Weekly Flâneur: Books in the City

La Bibliothéque de la Cité. Click to enlarge.

Found via AshleyISee, from Simon & Schuster Canada, via a Seattle blog post, to your computer screen this lovely winter's day. 

From Simon & Schuster Canada:

"This beautiful fresco adorns the exterior of the La Bibliothèque De La Cité (Library of the City) in Lyon, France."

Books are literally the windows to the world at this library.

A Little Help

You know, sometimes, the world just feels like a dark and endlessly frightening place, and even the thought of getting out of bed and finding clean socks is a momentous task. Sometimes it's an outside battle, and sometimes it is solely the chemicals clashing in our minds, but there are fights that are bigger and heavier than what our bodies can handle. And when it gets this way, it's hard to remember anything else but the sadness. You have to be brave, and you have to be strong. But if you need a reprise from the battle and want someone else to help carry your sword, I want to pass on this site for you. Because there are always people who care, even strangers on the Internet.

Screengrab from IMAlive. Click to visit site.

IMAlive is an online crisis center which uses instant messaging to help people in emotional and physical crisis. You can receive help right now. In this instant. Or tomorrow, or 2 AM or whenever you need it. From their site, https://www.imalive.org/index.php:

"You are panicked, short of breath, and the pain is so palpable that you cannot feel or think about anything else. The terror of picking up the phone to call a hotline not knowing who will answer prevents you from doing so. Or, even if you have the courage to pick up the phone, the sound of the person's voice scares you and you hang up. We know this happens because over 30% of all people who call suicide hotlines do just that—they hang up as soon as they hear the human voice.

More importantly, we recognize the technological age we find ourselves in today and we know that millions of people in crisis will never pick up the phone. We believe that IMAlive is part of the solution to the problem. IMAlive is a live online network that uses instant messaging to respond to people in crisis. People need a safe place to go during moments of crisis and intense emotional pain."

As some of you may remember from this post, a family member of mine recently committed suicide. I don't know what words I could have said to him to make the weight of the battle a little less, but I am glad that there are people out there who do know. Who know what to say and what direction to point in to help others find a way to a healthier place. So, if you can, pass IMAlive to others who may need it. There are always people who care.

Friday QuoteDay

“I suspect it’s difficult for men to imagine a world in which their bodies have long been inextricably linked to their value as an individual, and that no matter how encouraging your parents were or how many positive female role models you had or how self-confident you feel, there is an ever-present pressure that creeps in from all sides, whispering in your ear that you are your body and your body defines you.

A world where, from the time of pubescence on, you can feel the constant and palpable weight of the male gaze, and not just from your male peers but from teachers and sports coaches and the fathers of the children you baby-sit, people you’re supposed to respect and trust and look up to, and that first realization that you are being looked at in that way is the beginning of a self-consciousness that you will be unable to shake for the rest of your life.

Even if they are never verbalized, the rules of bodily conduct for females become clear early on: when school administrators reprimand you for the inch of midriff that shows when you lift your hands straight in the air or youth group leaders tell you that the sight of your unintentional cleavage is what causes godly young men to fall, you learn that your body is dangerous and shameful and that it’s your responsibility to cloister it in a way that is acceptable to everyone else. You learn that your body is a topic of public debate that everyone is entitled to weigh in on, from a male classmate telling you that those jeans make your ass look huge to the male-dominated United States Congress dictating the parameters that rape must fall within to be considered legitimate.

To be a woman, and to live life in a woman’s body, is to be held to a set of comically paradoxical standards that make you constantly second-guess yourself and jump through a million hoops in pursuit of an impossible perfection.”

 — From Thought Catalog's Stop Catcalling Me by Kendall Goodwin

Weekly Flâneur: Beacon

Click image to enlarge.

This little light of mine,

I'm gonna let it shine.

Sherman Memorial Church of God in Christ

Charlotte, N.C., USA

Wild Oscar Talk

Have you been following build-up to the Oscars this year? The awards ceremony is on Sunday, and as usual, I'll be sipping mimosas and watching the film equivalent to the Super Bowl.

If you have followed Oscar news, you may have noticed clear-winner Anne Hathaway's coverage is tinged with a hint of malice. Anne is in the race for her heart-squeezing turn as Fantine in Les Misérables and is worthy of the win. But some don't like her ambitious attitude, or presence, or desire -- all things admirable in an actor, but something to sneer at in an actress. (A quick Google search of "Anne Hathaway" + "Oscar" is only the source needed for this one. Add "hate" at the end of that if you really want to spend time making "ugh" noises at your screen.)

At Creative Loafing, the alternative weekly newspaper here in Charlotte, the Oscar predictions slate Anne for the win. Film critic Matt Brunson perfectly and succinctly sums up Anne's Oscar coverage in one fell swoop, unpacking the media's internalized and ever-present misogyny that shoots women down for being anything less than what they are expected to be in that moment, at every moment of everyday.  

"A not-unexpected whiff of misogyny has hit this year's Oscar season, as evidenced by the disgusting treatment of Hathaway by both the media and the public. The clear frontrunner in this category since Day One, she's been lambasted lately for 'wanting the award too much,' whatever the fuck that means. Gee, funny how the same people complaining about her omniscient presence on talk shows and red-carpet events aren't similarly criticizing Daniel Day-Lewis, Steven Spielberg, Ben Affleck and Robert De Niro, all of whom are doing the exact same thing. At any rate, it would be a disgrace if Hathaway loses because of nastiness."

The film industry has its fill of lady-hate, and it's nothing new. But for this round, it would be nice to let the woman who obviously: Set a goal, worked towards it, wants it, and is on the cusp of fulfilling her goal, to not only have it, but to enjoy it.

Adventures In Unemployment

 February Edition

(September Edition is here.) 

Wake up when husband gets up, even if that means insomnia only allowed for two hours of sleep. I sit on the stairs in my blue nightgown as he puts on his shoes. Here is the space of our day: work, errands, brief meals, and back again to blue gowns and warm pajamas. I kiss him goodbye at the door.

Drink coffee that is a lukewarm cup of sanity.

Open the blinds and catch the winter sunlight.

Look at crochet patterns on Pinterest. Stumble upon this image:

Imagine myself saying to her: "No, baby. It was never crochet or music or whatever that saved your life. You did. You were the strength. Your fingers may have woven a pattern from bits of yarn, or your heart may have felt the song, but you were the one to pull yourself up. Own it. And know if you slip and fall, you can do it again."

(Yes, again and again, as many times as a stitch is needed.)

Mid-morning the phone rings and it's a job agency. It's one of four agencies that call occasionally, and at each agency there is a Shondra, a Debra, a Marta and I never remember who is with what agent.  It doesn't help that the numbers are saved in my phone under the titles: "That Job Place," "Job Me Maybe," "Job Me Maybe 2."

It used to just be, "Agency," but my purse had a nasty habit of calling people, alphabetically, when I wasn't aware (and my poor friend Amanda received most of those muffled purse calls). Now all my contacts under A are titled: "Aaaaay here's your voicemail," "Another voicemail," "And yet again because AAAAA."

It's Shondra this time. She asks if I have a job yet? Of course not. Will I speak with so-and-so company? Of course, yes. I'm leaving in about 2 hours to do an interview for a magazine article I'm writing, but until then, I'm free, I'm free, call and ask me anything. Email my resume, my writing samples, a cover letter. Never heard back. No email, no call.

While waiting, realize the decision to follow the board Men In Kilts on Pinterest was a solid one.

Recycle, take the time to sort and load the car with the plastic bags and paper bags with rope handles to drop-off in the proper bins by the grocery store.

Freelance work: Wear grown-up clothes for interview. Forgot to paint nails, feel self-conscious. Interviewees always stare at the hands writing their words.

 
Tweet to world: "Oh, what, you don't own a vintage velvet blazer made in Japan in the 1970s? I feel sorry for your life choices." (Do not add #swagger, but feel as though it is justified.)

Text to Matt: "The cute barista girl just gave me 50 cents off my drink! Flirting?! Are we flirting? I can't tell!" (No. Probably not.)

Buy: Milk, bread, soda, the flesh of a poor pink trout from the butcher, a box of Muesli on sale.

Realize that in suburbia, backward and forward may be the same.

Realize that if I did have a 9 to 5, I would desperately miss the freedom of sitting in the car until the song playing on the radio ended; the same way I now desperately miss the rush and bustle of working full-time.

If there is a balance, it isn't found in blog posts.

Unload the groceries, clean up the kitchen, inspect the small, curled spiders that dwell in high corners.

Crochet with thick blue and beige yarn until Matt's car pulls into the drive. Rumor is that those stitches may be the start to a bold new life.

Friday QuoteDay: Love For The Distant Elsewhere

“You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart will always be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place.” 

 — Attributed to Miriam Adeney, anthropologist and author

Whoops, I Have A Blog!

Natalie.
Natalie. What are you doing?
Natalie, are you drunk? You have a blog, remember? Flaneur in the City? It's waiting for you. Readers are waiting for you. You beg them to follow you and then you abandon your blog for days at a time. Your To-Do List from this time last year has not changed. It reads: BLOG. Hello? Natalie?

Yeah, sorry about that. But! I have some ideas? And I'll share them here? I promise? I promise. When I have other writing projects around that pay me for my time, poor FitC becomes neglected. I can only promise to do my best and try harder, because you all? Y'all are wonderful for visiting my little corner of the Internet.

For real, I love you all and hope your day of red and pink hearts went well. Sorry about my brain not remembering to blog!

Here's David Bowie, to make up for it.

See? Even when FitC is flaky, Bowie still loves you.

Weekly Flâneur: Urban Green

Screen grab via American Forests.

Charlotte was recently named one of the 10 Best Cities for Urban Forests by the nonprofit American Forests. Their write-up includes a special shout-out to our little book-themed park, The Green.

"Mecklenburg County, in which Charlotte sits at the heart, was awarded the National Gold Medal Award in 2012 by the National Recreation and Park Association. Charlotte itself boasts a number of recreation attractions, such as the U.S. National Whitewater Center and the literature-themed 'pocket' park known as The Green. And these are just a few of the things making up Charlotte’s urban forest."

Visit the American Forests site to view the nine other cities, and check out the Queen City shots that illustrate how tree-friendly cement streets can be.  Perfect for a wandering walk in the sun, wouldn't you agree?

A Different Kind Of Love Song

My darling Ashley (I See!) sent me a Jane Austen scarf for my birthday last month, and she is featuring it on her blog today. It's basically one of many love letters I write to Ash, turned blog post.

Once upon a time, if you had sat me down and told me one of my best friends on this planet was going to be a blonde sorority girl who was obsessed with Southern vampires, I would have never believed you. Because, 1.) I wasn't too keen on the whole Greek system in universities, and I usually had very little in common with the girls who joined and 2.) The only true Southern vampire is Lestat, thankyouverymuch. But when Ashley and I met at a graduate meet-n-greet at the Southlands bar at Roehampton University, it wasn't just friendship. It was fate.

In fact, it was fated from the moment I was preparing to leave for London. You see, when I get a little tipsy, I tend to talk about one subject in particular. Any guesses?

(The answer is always David Bowie.)

And if you get me flat-out drunk, I'll most likely start on about The Man Who Fell To Earth. Which caused this exchange between Mr. B and me before I left for London: True Story. (If you don't click the link, here's a hint: It's about David Bowie's penis.)

At the graduate meet-n-greet, Ashley and I were sitting next to each other after a few glasses of free wine. The evening was winding down, and most of the other students and future friends had already left for the night. We were both a bit buzzed; me in my black high-heeled boots that were pinching my feet and this blonde whirlwind of energy who spoke a mile a minute and who, when she smiled, seemed to be smiling with the whole of her body -- a genuine, heart-on-her-sleeve smile that was a mini flaming sun.

When we became friends, it was instant. It took two little words to unlock a beautiful, bickering, blessed friendship that gave me a sister-in-arms and fellow flaneur.

"So." I spoke, my mouth soft with wine, "Do you like David Bowie?"

You know the rest.

Artistic representation of Ashley and me.

In Bossypants, Tine Fey has a chapter titled, "I Don't Care If You Like It (One in a series of love letters to Amy Poehler)" that opens this way (thanks, Google Books!):

“Amy Poehler was new to SNL and we were all crowded into the seventeenth-floor writers’ room, waiting for the Wednesday read-through to start. There were always a lot of noisy ‘comedy bits’ going on in that room. Amy was in the middle of some such nonsense with Seth Meyers across the table, and she did something vulgar as a joke. I can’t remember what it was exactly, except that it was dirty and loud and 'unladylike.'

Jimmy Fallon, who was arguably the star of the show at the time, turned to her and in a faux-squeamish voice said, 'Stop that! It’s not cute! I don’t like it!'

Amy dropped what she was doing, went black in the eyes for a second, and wheeled around on him.

'I don’t fucking care if you like it.' Jimmy was visibly startled. Amy went right back to enjoying her ridiculous bit.”

Tina Fey and Amy Poehler's relationship is one that envied until I met own little blonde dynamo. One who is brave and sweet and will look a jerk in the eye and give them the hell they deserve.  One who, despite my being a bit older, I kinda want to be when I grow up. That's my Ashley.

I've mentioned before that I was lonely in my youth, and one of the most surprising things about adulthood are the friendships I have made that would have caused Teenage-Me to cry with joy. It's my only "It Gets Better" moment: As an adult I have made many real, true, honest, life-long, loved friends that I can't possibly deserve but somehow have. And I am so, so thankful for each and every one of you.

Once upon a time, a loud, Southern, feminist brunette and a blonde, Northwestern, sorority girl met in a bar. And became friends for life.

"Let's go on an adventure!" Ashley and Natalie ride a magic turtle.

Friday Feminism

“Teachers are often unaware of the gender distribution of talk in their classrooms. They usually consider that they give equal amounts of attention to girls and boys, and it is only when they make a tape recording that they realize that boys are dominating the interactions.

Dale Spender, an Australian feminist who has been a strong advocate of female rights in this area, noted that teachers who tried to restore the balance by deliberately ‘favouring’ the girls were astounded to find that despite their efforts they continued to devote more time to the boys in their classrooms. Another study reported that a male science teacher who managed to create an atmosphere in which girls and boys contributed more equally to discussion felt that he was devoting 90 per cent of his attention to the girls. And so did his male pupils. They complained vociferously that the girls were getting too much talking time.

In other public contexts, too, such as seminars and debates, when women and men are deliberately given an equal amount of the highly valued talking time, there is often a perception that they are getting more than their fair share. Dale Spender explains this as follows:

'The talkativeness of women has been gauged in comparison not with men but with silence. Women have not been judged on the grounds of whether they talk more than men, but of whether they talk more than silent women.'

In other words, if women talk at all, this may be perceived as ‘too much’ by men who expect them to provide a silent, decorative background in many social contexts. This may sound outrageous, but think about how you react when precocious children dominate the talk at an adult party. As women begin to make inroads into formerly ‘male’ domains such as business and professional contexts, we should not be surprised to find that their contributions are not always perceived positively or even accurately.”

-- From Language As Prejudice, PBS.org (http://www.pbs.org/speak/speech/prejudice/women)

I have often been told I talk too much. I've been told I am too loud, too boisterous, too much. If I wear heels I am too tall, too show-offy, take up too much room. But this is what I know, as the introverts and the shy and the bullied always know, that if I am quiet, I disappear. Sometimes for the better, to fend off the brutal pokes and bruises of youth. Sometimes for worse, to be overlooked for perks and favors and kindness. As the saying goes, the squeaky wheel gets the oil. Unless that squeaky wheel is underprivileged, or of a skin color, of a gender, of a sexual orientation that those who wield the oil find objectionable. So then we just squeak on and on. Or sometimes we go silent, and never move forward again. And they do not notice when we are gone until they need someone new to kick.

Silence doesn't always protect us. Silence can erase us.

 If young boys are taught in school that on every level their thought process, needs, questions, and ideas matter more than the girls raising their hands next to them, we have failed all of them. We have taught boys not to value half of the human population, to disregard empathy and to put importance on what their male peers think above what is morally and ethically right. And we have taught girls to accept this silently. If children are the roots of our future societies, are the branches of current society, then this is a society that perpetuates a rape culture that allows for women to be subjugated, victimized and blamed at every turn.

And we ALL deserve better. We deserve more than silence.