I want to be here:

That's all, really.  I'm dying to go to an evening Latin lesson or take a ukulele class.  Why, why, why was I not born in England?

crazybusy

At lunch today Mum and I talked about the busy mindset we've got nowadays.  She's reading Crazy Busy, and she says that it says (figure that out, wah ha ha ha!) that having stuffed schedules - always rushing from piano lessons to soccer to SAT prep - and the push to be the best at whatever you do only really began in the 90's.  "I don't remember doing any of that stuff when I was a kid," she told me thoughtfully. "I took piano, but that was it.  We just played outside all day."  
We chatted about how the parts of my childhood that I look back on with the most fondness are the bits where I spent all day playing with the neighbors.  As much as I enjoyed dance classes and youth theatre, those other bits are now the happiest memories.
We talked about bragging. We wondered if the reason people talk about how many activities their kid does is because it makes them feel like a better parent.
We talked about guilt.  Mom said she sometimes feels like she needs to get a job.  That she ought to be doing something.  I'm only taking one college class this year, and I told her that I feel embarrassed about it sometimes. "We shouldn't." She said firmly.  And she's right.  It's ridiculous that, even though we're already busy, we feel guilty because every minute of our time isn't crammed with something.  How  did this happen to our brains?

I wondered what my generation will be like when they take control of the world.  Will we rebel against the present crazy-busy system?  I mean, a ton of kids must have grown up with insane schedules and stressed parents juggling jobs and home life and debt.   Or will we all just go on living mad lives because we've never known anything else?

Then my sister and I talked about  Inception and tried to figure out if we were happy or sad that Keira Knightley has been replaced by Carey Mulligan for the new My Fair Lady.  It was a stimulating afternoon, indeed.

Happy Unawareness Day!

Almost missed this momentous holiday last year. 

Please allow me the honor of wishing you and yours a very happy Unawareness Day.

God bless the idlers, every one.

postscript

live list: a golden afternoon, indeed

So, this morning, I intended to wander around on the hill behind our house and pick some flowers - check something off my live list.  I put on my adventure boots (or, ugly brown horse boots as mummy calls them), pulled on the first clothes I could find, and convinced my sister to come with me.  I did pick a few flowers, but after a while we just wandered and sat. I wanted to do a charming themed post, but I'm too lazy. It's a lazy, lovely day.

Cee is in love with this blog.

We stuck flowers in her hair. We wished there were daisies  to make a daisy chain out of. We wished we knew how to make daisy chains.

In spite of the road just below, and the houses surrounding, and the power lines in the background, it was rather perfect. 

I think I can check off the flower-picking from my list.  We got the essence of what I wanted, even without taking the flowers home. If that makes sense.

Just a bit of silliness, really. 

"One of the wonderful books of the world" - The Wind in The Willows

Chapter One

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said 'Bother!' and 'O blow!' and also 'Hang spring-cleaning!' and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gaveled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, 'Up we go! Up we go!' till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight, and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.

'This is fine!' he said to himself. 'This is better than whitewashing!' The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout. Jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across the meadow...

Pen and watercolor is too lovely.

idle ill

I woke up at 4 this morning, flailed about in the dark trying to find my cup, took a drink of water and thought, "Hm.  I'm going to have a cold tomorrow." And guess what? I hab a cold.

I always enjoy bouts of mild illness. Bring on headaches and runny noses - to me, it's worth it.  During my elementary years, sick days meant a blessed reprieve from the agony of school - but any kid knows this. I always, always watched Honey I Shrunk the Kids, ate meals on trays decorated with flowers in little bud vases and, all in all, had a keen time.  And even as a homeschooler (my sainted mother schooled me from sixth grade on through high school and I adored nearly every minute of it - the minute I did not enjoy being the one in which we dissected a silkworm), waking with a stuffed-up head still had its perks.  I looked forward to getting my wisdom teeth yanked out in December - envisioning days of contented slumber, Jamba Juice and DVD rentals.  (To be honest, it really wasn't very fun.  I barfed a lot. But after that I had a swell time.)

Imagine my delight this morning when I came upon a chapter in How to Be Idle entitled, "On Being Ill."  How perfect is that?  Possibly even more suitable than reading Death in the Clouds during a plane flight the other day. 

It turns out, I am not the only adult who appreciates a good cold now and then.   I remembered reading somewhere that C.S. Lewis enjoyed, "to be always convalescent from some small illness and always seated in a window that overlooked the sea, there to read... eight hours of each happy day."

And I bet wearing a dressing gown as magnificent as this one couldn't have been unpleasant either

Or Jerome K. Jerome, in "On Being Idle", upon being "ordered to Buxton for a month":

"I pictured to myself a glorious time--a four weeks' dolce far niente with a dash of illness in it. Not too much illness, but just illness enough--just sufficient to give it the flavor of suffering and make it poetical. I should get up late, sip chocolate, and have my breakfast in slippers and a dressing-gown. I should lie out in the garden in a hammock and read sentimental novels with a melancholy ending, until the books should fall from my listless hand, and I should recline there, dreamily gazing into the deep blue of the firmament, watching the fleecy clouds floating like white-sailed ships across its depths, and listening to the joyous song of the birds and the low rustling of the trees. Or, on becoming too weak to go out of doors, I should sit propped up with pillows at the open window of the ground-floor front, and look wasted and interesting, so that all the pretty girls would sigh as they passed by."

Maybe minus the pretty girls for me personally, but precisely the right idea. 

Although, in How to Be Idle, Tom Hodgkinson brings up a good point which I myself have often sadly shaken my head over: "What happened, I wonder, to the doctors of the turn of the century, who used to recommend long periods of inactivity on the South Coast for minor ailments?  These days doctors just sell you pills, but there used to be a wonderful medical prescription known as the "rest cure' - in other words the only way we can cure this is for you to do as little as possible for as long as possible."

People are always going abroad or having rest cures or "convalescing" when they're sick or worn out in Agatha Christie books.   I've always envied the girls of Ballet Shoes, who, when afflicted with whooping cough, whatever that is, get to leave London and stay in a lovely cottage "in the middle of a common in Kent." And how Petrova gets to blow her influenza nose in Mr. Simpson's new, clean handkerchief with "beautiful initials embroidered on it." 

People really knew how to be ill back then.

I am constantly appalled by ads for cold medicine or Claritin where, in the first scene, a person is miserably blowing their nose and, in the next, happily off to work or riding their bike or something equally ghastly, smiling so hard my face hurts in sympathy.   While chatting with a friend after Christmas, I tried my best not to look horrified as she told me about a bought of sickness she just powered through - only staying home on Christmas day, and then trotting off to work the next day.  What fun is that?  None! That's gross.  Miserable.  Unimaginably wretched.  I mean, I would hate having her job to being with - but having to work a mostly unpleasant job while sick?  Ugh.  Gives me the shivers.  That poor, poor girl.
It's very sad, the way people are guilted into working or doing things when they're unwell.  I mean, if you don't give your body some time to recoup, it stands to reason that your cold or flu or whatever will take longer to go away. I am a firm believer in staying home and sleeping.  Plus, if you stay at home, your germs stay at home with you.  No one else has to suffer.  Unless, of course, they too are pining for a few days of restful loafing.  Then feel free to hack all over people.

I will never understand "working through it".  But, let us toast - with toast, the traditional fare of the unwell - the hard workers who labor on, come headache or high fever.  Please, idle ailing ones, lift your slice. Slaving, sniffling hordes, we do not envy you, but we salute you.

well, if I must...

I've been reading a lot of books on idling or works by great idlers lately, trying to get material to write a speech for my little sister (it's a long story).  It's sort of wonderful, actually.  I have to read books like How to be Idle and Keats' "Ode to Indolence".  I feel a bit sneaky.  It's like having a job as a food sampler or being paid to watch movies.

Every time I read a quote by some great writer or artist who firmly advocates idling, I do a fist pump and shout, "Amen, baby!"   I'm collecting ammo.  When people try to shame me and my late-rising tendencies by telling my how early they get up ("Five o'clock at the latest.  How can you feel right sleeping in till eleven?"), I'm going to pull out my little notebook (where I am collecting said ammo) and say, "Oh, really?  Ever heard of G.K. Chesterton?  Because he wrote an essay called 'On Lying in Bed' where he says, 'The tone now commonly taken towards the practice of lying in bed is hypocritical and unhealthy. Instead of being regarded, as it ought to be, as a matter of convenience and adjustment, it has come to be regarded by many as if it were a part of essential morals to get up early in the morning.' So ha ha on you, meanie head!"

save ferris

Oh. My. Gosh.
How is it that a slacker like me, a person who values idleness and adores teen films, until tonight, had never seen Ferris Bueller's Day Off ?

Shame, Kelsey.  Shame.
I just don't know what else to say except: I need that sweater vest.  No joke.  I NEED it. A Ferris Bueller vest is officially on my clothes to look for list.  I might have to sew one.

What a role model.

Happy Unawareness Day!

I almost didn't realize - today is November 1 - Happy Unawareness Day!  What a brilliant holiday.

Tom Hodgkinson, thank you for teaching me that idleness is not a crime, enjoying life should be encouraged and playing the ukulele is indeed a noble art.

The point of the madness

I am sort of opposed to blogging and the whole "share" culture in general, yet here I am.  Writing a blog. Hmm.

But, as a member of the Me Generation (who, personally, likes "iGeneration" better - clever, no?) I MUST tell you my story.  Because I love to talk about meself. 

It all started with an ukulele.   
Well, not really.  But that sounded nice and dramatic didn't it?
Wait, do you write it "an ukulele" or "a ukulele"?
Actually, it all started with a house-sitting job.  One lonely, chilly evening when the house was creaking in a way heart-poundingly reminiscent of scary burglar footsteps creeping toward you, I tossed myself morosely onto a couch and picked up an aged copy of Real Simple magazine.  Inside this magazine was an article entitled "Ten Ways to Enjoy Doing Nothing."  That's where it all began.  
In the few days leading up to this house-sitting job, I'd been considering, with more seriousness than usual, the ukulele. I'd half-wanted to play the ukulele for years.  But this is nothing extraordinary. I am Emma Woodhouse when it comes to musical instruments - want to play them, don't want to practice. (I also make lists of books to read, but that's beside the point.)  
But, the ukulele had been popping up all over the place in my life.  At Christmas, a guy played a nice little medley of songs - on the ukulele  - in church.  I bought a couple of ukulele songs on itunes. I found Wade Johnson, Youtube's Ukulele Wonder Boy. A genuinely cool guy in the theatre class I was taking walked around - not at all in an affected of showing-off way - playing his ukulele on campus. 
Then, house-sitting, a tiny bit miserable, wanting to be home in my own bed, I ran across the above-mentioned blessed article by Tom Hodgkinson. It's a lovely little list, and I highly recommend giving it a read if you have a moment. Which, obviously, you do because you're here reading my blog.  But, anyways, while I was happily learning how to become a more idle human being (my mother, if she were reading this would say, "you don't need to learn to become more idle!" I just know it.), I came across a sign from heaven seemingly planted in the page. I'd been thinking about ukuleles and bang! there it was - "5. Play the ukulele". I mean, could you ask for a clearer sign that a union between your humble servant and a ukulele was meant to be!?


I told myself that night that if I got through the housesitting without: A. killing their dog ( which almost did happen. The poor dear had a seizure or something at about 5 in the morning two days before the family came home) B. having the house burgled or C. Smashing up their car, then I could get a ukulele.

The next week, now happily at home, my Mum and little sister needed to go to Alan's music (a shop in San Diego that's been around forever) to buy piano duets.
My sister is sickeningly musical. She takes three classes a week; piano theory, regular piano lessons, and viola lessons. My mom is fabulously good at piano as well. Think I feel inferior?  You think right.
But at the music shop, I remembered my promise to myself. I wandered, I hoped casually, over to the ukuleles. There was a lovely little soprano one for $54, and a less-attractive, but still appealing concert size for $52. Trying to look like I'd been a ukulele pro for years, I pondered. Soon, my mother and the salesperson came over and settled me: I got the concert, because the shop guy said it would be easier and less shrill, and my mummy said, "I love less shrill. I'm all for less shrill." It's true too. She convinced my sister to learn viola instead of violin, quietly confiding to me, "Mrs. so-and-so said that viola isn't as screechy." 


My darling mum, in a truly kind show of support, bought me a book the salesman recommended called, "Fun With the Ukulele".  I am all for fun. The shop guy threw in three picks for free (They do that at Alan's. That's just the way they are.) and I was off, ukulele in hand, ready to idle.

Kind of long and meandering, but that's my story. Thank you for your time and patience. Please dispose of trash in the specified containers and be sure to take all personal items with you. Have a wonderful day.  

The point is - now that I've got the ukulele, I want to learn to use it. As much as I love "Fun With the Ukulele", I don't want to play "Long, Long Ago" morning, night and noon. So, I'm hoping, that this blog will help me to learn some discipline - discipline I can apply to my ukulele playing. It would be cool if other people, looking to add an extra few points to their coolness level, stumbled across my little blog and could find easy ukulele songs and useful links on here. I know I'd love, as a new ukulele player, to be able to stop hunting for a version of "Moon River" that doesn't have Fmaj7 as a chord, and play some nice, easy songs. I'm doing the song hunting anyways, so I figure I might as well try to share it with someone. When the ukulele entered my life, it brought idling along with it.  I'm only now starting to learn about famous idlers of the past, books on idling, and the brave new world the idle lifestyle opens up to a kid who doesn't really like to work but enjoys sitting around doing nothing.
So, essentially, I am here to idle.  






Thank you Tom Hogdkinson and Real Simple and the nice shop guy at Alan's.

Yours respectfully,

an amateur idler