Bell and a little Doolittle.
For the past three or four weeks, I've been consciously slowing down, allowing myself to be bored, taking my time, actually listening to people, turning off the radio. Not exclusively, mind you, but I miss the me I was in my teen years when I could immerse myself in literature of my choice, spend hours thinking and writing with no real goal, and--I suppose it must be said just for the sake of form--pausing to smell the roses. The fact that my life has been so full that I frequently find myself thinking I may not know which way is up bothers me. My life has been that full for years. Not only does our culture encourage and reward overachievement, but (lest we forget) I'm a military officer. Achievement in my subculture demands it.
I don't like living that way...if you can call it living. In the last couple of years, I've amassed a small set of personal idols, people who don't let the expectations of Western life rule them, who appear to be truly peaceful and happy. Tellingly, I didn't realize that this is what I most admire about these people until quite recently. When I realized it, I began making small changes to force myself to stop, think, and (yes!) be bored.
I'm convinced that appreciation of art of all types is necessary for living, but such appreciation isn't possible until we clear our minds and just be. I'm still struggling with the logistics of this. A strong work ethic and achievement (which is never quite enough) is deeply ingrained (in most of us). I've refined the ability to multitask, to set deadlines for myself, and to think ahead to ensure I'm not hopelessly caught in what Frank Gilbreath labeled "unavoidable delay" (Cheaper by the Dozen). I plan what I'll think about on the drive to work, what reading material I'll take with me to the bathroom so as to avoid losing three minutes, what I'll do for the evening to best use the couple of hours left to me before I collapse from the exhaustion of always having something to do and never, ever taking a break.
I'm tired of it. (What am I saying? I'm just tired.)
Thus, this weekend, I drove to Cheyenne to see an old friend and go to the Furball (a quasi-formal fundraiser for the Cheyenne Animal Shelter). I confess I took Hamlet with me, but I'm almost perversely proud that I didn't open it the whole time. My friend is heavily into home improvement, by the way. She always has a home improvement project going: replacing doorknobs and light fixtures, painting the living room, having the kitchen remodeled, etc. She spends her free time working in the yard, laying sod, planting flowers, raising a fence, crushing and hauling away a decrepit barbeque pit. And her home is always quite nice without being ostentatious. She's also a professional, but she makes time to achieve things with her hands. I admire her a great deal; she inspires me. (More on this in a minute, if I remember.)
The Furball is a fairly expensive function to get into ($60 a head), and they have a silent auction and a live auction, which can also be a bit pricey, depending on what you want and how rich and drunk your opponent is. Last year, I won a set of four monkeys: Hear no evil, see no evil, say no evil and...another one with his hands on his crotch (do no evil?). The set was delightfully enigmatic, so I bought it for, oh, $30. I may have made off with something else, but I don't remember now. This year, we got there early (for good general seating) and had time to peruse the displays and work out our game plan. In short order, I found a set of 4 Bev Doolittle prints (numbered, matted and framed) I coveted. These, as a matter of fact. I waited until 7:30 (on an auction closing at 7:45) to go check my Bevs. Someone had bid it up to $200. I bid $201 and came back shortly to find it at $250 by a mysterious #441 (we all had auction numbers, naturally). It rose with alacrity, of course--particularly since this person consistently raised the bid in $50 increments. At 2 minutes until the close of auction, I noted a woman standing a short distance away, arms crossed. She looked determined.
I walked over, put my arm around her, and said, "You must be 441." She smiled and nodded. I said, "You really want those prints, don't you?" She said yes. I said, "Me too. I'm a big fan."
She said, "If you want them, you can have them."
I said, "Are you sure? Listen...I don't have a heavy in the parking lot who's going to rough you up if I don't get them."
She said, "No...really. Bid another dollar and they're yours. I was at the threshold I was willing to go, anyway." I looked at her a moment, decided she was serious and not acting from intimidation*, then stepped to the stand and wrote $651--and I won.
* She was a bit smaller than me, which is a feat in itself. However, many people respond to me with intimidation for reasons defying explanation.
I encountered her again a couple of hours later in the checkout line. She told me a story about how she was bidding on some awesome object before she realized she was bidding against someone who'd just sold a painting for several million dollars the week prior. Her husband went up to the man and explained that his wife really wanted that object (whatever it was), but couldn't outbid the millionaire. To his credit, the millionaire gave up the fight.
It seems #441 was just passing on the love. :)
Of course, I didn't come home and look up the prints to see what they were worth. I didn't know if I'd gotten a good deal and really, I didn't care so much. I just knew I wanted them and all the money went to the animal shelter. If my coworker hadn't asked about my weekend (which led to a discussion of the Furball), I may have remained ignorant. As it was, I looked up the prints online to show him. It seems that unmatted and unframed, the set is worth upwards of $1500.
Who knew?
Not that it matters, even. I suppose my mind is still blown by it. I don't plan to sell them.
But do you see how lucrative stopping to smell the roses can be? :D
Then today, I was listening to NPR and heard about the Pulitzer Prize winners from the Washington Post, one of which wrote this story. I know it's feature length, but just turn on the audio from the Metro concert and read the whole thing. It's worth it.
That brings me back to the original idea of this post: What the heck is the matter with us, anyway?
Even if you don't know that that street musician over there is the top-ranked violinist in the world, don't you think you'd at least give yourself pause and say, "Hey! Someone's playing something that isn't rap and isn't the banjo. And it sounds pretty good!"?
Well...would you?
I would. But then, I do pause for any street musician who is even average AND (notably) I don't live in Washington DC or environs (anymore) AND if I'm in a subway, I'm probably not on my way to work where I feel as though I have a clock to punch (even though I don't; return to earlier theme in this post for explanation).
But really. Can't even a clod recognize a world-class musician?
Apparently not.
Oh! Back to my inspiring friend (Rhonda). I came home and pulled the barrister's shelves out of the garage. I got them for a mere $20 from the wonderful people I bought the house from. I'd never seen barrister's shelves (I don't get out much), and thought they were just really cool. And they looked respectably old. I took them knowing they'd need stripping, sanding, refinishing--at the very least. At worse, I always need more bookshelves (for some odd reason), and I could use them even if they weren't in the best repair.
Upon closer inspection (yes...1.5 years later, I just looked closely at them the first time; back to the "rushing through life" bit...right?), I discovered that the set was cobbled together from three sets, at least one of which appears to date back to 1910.
So here's my dilemma: As a weird compilation of one or more antiques, it isn't worth much (or anything?). However, as a lover of wood grain and antiques, I'm struggling with the fact that I must either accept the drastically different wood grains or I must paint it.
One set is cherry or mahogany. One is oak. Another is...unidentifiable to me. I can't simply stain the oak, refinish the lot, and be done with it. It's a patchwork shelf, really. Logic says I should clean it up, suck it up, and paint it in order to make the piece even moderately acceptable. I'm looking for a way around it now, but I don't see a way out.
I can thank Rhonda for the dilemma I now find myself in. Had I not visited her, the barrister shelves would still be ensconced in the garage. ;)
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