people I know"--I am speechless indeed. (Or I would be, if I weren't so irrepressible.) Thank you again, Pepper!

However, one teensy little caveat. In her post, Pepper also said that I am someone who "thinks often about the power of religion in her life and the impact it can have on others. " Now, this is true, BUT it is misleading in the sense that I rarely think about it "out loud" on this site! I mean, it does happen, but so occasionally. I can only imagine people's reactions who follow her link to my lily pad in quest of something halfway intelligent to read (maybe) about religion and culture, or something like that, only to find instead my mad ravings about Salieri, or my silly anecdotes about injuries past, or my ever-increasing desire to strangle the evil, shrieking Leo (and although I haven't written about that lately, don't think for a minute that I have gotten over it--au contraire to the extreme, I'm afraid).

I began to wonder, as I'm sure many of you sometimes do: just what the heck is the frogg files all about? Is there a point to the writings here? After much thought and soul-searching (almost five whole minutes' worth, in fact), I have arrived at an answer.

The frogg files is about: whatever I want it to be about, whenever I want it to be about it. (Usually, it's about me.)

If I feel like writing about politics on a given day (rare, but I suppose it could happen), I will. If I feel like writing about religion (a bit more likely), I will. And if I feel like writing about the time the cat chased a skunk into my bedroom, followed in turn by a swarm of Africanized killer bees, while I took refuge under my bed and prayed that neither skunk nor bees would find me, by golly, I most definitely will. (How could I not?)

That last story is completely untrue, by the way, but it would make for such entertaining reading, wouldn't it?

Well. So now you know, if you are visiting for the first time, that the frogg files is sort of the blog version of Seinfeld: it's about absolutely nothing at all.

Except, of couse, when it is about something.

Sunday

Disjointed thoughts on a day of rest:

I am reading A.S. Byatt's Babel Tower, listening to selections from Bach's Brandenburg Concertos (I love the 3rd best, I think), and occasionally sipping from a mug of Moroccan mint tea. I don't know why I chose to make hot tea, when outside it is nearly 90 degrees.

This morning I practiced Mozart's Sonata in C Major a little. Those first two pages are deceptively simple, although I confess that my fingers, unused to the exercise, can't trill like they used to, so the 30th measure frustrates me every time I play it. The second part of the first movement is daunting, with its left-handed swift-running scales; I only just started working on it last night. The fingers on my left hand are not nearly as strong, nor as agile, as the fingers on my right.

I couldn't sleep last night and started going through papers at about 3am, tossing some, piling others. I hate piles, but I can't seem to get away from them. I did this for about two hours, before I finally lay down in my bed again, and went to sleep.

Tonight I will (hopefully) write madly, trying to make my Tuesday deadline. But for now, while it is hot outside, I will dawdle between the book, the piano, and the kitchen, according to the whim of the moment.

I love Sundays.

PS No, I've changed my mind. I think the Brandenburg Concertos 5 and 6 (allegros) are my favorite.

Ode to Salieri, in Prose

Amadeus is one of my favorite movies of all time, partly because it is full of Mozart's music, but also because I feel such compassion for Mozart's enemy, Salieri--that poor, bitter man who wanted nothing more than to burn with the divine fire in his own compositions. He longed, through his music, to fly, to soar to celestial heights. Instead he could only flutter about, grounded like a broken-winged bird that knows what it is made for, but because of its brokenness can only reach for the sky, without ever reaching it. He was jealous, yes; he was eaten up with darkness, yes; but I understand him and I feel so sad for him. I can see how dreadfully he both hated and loved Mozart--nothing but a yowling, vulgar brat in the movie, but oh! what beauty ran in his veins and out through his fingers, in the shape of hundreds of thousands of inky dots all over lines, which, when translated into sound, can move strong men to tears (if they would let it).

And so it did to you, Salieri, for you were not insensitive, nor unpassionate. And it was not your mediocrity that destroyed you; rather what killed your soul was the knowledge, the heart-wrenching understanding that your very best efforts could not make you better than what you were. Such self-realization, when untempered by a transcendent grace (which would have whispered in your heart that it didn't matter, that you were loved, that your gifts were not wasted where they were offered in true love and devotion) is a devastating, desolating thing.

Ah, Salieri, great heart. The burden was too much for you, and I am very sorry.

The Deadline Blues

It's amazing what having deadlines does to people. I mean, what it does to me, because I can hardly pretend to speak for people in general. (Well, actually I can, because I am very good at having everyone else's opinion and expressing it for them, but let's just move on, shall we?)

I have recently signed on as a contributing writer to a local newspaper, and I have an article due tomorrow. Ask me what I've done on it so far. No, don't. It's better for both of us if we leave certain things to the imagination. For instance, you may imagine that I am a paragon of energy and responsibility, and that I am writing feverishly into the night, so that I will be able to send in the article not only on time, but in fact ahead of my deadline, while I may imagine that you are right, and that I am not, in fact, avoiding writing the article by, say, writing this blog.

Perhaps later I will imagine that I can cook! Why, anything is possible!

Well, most things.

In addition to my deadline on Friday, I have another one on Saturday, for a short-story writing contest. I have actually written the story, so that is something. And it is pretty good, which is something else. But it is not great, and that means I should be revising it, and that means it's time to play the imagination game again. (You are going to be very good at it by the end of this post, I promise.)

Finally, I have a deadline on Tuesday for another newspaper article, and I have several phone calls still to make to get various quotes. The hardest part of being a writer, for me, is talking to other people. I am shyer than most people think, and the thought of picking up the phone and calling a perfect stranger to get quotes gives me the shivers. I always agonize over it (will I ask the right questions? Will I sound professional? Will I be pestering them?), and then I agonize over the quotes I did, and didn't, get, and then when the story gets written it is all fine, of course, but it can be a traumatizing experience.

At any rate, it's obvious that I have my work cut out for me these next few days, so I'd better hurry up and get back to watching Pirates of the Caribbean...er, I mean writing my articles and stories. Yes, let's pretend that's what I meant.

Update on the Frogg's Health

Thanks to all of you who expressed their sympathy the other day; my neck still hurts a lot, but it is better than before. I slathered it in Icy-Hot yesterday, and took lots of drugs--four Ibuprofen pills at work, then two Naproxen when I got home. I went out for drinks with WoundedBug in the evening; a tall glass of beer followed by a shot of Bailey's on the rocks did wonders for the pain, but alas! How temporary the cure!

I can't be sure, but I think this injury may actually be related to damage I wreaked upon my body many years ago, during a rousing game of rollerblade hockey at my house (remember, Steve?). Actually, we weren't playing hockey at the moment of the accident. We were skating around, being silly, and without going into humiliating details, let's just say that I did something severely stupid, with the result that I landed FLAT on my back, on the highly unforgiving surface of a tennis court, while falling from a height of...well, I can't remember now, but probably a few feet.

The pain was horrific. I had tried to keep my head from cracking open on the concrete, and in so doing, had drastically pulled the muscle in my neck and upper back. Probably a good many muscles, actually. I could barely move, or even breathe. I could, however, cry and did, with every bit of self-pity that I could muster (I mustered quite a lot).

However, I still went to Disneyland the next day, because I had a crush on a guy who was going. Pain or no pain (but oh! there was plenty of pain!), I was going to the "happiest place on earth" even if it killed me. And you know all those rides that say, "DO NOT get on this ride if you are pregnant, have heart trouble, or diabetes; if you're too short, too tall, too heavy, too light; if you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, or if you have BACK PROBLEMS"? Yep. I went on every single one, and I suffered on every single one, with gritted teeth and heart-felt groans. My reward? One fleeting hand-hold and a day of flirtatious banter. Worth it? Well, I thought so at the time, but now...no, not really. Oh, what horrors we visit upon ourselves in the name of love...

Anyway, I somehow survived, and eventually sort of healed, but my back has never been quite the same, and every now and then it relapses, like the other day. Today I can at least breathe without pain (if I don't breathe too deeply!), but I still have to turn my entire body to look over my shoulder as I change lanes on the freeway. I also can't tilt my head backward very far.

So, yes, it still hurts a lot, and I am still grumpy and sad about it, especially as it looks like I really will have to cancel the Yosemite trip. Besides me hurting my neck, the friend I was going with has sprained her ankle. Neither injury is very conducive to backpacking for several days in the mountains. I am quite devastated, as I have never been to Yosemite, and was really looking forward to this trip.

Ah, pity me, who is so piteous...or pitiful, as the case may be.

Ouch

I have hurt my neck. I think I might have hurt it badly. I strained it today, but not during the brisk 3-mile walk I took early this morning. No. I hurt it as I lay down on my porch a few minutes ago to soak up some rays before it got too hot outside.

How many people actually injure themselves while they are doing nothing at all?! This is the sort of irony that pervades my life. Gah! I will laugh about it later, but right now I am in too much pain.

May have to call in sick for work, but I'll see how I feel in an hour. Maybe I just need to lie down and relax some more. Oh wait, that's what got me in this mess in the first place. Arrrgh. My biggest worry is that I will have to cancel plans to go on a backpacking trip to Yosemite next week. I can't believe this!

Ok, I'm off to find an ice pack or maybe some drugs. Ouch ouch ouch.

:(

Places of Me

I went to the Vatican, once, because the Sistine Chapel was already closed that day. I don't remember what it was like to see the Pieta in person, I only know that I saw it.

In October, I went to an evensong service at Westminster Abbey, in London. I wrote down part of the prayer that ended the service in a little notebook, because I thought the words were beautiful, but I seem to have misplaced the notebook. I hope I find it again.

I saw Buckingham Palace in the rain.

In Egypt, I rode a horse in the desert, at full gallop and in view of the pyramids.

I stood, alone, on the cliff overlooking Cape Farewell, New Zealand, and found my way down to the beach where seals were sunning themselves outside the caves where they lived.

One dark night I walked along the white beach of Koh Sahmet, Thailand, and watched lightning flash behind the clouds, turning them purple.

I've seen the sun rise over Jerusalem, gleaming on the golden Dome of the Rock, and I had tea under a tent with a Bedouin family, on the mountain above the ancient city of Petra in Jordan.

I swam and floated in the Dead Sea.

Here is a picture of my favorite place in the world. It is in Walnut Creek, California, not far from the busy streets of that city. But far enough.