I've been thinking this week about Peter Weir's film The Truman Show. It's been so much on my mind that it seems right, without further ado, to share an analysis of the film that I once wrote for a class. I actually did two papers, one from a Freudian and one from a Jungian perspective. I thought both were good, but I got an A on one and a B+ on the other; the B+ paper is the one I'm excerpting here, with an ending taken from the other paper.
Director Peter Weir's captivating and quirky tale, The Truman Show, tells the story of Truman Burbank, the hapless hero who's totally in the dark concerning the truth of his own life. He's the subject of a 24-hour-a-day television "reality show" dreamed up by director-genius Christof. Truman's parents, his wife, his best friend, everyone around him, are all actors, and his life is a set-up. Viewers all over the world tune in to see Truman deal with such situations as the "death" of his father, his school years, his marital tensions, his job, and his escapades with pal Marlon, all of which are carefully scripted episodes. The real story begins when Truman starts to wake up to what's happening and tries to break out of the role that's been written for him.
At first, it's the dullness of a round of days in which each seems much like the one before that begins to wear on Truman. In the time-honored tradition of a situation comedy, he endures endlessly repetitious set-ups and pratfalls involving the neighbors, the local grocer, his mother, and his wife. Eventually, a series of mischances gives him an alarming realization that things revolve around him in a peculiar way. He's nearly hit on the head by a falling stage light. He tunes into a frequency on his car radio in which technicians and stagehands seem to be talking about him. His unscheduled appearance in a building leads him to a backless elevator and a glimpse of things behind the scenes, including caterers. He begins to put together odd incidents from the past in which bits of the truth are apparent. One day, he sees the man he thought of as his father, supposedly dead, now in the role of an extra walking down the street.
As the director tries more determinedly to keep Truman in the dark, Truman becomes bolder about testing reality for himself. Despite the attempts of the other actors to convince him that things are what they seem to be, Truman executes an escape plan leading to the last place Christof thinks of looking for him: the sea. For Truman's long-standing fear of the water, engineered to keep him from roaming off the set, seems to negate the possibility of his ever attempting to leave his island. Once he manages to break out, he finds that the world is both larger and smaller than he realized--larger in the sense that his life is his own if he chooses to seize it, and smaller because (literally) he has been living his life on a Hollywood set whose horizon is a painted backdrop.
Truman is a stand-in for each of us in our journey toward Selfhood. He suggests the archetypal Divine Child in his obscure beginnings. Though to himself Truman is nothing special, his smallest doings are followed by millions of viewers around the world, so that his power and reach are almost supernatural. He has retained a childlike quality even in adulthood, a sunny innocence in the face of the deceit practiced all around him. If, as Jung said, the Divine Child represents the future, Truman personifies unawakened potential in its purest form.
Truman's push toward Selfhood is nearly dormant in the beginning as seen by his acquiescence to the subtle and not-so subtle manipulations of the director and actors. He has been content to live in Jung's "unconscious identification with the plurality of the group." He is so far from knowing himself that when he looks in the mirror every morning, he doesn't realize he is looking into a camera, on the other side of which are the technicians and directors who are actually running his life. "Do you think he can see us?" asks one abashed technician when confronted by Truman's steady but unknowing gaze.
There is no fear of that yet, since Truman's ego is so split off from his unconscious that he is totally identified with his social role. There's an implication that any mild attempts Truman has made at independent growth or assertion have met with disapproval or even disaster in the past. He is oblivious to all the signs that indicate his predicament until he meets Sylvia, who goes against the script by falling for him.
Before being booted from the show (the director has recognized Sylvia's power over Truman), Sylvia tries to tell him the truth about who he is and what's happening. This scene takes place near the ocean, symbol of the primordial source of life and the unconscious. Truman is afraid of the water to the point of being unable to cross a bridge (representing both initiation and its hazards), and this fact has been largely responsible for his failure to realize that he is living on a set. Even though he and Sylvia are parted, he thinks of her constantly, and spurred by an intense desire to be reunited with her, he begins to dream of leaving Seahaven.
When Truman hatches a plan to escape the set, he goes to the basement of his home, where all of his childhood treasures and relics of the past are kept. It has been obvious for some time that Truman is most himself when he retreats to this private world, and it now becomes the springboard for his escape. Out of view of the camera, he makes a break for it by climbing a ladder. A means of egress between the unconscious, "basement" part of himself and his "daylight" ego has been found and moves Truman toward greater consciousness. But to truly change, he still has to cross the ocean that has always terrified him.
For years, Truman believed himself responsible for the death of his father in a boating accident. His realization that this is false now enables him to see a boat not as a symbol of guilt but as a transport that can take him to freedom. In crossing the sea, he is reborn to a more self-determined life, and the boat becomes a womblike vessel of safety that carries him through a special effects storm. Once he weathers the crisis, he realizes that the sea--as well as the painted backdrop he eventually crashes into--represent only the early stages of his journey. The ocean had seemed limitless to Truman when he stood on the shore, but he is just beginning. When he reaches the stage door, it leads into darkness.
In the act of passing through it, Truman enters the unknown territory of authentic life, where nothing is guaranteed. Sylvia, however, has been watching in suspense along with everyone else, and leaves her television, running out of the house to find him. Truman is about to enter her territory.
Though the imaginary television audience in the film--and we viewers of the film--have been complicit in the conspiracy against Truman by the very act of watching, another truth is revealed at the end of the story. We are each Truman in our own way, and our glee at his triumph expresses our own deep yearning for Eros and a more vital, authentic existence than the one we may have settled for. After all, if Truman can do it, so can we.
Thursday, January 14, 2016
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Mnemosyne's Rules for Making Room
Some people think spring is the best time for cleaning, but I say, why not winter? You're going to be inside anyway, and inclement days provide an ideal opportunity to tackle jobs like clearing out clutter that you wouldn't dream of doing on a nice day (or at least, I wouldn't).
I've written before about the complications that arise from having too many objects sitting around. Lately, I've actually been getting rid of some of them, and while it may not free up that much space, it just feels better to have them gone. The television, for example, I never watched--and to my surprise, you apparently can't even give a TV away, so I just had to throw it out. My old typewriter, which was taking up real estate on a crowded table in the back room, now has the niche the TV formerly occupied. There was also the space heater I never used, and even though I had it tucked away, that's one less thing I'll have to move when dust-mopping.
Last winter, I had gotten my files mostly in order, but there's still some clutter, so I've started going through that, too. Old bills, cards, pictures . . . anything I'm pretty sure I won't be looking at again is a candidate for the dust bin. Several times in the past, I've started to throw out old boxes of letters and cards and found that for sentimental reasons, I hesitated to do so. My feelings about that are a little different now, as I realize that I truly never look at those things, that they are gathering dust, and that dust is itself a hazard.
Last night, for example, I found an old Christmas card in which someone berated me for not including any news in my card and then went on to tell me that they had been in Lexington not long before. The same thought came to mind that had occurred to me the first time I read the card, which was, "Wow, if you really want to know how I'm doing, why didn't you call when you were in town?" The nerve, huh? This time, however, I didn't suppress the thought, and that card went the way of the shredder.
I know there will be more things thrown away by the time I'm done. I've already parted company with videos I have no desire to look at again; I've gone through my books before, but who knows, there may be more that I feel I can part with now. I certainly have plenty of them. Then there are all those "collectibles" sitting around that make dusting such a pain in the neck. Some of them I've had for years, but it may be time now to let them go. It'd be much easier to clean without them.
It isn't that I don't value gifts that people have given me but rather that I want the things I look at every day to speak to me of living affection--in many cases, these objects are like exhibits from a museum of my past, curios collected on an archaeological dig, from people I no longer see. And who wants to live in a museum? It's the relationship with the giver that gives an object meaning--without that, it's just something taking up space. This process will take a little doing, but the beginning of the year seems like a propitious time to start.
On a final note, I've been clearing out old emails and online accounts as well--and while I'm on the topic of electronic communications, this is probably a good time to tell you that Google says people following my blog with a non-Google account will no longer be able to do so in the near future. If you want to follow Wordplay, they advise that you sign up for a Google account and re-follow the blog. I'm not sure how many Openid followers I have, but if you're one of them, this applies to you. I sometimes look at the metrics on my blog and am amazed at the number of readers I have around the world. So many from Russia, for instance--what gives with all those Russian readers, second only to Americans in following my blog? I asked that once before, and someone said that perhaps I have a Russian admirer. I don't think that's it, but it remains one of the curiosities of my blogging life.
You may, like me, be busy clearing out clutter and getting organized for the new year. If so, good luck and smooth sailing. And if you enjoy Wordplay's forays into myth, culture, and everyday life, I'll see you in cyberspace.
I've written before about the complications that arise from having too many objects sitting around. Lately, I've actually been getting rid of some of them, and while it may not free up that much space, it just feels better to have them gone. The television, for example, I never watched--and to my surprise, you apparently can't even give a TV away, so I just had to throw it out. My old typewriter, which was taking up real estate on a crowded table in the back room, now has the niche the TV formerly occupied. There was also the space heater I never used, and even though I had it tucked away, that's one less thing I'll have to move when dust-mopping.
Last winter, I had gotten my files mostly in order, but there's still some clutter, so I've started going through that, too. Old bills, cards, pictures . . . anything I'm pretty sure I won't be looking at again is a candidate for the dust bin. Several times in the past, I've started to throw out old boxes of letters and cards and found that for sentimental reasons, I hesitated to do so. My feelings about that are a little different now, as I realize that I truly never look at those things, that they are gathering dust, and that dust is itself a hazard.
Last night, for example, I found an old Christmas card in which someone berated me for not including any news in my card and then went on to tell me that they had been in Lexington not long before. The same thought came to mind that had occurred to me the first time I read the card, which was, "Wow, if you really want to know how I'm doing, why didn't you call when you were in town?" The nerve, huh? This time, however, I didn't suppress the thought, and that card went the way of the shredder.
I know there will be more things thrown away by the time I'm done. I've already parted company with videos I have no desire to look at again; I've gone through my books before, but who knows, there may be more that I feel I can part with now. I certainly have plenty of them. Then there are all those "collectibles" sitting around that make dusting such a pain in the neck. Some of them I've had for years, but it may be time now to let them go. It'd be much easier to clean without them.
It isn't that I don't value gifts that people have given me but rather that I want the things I look at every day to speak to me of living affection--in many cases, these objects are like exhibits from a museum of my past, curios collected on an archaeological dig, from people I no longer see. And who wants to live in a museum? It's the relationship with the giver that gives an object meaning--without that, it's just something taking up space. This process will take a little doing, but the beginning of the year seems like a propitious time to start.
On a final note, I've been clearing out old emails and online accounts as well--and while I'm on the topic of electronic communications, this is probably a good time to tell you that Google says people following my blog with a non-Google account will no longer be able to do so in the near future. If you want to follow Wordplay, they advise that you sign up for a Google account and re-follow the blog. I'm not sure how many Openid followers I have, but if you're one of them, this applies to you. I sometimes look at the metrics on my blog and am amazed at the number of readers I have around the world. So many from Russia, for instance--what gives with all those Russian readers, second only to Americans in following my blog? I asked that once before, and someone said that perhaps I have a Russian admirer. I don't think that's it, but it remains one of the curiosities of my blogging life.
You may, like me, be busy clearing out clutter and getting organized for the new year. If so, good luck and smooth sailing. And if you enjoy Wordplay's forays into myth, culture, and everyday life, I'll see you in cyberspace.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
A Senator Reads His Mail
Dear Senator ----
I don't know if word has reached your office of any
malfeasance involving the firm ----, which as you know
has offices in ---- and ----. When I worked in the ---- office,
it was called ----. I left the firm in 2011 when the poisonous environment there made it impossible to work, even if I hadn't had fears
for my physical well-being. I was a good employee with excellent performance
reviews, but I began having problems in the office around the end of 2003. It
began with an episode of sexual harassment that I was not able to redress
despite reporting it to my superiors on several occasions.
Over time, I began to feel that someone was attempting to
undermine my credibility and standing in the office, and the situation grew
worse when ---- took charge around 2009. After that, I
actually began to feel concerned for my physical safety, though I was unable to
get my supervisor to acknowledge my concerns.
From things that people have said to me, directly and
indirectly, I gather there have been rumors of unsavory activity involving one
or more members of the ---- office for quite some time. One of our ---- was shot in the head under mysterious circumstances in early 2008, ---- died of cancer (which someone implied to me may not have
been an entirely natural occurrence), and a man with connections to our ---- committed suicide
unexpectedly near the end of my time there.
The latter event happened in Fall 2010, coinciding with the
onset of a terribly strained atmosphere in the office. I was unsure at the time
why I felt so unsafe, but in intervening years, rumors have reached me of
something akin to an "adult dating" type of ring connected with
member(s) of the firm that involved more than just consenting adults (I think
we are actually talking about felony child abuse and worse).
I began feeling concerned about the safety of my locks at
home and believe my credit card information may have been accessed by someone at ---- intending to do me harm by setting me up without my knowledge on ---- or a similar sex club site. It seems that people are very hesitant to discuss anything
openly, and it has taken me a long time to put the pieces together.
That seems like a lot of trouble to go to over a middle-aged
librarian, but I believe I may have been targeted not just out of spite but
also because some social acquaintances of mine, without my knowledge, may also
have been connected with members of the firm and this illegal activity. I also
noted that the atmosphere in the office turned considerably colder after I
discussed a book I was reading about the Bush family's relationship with the
Saudi royal house with one of our attorneys in 2004.
Lastly, I will tell you that my mother died in early 2007,
and that I had been extremely concerned about her because of some strange
activity that had taken place at her residence: a suicide next door, visits from a "young couple" she would not identify, and an
attempted break-in in her apartment. I felt that something untoward was taking
place but was never able to get her to tell me the truth of the matter. The ---- who died of cancer had formerly worked for my mother's family
attorney, which was a coincidence I only learned of by accident. I cannot tell
you with certainty of the precise way in which these matters are linked, but I
do indeed think there is a link.
I continue to be concerned about not only my safety but that
of other family members. I recently returned from a trip to ---- to check on
my ---- and ---- when I grew alarmed after a long period of silence from
my ----. I was nearly run off the road in ---- in what appeared to be a
deliberate act and reported it to the ---- State Police, complete with license
plate number. Unfortunately, this is not the first time something like that has
happened.
I went to local police here in ---- about two years ago
to make a complaint, but no investigation was done. I believe that ---- may also have some connection with the matters I'm discussing, and I have
no faith in his integrity or that of his administration.
If I'm the first to mention any of this to you, I'm actually
rather surprised. I feel that others probably have more direct knowledge of
some of these events than I do, but as I know of no one else who has actually
spoken openly or reported these matters to anyone in authority, I am doing so.
If I can supply any other information, please let me know.
Sincerely.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Wordplay's Ghosts of Christmas, Past and Present
By rights, this should be the post in which I write about the new Star Wars film, which has the moviegoing public all agog this holiday season (and no wonder). Except that I'm not going to write about it because I haven't seen it. I heard last year, when an early trailer for the film was released, that George Lucas was distancing himself from the promo. I don't recall the reason given, but that gave me pause about seeing the movie, despite the fondness I have for the original. I know this isn't going to stop other people from seeing it, but, as always, I recommend being a cautious consumer when it comes to any and all media that present myths for your consideration. Just because it's out there doesn't mean you have to buy it.
When I saw Peter Jackson's final Hobbit film last year, it was like an early warning system for mythic mayhem to come. My feeling was that Mr. Jackson was trying to say something in that movie relevant to our times about wealth, greed, power, and evil, that perhaps the childlike story J.R.R. Tolkien wrote turned out to be impossible for a filmmaker with any honesty to tell in the same spirit in which it was written. It was a film with many dark undercurrents. His movie was not, in my view, a propaganda piece, but the same can't be said of everything floating around out there in popular culture. I've already cancelled magazine subscriptions over what I considered extracurricular editorializing and political messaging in both stories and ad content, so let the buyer beware. These things do happen.
A brief glance at the evening news reveals that we are living in strange times. Is anyone in doubt about it? When I tell someone the bare facts about the strange events in my own life, and they say, wow, that's pretty crazy, I want to say, "Well, have you watched the political news lately? Have you seen any of the debates, or caught any of the election action? Have you noticed the demented things the candidates are saying, or the aura of a sideshow that hangs over all things political? Have you ever, in your life, known an election season quite like this one?" I'm constantly caught between a need to stay informed and a healthy wish to avoid getting tangled up in the propaganda, war of words, and general craziness of the political scene. You occasionally hear something worth hearing, from someone worth listening to, but you sure have to wade through a lot of trash talk to get to it.
Christmas is by no means immune to tampering with by those with an agenda to push. Just on a personal level, I was amazed last year to get a black Christmas card from someone I used to know named Steve--and this story illustrates what I mean about the negative potential of symbols. As soon as I saw that card, it disturbed me, for reasons I couldn't quite have articulated on the spot. I just knew it wasn't something I wanted anywhere near me, so I threw it away. This year, when I got a card from the same person, I took it immediately to the dumpster without even opening it. I'm a believer in paying attention to things that bother you and taking them seriously, even if you're not sure why they bother you. Human beings have developed many ways of sensing things they need to avoid that don't fall strictly into the category of logical reasoning. Call it survival instinct.
So here it is, Christmas Eve 2015, a most un-Christmaslike Christmas from where I'm sitting, both as to weather and to mood. It has me in a proper Dickensian frame of mind, thinking about the Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present. Just for one, there was that Christmas some eight years ago now, when I was in my second year of Myth Studies and taking a break from the books by watching movies on Christmas Eve. In between features, I happened to look out the window, which I do from time to time, just scanning the environment, as the healthy human animal tends to do. I was somewhat surprised to see a gathering of young men on the other side of the parking lot, just standing around outside their cars, which was odd considering the fact that there really wasn't anyone else around. They were all lined up in a row, looking toward my building in a way I didn't quite like. I was debating whether to call the police or not, but when I looked again, they had all gotten into their cars, and a few minutes later, they all left. It was, let's call it, unusual.
Actually, a lot of things happened right around then. The very next week, my then-boyfriend broke up with me. If I'm not mistaken, that was right before the incident in which a former law clerk at the firm where I worked was shot in the head at a party under what I was told were mysterious circumstances. Lots of peculiar behavior in the office and out of it. I recall going to a law librarians' event that week in which the attendees from the other firms acted like the two of us from my firm had typhoid. Odd. I happened to be in Starbucks a week or two later when I saw a former contract employee from our office who had supposedly taken a cushy job in Nashville a few years earlier. There he was, back in town, large as life--but looking, if a cliche can ever be said to be absolutely accurate, like Death Warmed Over. I have seriously never seen a human being look that haggard, as if he had aged 20 years in three.
Then there was the day I was in that upscale sandwich shop, probably only a week or so later, reading about the life of Buddha for a class, when I looked up and saw someone sitting across from me who definitely didn't look like he belonged there. In fact, he looked like a gangster, completely out of place in that yuppie sandwich shop, not doing anything, not even looking at anyone in particular, just sitting there. Sometimes, something is just out of place, and you know it. I got up and left, but not without knowing that something rather peculiar had just happened . . . it's no good trying to say I merely imagined it, though I certainly would rather have believed otherwise.
There was also that neighbor, the young man I didn't know (but who, as it turned out, knew my nephew) who knocked on the door one winter night saying that he had lost his cell phone while out celebrating his birthday and wanting to know if he could use my phone to call his. At that time being mostly unsuspicious of non-dangerous looking neighbors, I agreed. Not realizing that his cell phone number had a long distance area code, I ended up with a bunch of long distance calls on my bill, which I reported to the phone company as not being mine, since I knew I hadn't made them. Only later did I realize that they must have been the calls he placed. I think this happened close to the time of the other events, though I can't remember exactly. That was the one and only time I talked to this young man, and he moved out a few months later, if I recall correctly.
A string of events in the deep of winter eight years ago. I can't say with a certainty that they're all related, but I have the feeling that there is a pattern in there somewhere. Eight years later, with my life having gone in a direction I never would have imagined back then, I'm careful as to my locks, my computer files, and my credit cards (lest someone take my number and sign me up for something without my knowledge). It doesn't sound like a very cheerful way to live, but sometimes you just have to "keep on keeping on" until you get to a better place. Whether Winston Churchill actually said, "When you're going through hell, keep going" or not, it's good advice, whether you're caught in the bardo (as I was discussing recently with a friend), stuck on a glacier in a snowstorm in Utah, or merely making your way down the sidewalk in your own neighborhood.
It's not all gloom and doom. I have chocolate peppermint cookies, zydeco music on the stereo, a few presents under the tree (what says Christmas better than socks?), and a dinner to cook tomorrow. Life goes on, but in a somewhat reduced way. I'm not trying to dishearten anyone, but rather to do the opposite--to enlighten. I hope I've done so. Happy Holidays to all my friends, near and far, whether I see you often or not. I sincerely hope that 2016 will be a better and brighter year for us all.
When I saw Peter Jackson's final Hobbit film last year, it was like an early warning system for mythic mayhem to come. My feeling was that Mr. Jackson was trying to say something in that movie relevant to our times about wealth, greed, power, and evil, that perhaps the childlike story J.R.R. Tolkien wrote turned out to be impossible for a filmmaker with any honesty to tell in the same spirit in which it was written. It was a film with many dark undercurrents. His movie was not, in my view, a propaganda piece, but the same can't be said of everything floating around out there in popular culture. I've already cancelled magazine subscriptions over what I considered extracurricular editorializing and political messaging in both stories and ad content, so let the buyer beware. These things do happen.
A brief glance at the evening news reveals that we are living in strange times. Is anyone in doubt about it? When I tell someone the bare facts about the strange events in my own life, and they say, wow, that's pretty crazy, I want to say, "Well, have you watched the political news lately? Have you seen any of the debates, or caught any of the election action? Have you noticed the demented things the candidates are saying, or the aura of a sideshow that hangs over all things political? Have you ever, in your life, known an election season quite like this one?" I'm constantly caught between a need to stay informed and a healthy wish to avoid getting tangled up in the propaganda, war of words, and general craziness of the political scene. You occasionally hear something worth hearing, from someone worth listening to, but you sure have to wade through a lot of trash talk to get to it.
Christmas is by no means immune to tampering with by those with an agenda to push. Just on a personal level, I was amazed last year to get a black Christmas card from someone I used to know named Steve--and this story illustrates what I mean about the negative potential of symbols. As soon as I saw that card, it disturbed me, for reasons I couldn't quite have articulated on the spot. I just knew it wasn't something I wanted anywhere near me, so I threw it away. This year, when I got a card from the same person, I took it immediately to the dumpster without even opening it. I'm a believer in paying attention to things that bother you and taking them seriously, even if you're not sure why they bother you. Human beings have developed many ways of sensing things they need to avoid that don't fall strictly into the category of logical reasoning. Call it survival instinct.
So here it is, Christmas Eve 2015, a most un-Christmaslike Christmas from where I'm sitting, both as to weather and to mood. It has me in a proper Dickensian frame of mind, thinking about the Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present. Just for one, there was that Christmas some eight years ago now, when I was in my second year of Myth Studies and taking a break from the books by watching movies on Christmas Eve. In between features, I happened to look out the window, which I do from time to time, just scanning the environment, as the healthy human animal tends to do. I was somewhat surprised to see a gathering of young men on the other side of the parking lot, just standing around outside their cars, which was odd considering the fact that there really wasn't anyone else around. They were all lined up in a row, looking toward my building in a way I didn't quite like. I was debating whether to call the police or not, but when I looked again, they had all gotten into their cars, and a few minutes later, they all left. It was, let's call it, unusual.
Actually, a lot of things happened right around then. The very next week, my then-boyfriend broke up with me. If I'm not mistaken, that was right before the incident in which a former law clerk at the firm where I worked was shot in the head at a party under what I was told were mysterious circumstances. Lots of peculiar behavior in the office and out of it. I recall going to a law librarians' event that week in which the attendees from the other firms acted like the two of us from my firm had typhoid. Odd. I happened to be in Starbucks a week or two later when I saw a former contract employee from our office who had supposedly taken a cushy job in Nashville a few years earlier. There he was, back in town, large as life--but looking, if a cliche can ever be said to be absolutely accurate, like Death Warmed Over. I have seriously never seen a human being look that haggard, as if he had aged 20 years in three.
Then there was the day I was in that upscale sandwich shop, probably only a week or so later, reading about the life of Buddha for a class, when I looked up and saw someone sitting across from me who definitely didn't look like he belonged there. In fact, he looked like a gangster, completely out of place in that yuppie sandwich shop, not doing anything, not even looking at anyone in particular, just sitting there. Sometimes, something is just out of place, and you know it. I got up and left, but not without knowing that something rather peculiar had just happened . . . it's no good trying to say I merely imagined it, though I certainly would rather have believed otherwise.
There was also that neighbor, the young man I didn't know (but who, as it turned out, knew my nephew) who knocked on the door one winter night saying that he had lost his cell phone while out celebrating his birthday and wanting to know if he could use my phone to call his. At that time being mostly unsuspicious of non-dangerous looking neighbors, I agreed. Not realizing that his cell phone number had a long distance area code, I ended up with a bunch of long distance calls on my bill, which I reported to the phone company as not being mine, since I knew I hadn't made them. Only later did I realize that they must have been the calls he placed. I think this happened close to the time of the other events, though I can't remember exactly. That was the one and only time I talked to this young man, and he moved out a few months later, if I recall correctly.
A string of events in the deep of winter eight years ago. I can't say with a certainty that they're all related, but I have the feeling that there is a pattern in there somewhere. Eight years later, with my life having gone in a direction I never would have imagined back then, I'm careful as to my locks, my computer files, and my credit cards (lest someone take my number and sign me up for something without my knowledge). It doesn't sound like a very cheerful way to live, but sometimes you just have to "keep on keeping on" until you get to a better place. Whether Winston Churchill actually said, "When you're going through hell, keep going" or not, it's good advice, whether you're caught in the bardo (as I was discussing recently with a friend), stuck on a glacier in a snowstorm in Utah, or merely making your way down the sidewalk in your own neighborhood.
It's not all gloom and doom. I have chocolate peppermint cookies, zydeco music on the stereo, a few presents under the tree (what says Christmas better than socks?), and a dinner to cook tomorrow. Life goes on, but in a somewhat reduced way. I'm not trying to dishearten anyone, but rather to do the opposite--to enlighten. I hope I've done so. Happy Holidays to all my friends, near and far, whether I see you often or not. I sincerely hope that 2016 will be a better and brighter year for us all.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
From Kentucky, With Love
I'm back home after a wild and spontaneous trip out west. After my surreal and distressing 2012 California trip (see my post "Out West"), I sure wasn't planning to do anything like that again. I didn't think anything could induce me to cross the Mississippi River by car after that little adventure, but here's how it came about.
My regular readers will recall from last week that I was having lock concerns. I'm used to strange noises and people coming in and out of the building at odd hours, but something just didn't feel right that night. I had the lock changed temporarily until a permanent one could be made but was naturally concerned about what was only the latest in a series of strange events in and around my building. This has been going on for quite some time and shows no signs of getting better.
I was having new tires put on my car that day, so I was feeling extra vulnerable due to being sans vehicle. After I picked it up the next day, I was running errands when a feeling of unease started growing on me. I'd been thinking about my brother and nephew in Idaho ever since getting a card from my brother's former in-laws saying that my nephew was getting braces and a new little brother. Communication has been sparse from my brother for the last few years, which actually is a very surprising development, though everyone I mention it to seems to disagree (which I also find odd). Feeling that the "zone of silence" around my brother had gone on too long and that it was time to reconnect, I packed up some things and left that night.
I decided to break the trip up by visiting a friend in Denver. Although it was good to see her, it was a little distressing. She, too, tried to dissuade me from going to Idaho (what the heck is so unnatural about wanting to be in touch with family?). At first I thought she might be right, but then I decided that the need to lay my own eyes on my brother was more important than what anyone else said. I crossed the Colorado mountains at night and inched my way down a mountain range in Utah on snow (hey, at least I had new tires), reasoning that if I stopped I was only going to get stuck. Not my preferred way to travel, but you do what you have to do. Anyway, it worked. I drove out of the snow and made it to Interstate 15. One of the few transcendent moments of the trip came in seeing the beautiful white mountains south of Provo swing into sight and dominate the view for miles as I was heading north.
One of the least transcendent moments of the trip came a couple of hours later, when a green-gold Infiniti swerved and nearly caused me to wreck in heavy traffic. I later reported it to the Utah State Police as what looked like a deliberate act but didn't get much response. By the way, it was Utah license plate number C24 6RA in case anyone knows 'em. Despite that and a few other contretemps (including being boxed in by a number of cars as I approached a dangerous merging area), I got to Pocatello in one piece and went to the coffee shop my brother used to frequent. I was told there that he doesn't come in any more now that he has a new job, so I tried to contact him by leaving messages where he works. Call me irresponsible, but not being able to reach a family member by either phone or email for years at time seems a bit strange. Having people tell you they haven't seen him in a while doesn't do much to reassure you, either.
The last time I tried to see my brother (in 2012), I got a strange text message that I suspected he hadn't sent. This time, having failed to track him down, I drove up to the house, where I saw lights on and a vehicle in the driveway. There I ran into another barrier, since I couldn't get to the door due to a number of very excitable dogs. I had to knock at the window to try to get someone's attention, which resulted in a hullabaloo, because my nephew, evidently not knowing what to do, called 9-1-1. I had thought there was an adult in the house with him, but if not, he absolutely did the right thing, though it was disconcerting to have to wait with the sheriff's department for my brother to arrive. I passed the time by chatting with them but was distressed to learn that they've been called up there before and that the road behind my brother's house evidently attracts a criminal element. It was also reinforced for me just how difficult it can be to get the straight story on what's going on with a family member you've been out of touch with, as I heard stories from the officers on my brother's domestic situation that conflicted with what little I've heard over the past few years.
Long story short, my brother arrived and didn't seem to think I needed to have come all that way. So I managed to see both him and my nephew but not really to get any answers to the things I've been worried about. I may be accused of needing to mind my own business, but let me just say this, since the fact that I drove halfway across the country with a worried mind may have failed to make an impression. If I had a partner, spouse, friend, or whatever living with me who had a pharmacy degree, I'd want to be absolutely sure he/she was of impeccable character. Because, well, drugs, you know: they can be dangerous. I'd hate for someone to give me a little something I didn't ask for in my coffee. Just sayin'.
I won't even tell you about the drive home. Interstate 80 across Wyoming is dreary in the extreme. It's truly a wasteland . . . a far cry from the beautiful Tetons and the Yellowstone area of the state. Colorado is evidently unable to handle a few inches of snow (which would have been dispatched forthwith here), and I ran into sleet in Kansas. None of the smaller towns looked like places I wanted to stop (even for gas) so I stayed on the road in spite of incredible weariness. (Sometimes you're caught between a rock and a hard place and no choice looks good.) Having made it to Kansas City, I had a car problem, so I stayed overnight there. I finished the last leg on Monday, arriving home after midnight, minus much Christmas spirit.
Well, my lock has been changed. I made gingerbread cookies last night, but my tree isn't up. I haven't quite caught the Christmas mood yet and don't know that I will, but it could be worse. At least I've lived on to blog another day. I heard the song "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" a couple of times while I was traveling, which brought back memories of a holiday visit to Idaho in much happier times, when my nephew was a baby. I still have hope that it will come true, though I don't know why. I've had to drop a number of people from my life when it became apparent that they weren't good for me, but I refuse to let go of family ties. I'm still here, and I'm just the same as I always was . . . though considerably sadder.
My regular readers will recall from last week that I was having lock concerns. I'm used to strange noises and people coming in and out of the building at odd hours, but something just didn't feel right that night. I had the lock changed temporarily until a permanent one could be made but was naturally concerned about what was only the latest in a series of strange events in and around my building. This has been going on for quite some time and shows no signs of getting better.
I was having new tires put on my car that day, so I was feeling extra vulnerable due to being sans vehicle. After I picked it up the next day, I was running errands when a feeling of unease started growing on me. I'd been thinking about my brother and nephew in Idaho ever since getting a card from my brother's former in-laws saying that my nephew was getting braces and a new little brother. Communication has been sparse from my brother for the last few years, which actually is a very surprising development, though everyone I mention it to seems to disagree (which I also find odd). Feeling that the "zone of silence" around my brother had gone on too long and that it was time to reconnect, I packed up some things and left that night.
I decided to break the trip up by visiting a friend in Denver. Although it was good to see her, it was a little distressing. She, too, tried to dissuade me from going to Idaho (what the heck is so unnatural about wanting to be in touch with family?). At first I thought she might be right, but then I decided that the need to lay my own eyes on my brother was more important than what anyone else said. I crossed the Colorado mountains at night and inched my way down a mountain range in Utah on snow (hey, at least I had new tires), reasoning that if I stopped I was only going to get stuck. Not my preferred way to travel, but you do what you have to do. Anyway, it worked. I drove out of the snow and made it to Interstate 15. One of the few transcendent moments of the trip came in seeing the beautiful white mountains south of Provo swing into sight and dominate the view for miles as I was heading north.
One of the least transcendent moments of the trip came a couple of hours later, when a green-gold Infiniti swerved and nearly caused me to wreck in heavy traffic. I later reported it to the Utah State Police as what looked like a deliberate act but didn't get much response. By the way, it was Utah license plate number C24 6RA in case anyone knows 'em. Despite that and a few other contretemps (including being boxed in by a number of cars as I approached a dangerous merging area), I got to Pocatello in one piece and went to the coffee shop my brother used to frequent. I was told there that he doesn't come in any more now that he has a new job, so I tried to contact him by leaving messages where he works. Call me irresponsible, but not being able to reach a family member by either phone or email for years at time seems a bit strange. Having people tell you they haven't seen him in a while doesn't do much to reassure you, either.
The last time I tried to see my brother (in 2012), I got a strange text message that I suspected he hadn't sent. This time, having failed to track him down, I drove up to the house, where I saw lights on and a vehicle in the driveway. There I ran into another barrier, since I couldn't get to the door due to a number of very excitable dogs. I had to knock at the window to try to get someone's attention, which resulted in a hullabaloo, because my nephew, evidently not knowing what to do, called 9-1-1. I had thought there was an adult in the house with him, but if not, he absolutely did the right thing, though it was disconcerting to have to wait with the sheriff's department for my brother to arrive. I passed the time by chatting with them but was distressed to learn that they've been called up there before and that the road behind my brother's house evidently attracts a criminal element. It was also reinforced for me just how difficult it can be to get the straight story on what's going on with a family member you've been out of touch with, as I heard stories from the officers on my brother's domestic situation that conflicted with what little I've heard over the past few years.
Long story short, my brother arrived and didn't seem to think I needed to have come all that way. So I managed to see both him and my nephew but not really to get any answers to the things I've been worried about. I may be accused of needing to mind my own business, but let me just say this, since the fact that I drove halfway across the country with a worried mind may have failed to make an impression. If I had a partner, spouse, friend, or whatever living with me who had a pharmacy degree, I'd want to be absolutely sure he/she was of impeccable character. Because, well, drugs, you know: they can be dangerous. I'd hate for someone to give me a little something I didn't ask for in my coffee. Just sayin'.
I won't even tell you about the drive home. Interstate 80 across Wyoming is dreary in the extreme. It's truly a wasteland . . . a far cry from the beautiful Tetons and the Yellowstone area of the state. Colorado is evidently unable to handle a few inches of snow (which would have been dispatched forthwith here), and I ran into sleet in Kansas. None of the smaller towns looked like places I wanted to stop (even for gas) so I stayed on the road in spite of incredible weariness. (Sometimes you're caught between a rock and a hard place and no choice looks good.) Having made it to Kansas City, I had a car problem, so I stayed overnight there. I finished the last leg on Monday, arriving home after midnight, minus much Christmas spirit.
Well, my lock has been changed. I made gingerbread cookies last night, but my tree isn't up. I haven't quite caught the Christmas mood yet and don't know that I will, but it could be worse. At least I've lived on to blog another day. I heard the song "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" a couple of times while I was traveling, which brought back memories of a holiday visit to Idaho in much happier times, when my nephew was a baby. I still have hope that it will come true, though I don't know why. I've had to drop a number of people from my life when it became apparent that they weren't good for me, but I refuse to let go of family ties. I'm still here, and I'm just the same as I always was . . . though considerably sadder.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
Tale of the Lock, and It's a Shocker
The post is a little ahead of time this week--what, did Christmas come early? I guess you could say that, in a manner of speaking. I seem to be plagued with lock problems, not only when I travel (which is infrequent), but even in my very own home. Right now I'm sitting up with my door barricaded, waiting for daylight, with plans to have my lock changed tomorrow. Having lost my keys in Starbucks a couple of years ago and subsequently having every lock in my possession changed, I thought I was finished with lock problems. Well, no.
Unfortunately, and strangely, I think my current problem stems from a professional event I attended a couple of years ago, a small gathering of librarians at someone's home. Actually, it was a Christmas party, probably nearly two years ago to the day. This wasn't a wild event, but actually rather sedate, or so I thought. I brought a cake, chatted, and ate some crackers and veggies. I couldn't help but notice when I went to get my coat and go home, though, that my purse was in a different place than I had left it, tucked well under my coat. It was sitting rather prominently on top of my coat when I got ready to leave, not at all where I had left it.
I had been concerned enough about the purse incident (and a missing cell phone, which I had thought was in my purse when I went to the party) to temporarily disable my cell phone service, call my credit card companies, and actually have one credit card replaced. I mentioned my concern that someone may have accessed my keys to the building manager but decided that I was possibly being too paranoid. After all, a group of librarians, right? (many of whom I knew). Maybe the coats just got rearranged as everyone was leaving. Maybe I had left my cell phone somewhere else prior to going to the party (it later showed up).
Sadly, rumor has reached me of shenanigans at that party (always trust your instincts). I even have names, and while it surprises me, it doesn't surprise me, in a way. Why was the vendor rep in attendance (who was never very friendly when I still worked at the law library) so surprisingly chatty that night? She asked a million questions about my dissertation and stuck to me like glue. I had trouble believing she was really that interested, but sometimes people do act differently at social events than they would at work. Why did the male librarian lurking in the bathroom look so strangely at me when I passed him on the way to get my things and go home? Why did the hostess make an arch remark about goings-on at her party (yet insist later that I must have dropped the cell phone before arriving at her house). My keys were in my purse, but how long does it take to run to a convenience store and have copies made? Plenty of time for someone to do it while one is distracted, that's for sure.
I'm used to strange goings-on, as life has definitely taken an odd turn over the last few years, but I was innocent enough to believe that I was safe at small holiday party with people I knew. The truth is, you're not safe anywhere.
My landlord has been notified both by voice mail and email that the lock needs to be changed ASAP. I will now ask those of you who are no doubt quite snug in your own homes whether there is any good outcome you can possibly think of to stealing someone's keys, either for them or for you. It's a crime, you know--and not a small one. It would make you an accessory if a bigger crime were to occur later, say, someone getting killed by an intruder who happened to have an unauthorized key. That's the kind of thing that can come back to haunt you in a big way (and undoubtedly will). What goes around, always comes around. It's just a fact of nature.
By the way, Merry Christmas . . . and don't let the screen door hit you on the way out. And remember, in a world where things like this take place, no one is safe. Not even you. Someone has been attempting to log into my account as I've been writing, which means that someone must also have my email password. That's funny, I'm always changing it, and it's a rather unwieldy one, not anything someone would be likely to guess. How did that happen, I wonder?
Unfortunately, and strangely, I think my current problem stems from a professional event I attended a couple of years ago, a small gathering of librarians at someone's home. Actually, it was a Christmas party, probably nearly two years ago to the day. This wasn't a wild event, but actually rather sedate, or so I thought. I brought a cake, chatted, and ate some crackers and veggies. I couldn't help but notice when I went to get my coat and go home, though, that my purse was in a different place than I had left it, tucked well under my coat. It was sitting rather prominently on top of my coat when I got ready to leave, not at all where I had left it.
I had been concerned enough about the purse incident (and a missing cell phone, which I had thought was in my purse when I went to the party) to temporarily disable my cell phone service, call my credit card companies, and actually have one credit card replaced. I mentioned my concern that someone may have accessed my keys to the building manager but decided that I was possibly being too paranoid. After all, a group of librarians, right? (many of whom I knew). Maybe the coats just got rearranged as everyone was leaving. Maybe I had left my cell phone somewhere else prior to going to the party (it later showed up).
Sadly, rumor has reached me of shenanigans at that party (always trust your instincts). I even have names, and while it surprises me, it doesn't surprise me, in a way. Why was the vendor rep in attendance (who was never very friendly when I still worked at the law library) so surprisingly chatty that night? She asked a million questions about my dissertation and stuck to me like glue. I had trouble believing she was really that interested, but sometimes people do act differently at social events than they would at work. Why did the male librarian lurking in the bathroom look so strangely at me when I passed him on the way to get my things and go home? Why did the hostess make an arch remark about goings-on at her party (yet insist later that I must have dropped the cell phone before arriving at her house). My keys were in my purse, but how long does it take to run to a convenience store and have copies made? Plenty of time for someone to do it while one is distracted, that's for sure.
I'm used to strange goings-on, as life has definitely taken an odd turn over the last few years, but I was innocent enough to believe that I was safe at small holiday party with people I knew. The truth is, you're not safe anywhere.
My landlord has been notified both by voice mail and email that the lock needs to be changed ASAP. I will now ask those of you who are no doubt quite snug in your own homes whether there is any good outcome you can possibly think of to stealing someone's keys, either for them or for you. It's a crime, you know--and not a small one. It would make you an accessory if a bigger crime were to occur later, say, someone getting killed by an intruder who happened to have an unauthorized key. That's the kind of thing that can come back to haunt you in a big way (and undoubtedly will). What goes around, always comes around. It's just a fact of nature.
By the way, Merry Christmas . . . and don't let the screen door hit you on the way out. And remember, in a world where things like this take place, no one is safe. Not even you. Someone has been attempting to log into my account as I've been writing, which means that someone must also have my email password. That's funny, I'm always changing it, and it's a rather unwieldy one, not anything someone would be likely to guess. How did that happen, I wonder?
Thursday, December 3, 2015
Wordplay Takes on: Water Stains
I bet you there's a contingent of readers out there somewhere saying, "Wordplay, this mythology is all well and good, but what about the 'everyday life' part? Have you ever once given us any sound, practical advice that we could actually use in daily living?" Now that you mention it, I'm not sure I have. In my defense, I have to say that I didn't think household hints, recipes, and the 10 best ways to organize your desk were in my line exactly. I assumed they were better handled by someone else, but maybe not.
Well, a myth specialist has to deal with the same little problems as everybody else (and maybe more--I can tell you for a fact I've had more than my share of aggravation when it comes to strange neighbors, uncivil behavior from random members of the public, and travel nuisances, for example), but I've written about of all that before. Besides, I'm guessing it would be better to "cut my teeth" in the practical hints department on something I have a proven remedy for, so I'm going to tell you how I successfully got a water stain out of an upholstered chair, the very one I'm sitting in now, in fact. And before you ask, yes, this too has a mythic component. It's in the spirit of Hestia, whose season we're in as the colder weather pushes us indoors and thoughts turn to hearth and home, that I gladly give you this advice.
First, some background, vis-a-vis, how the water stain came to be there. It's because of an accident in which the glass I was drinking from slipped when I was putting it on a coaster. Unfortunately, this beverage was as colorful and stain-intensive as it's possible to be (a mixed-berry smoothie), so the spot was about as bad as bad can be, almost like red wine on the fabric. I'd never had to deal with this situation before, so of course, I looked it up online and found a trove of ideas, the simplest of which involved blotting and mild dish detergent. I actually didn't think it would work, but it did, after a little persistence. Problem was, this treatment left a water stain that was much bigger, if less vivid, than the original trouble spot.
Now, don't distract me by wondering if the accident could have been a Jungian "slip" of some kind. I'm not going down that road. Suffice it to say there was a honking big water stain on the back of the chair. The chair isn't placed so that the stain really showed, but I knew it was there. I knew any remedy I tried would be risky, since I'd seen several warnings about checking for an item's upholstery code, which is supposed to tell you which treatments will and won't work, before starting. If my chair has such a code, I couldn't find it, so I just tried to figure it out on my own, with the result that I solved one problem but was left with another one.
The original accident happened quite a while ago, and not long after, I tried to remove the water stain by misting it with white vinegar. This might have worked if I'd been able to follow it up with steam, but I couldn't get my iron to direct steam onto the upholstery without actually touching it, so I had to abandon that method. Every now and then, I'd look at the chair and think, "I wish there was something I could do about that water stain." At some point, I looked up additional remedies, one of which caught my eye by stating that it would probably work even if the stain had been allowed to languish for a while. That seemed hopeful, but for one reason or another (the feeling that further attempts at cleaning might only make things worse being paramount) I didn't get around to it until recently.
Here's where I'll get a little philosophical: sometimes, when you can't do anything in a major way about truth in advertising, the downfall of American cinema, or bizarre neighbors, it helps to accomplish some little, concrete thing, even if it matters only to you. The remedy I had in mind involved carpet cleaner, which I already had, so one afternoon when there was lots of light, I hauled the chair over to the window, sprayed it lightly, and blotted carefully with a damp (not wet) white cloth. The idea was to avoid saturating the upholstery and to lift the stain off with the cloth. The instructions said to apply cleaner to a large area, not just the stain itself, so I treated the entire back of the chair.
Here's where another virtue came to the fore: patience. It really didn't look like anything was happening at first, although certainly the chair didn't look any worse. After the upholstery was dry, I reapplied cleaner and blotted again. I let the chair sit overnight, and then treated it a few more times, letting it dry between treatments. By the second to last time I did it, I could see that it was making a difference. Even in sunlight, I couldn't see the stain anymore, and the back of the chair looked the same as the front. I finished the process with a thorough vacuuming. Success!
Now, it may sound like a little thing, but I can tell you it was really satisfying to be able to solve even such a simple problem. Hestia would be proud (Heloise, too). My heart is a little bit lighter every time I look at the chair, which I bought at the same time I bought the desk I'm working on, just before I started my dissertation. I did some dissertation work sitting at this desk, which no doubt accounts for my pride at being able to return the chair to tip-top condition. Come to think of it, though, I did most of my writing while sitting on the couch, and it has a small water stain under the cushion where I tried to remove a spot of chocolate once. Perhaps the same treatment will work there, too, but right now, I'm still enjoying my success with the chair, so that will be a project for another day.
So there it is, how to remove a water stain from an upholstered chair. Now you can't say I never gave you anything. To all people of good will and stout heart out there, may all your problem-solving end this completely and this well, whether or not it involves a chair.
Well, a myth specialist has to deal with the same little problems as everybody else (and maybe more--I can tell you for a fact I've had more than my share of aggravation when it comes to strange neighbors, uncivil behavior from random members of the public, and travel nuisances, for example), but I've written about of all that before. Besides, I'm guessing it would be better to "cut my teeth" in the practical hints department on something I have a proven remedy for, so I'm going to tell you how I successfully got a water stain out of an upholstered chair, the very one I'm sitting in now, in fact. And before you ask, yes, this too has a mythic component. It's in the spirit of Hestia, whose season we're in as the colder weather pushes us indoors and thoughts turn to hearth and home, that I gladly give you this advice.
First, some background, vis-a-vis, how the water stain came to be there. It's because of an accident in which the glass I was drinking from slipped when I was putting it on a coaster. Unfortunately, this beverage was as colorful and stain-intensive as it's possible to be (a mixed-berry smoothie), so the spot was about as bad as bad can be, almost like red wine on the fabric. I'd never had to deal with this situation before, so of course, I looked it up online and found a trove of ideas, the simplest of which involved blotting and mild dish detergent. I actually didn't think it would work, but it did, after a little persistence. Problem was, this treatment left a water stain that was much bigger, if less vivid, than the original trouble spot.
Now, don't distract me by wondering if the accident could have been a Jungian "slip" of some kind. I'm not going down that road. Suffice it to say there was a honking big water stain on the back of the chair. The chair isn't placed so that the stain really showed, but I knew it was there. I knew any remedy I tried would be risky, since I'd seen several warnings about checking for an item's upholstery code, which is supposed to tell you which treatments will and won't work, before starting. If my chair has such a code, I couldn't find it, so I just tried to figure it out on my own, with the result that I solved one problem but was left with another one.
The original accident happened quite a while ago, and not long after, I tried to remove the water stain by misting it with white vinegar. This might have worked if I'd been able to follow it up with steam, but I couldn't get my iron to direct steam onto the upholstery without actually touching it, so I had to abandon that method. Every now and then, I'd look at the chair and think, "I wish there was something I could do about that water stain." At some point, I looked up additional remedies, one of which caught my eye by stating that it would probably work even if the stain had been allowed to languish for a while. That seemed hopeful, but for one reason or another (the feeling that further attempts at cleaning might only make things worse being paramount) I didn't get around to it until recently.
Here's where I'll get a little philosophical: sometimes, when you can't do anything in a major way about truth in advertising, the downfall of American cinema, or bizarre neighbors, it helps to accomplish some little, concrete thing, even if it matters only to you. The remedy I had in mind involved carpet cleaner, which I already had, so one afternoon when there was lots of light, I hauled the chair over to the window, sprayed it lightly, and blotted carefully with a damp (not wet) white cloth. The idea was to avoid saturating the upholstery and to lift the stain off with the cloth. The instructions said to apply cleaner to a large area, not just the stain itself, so I treated the entire back of the chair.
Here's where another virtue came to the fore: patience. It really didn't look like anything was happening at first, although certainly the chair didn't look any worse. After the upholstery was dry, I reapplied cleaner and blotted again. I let the chair sit overnight, and then treated it a few more times, letting it dry between treatments. By the second to last time I did it, I could see that it was making a difference. Even in sunlight, I couldn't see the stain anymore, and the back of the chair looked the same as the front. I finished the process with a thorough vacuuming. Success!
Now, it may sound like a little thing, but I can tell you it was really satisfying to be able to solve even such a simple problem. Hestia would be proud (Heloise, too). My heart is a little bit lighter every time I look at the chair, which I bought at the same time I bought the desk I'm working on, just before I started my dissertation. I did some dissertation work sitting at this desk, which no doubt accounts for my pride at being able to return the chair to tip-top condition. Come to think of it, though, I did most of my writing while sitting on the couch, and it has a small water stain under the cushion where I tried to remove a spot of chocolate once. Perhaps the same treatment will work there, too, but right now, I'm still enjoying my success with the chair, so that will be a project for another day.
So there it is, how to remove a water stain from an upholstered chair. Now you can't say I never gave you anything. To all people of good will and stout heart out there, may all your problem-solving end this completely and this well, whether or not it involves a chair.
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