My Molly

Grannie's Hand

Dad and me, 1964

Quick hit & run ... random pics for use elsewhere! ;-)

Jury Duty

In spite of having served on a jury in state court last year, I was summoned to federal court jury duty earlier this week. Ordinarily, a citizen cannot be called for duty for two years after serving; however, state court and federal court are mutually exclusive in that regard. (In fact, federal jury duty may be structured such that jurors are "on call" for a two-week period, as is the case with my service.) So, on Monday morning I had to rise at the ungodly hour of 5:00 to appear at the courthouse by 7:15. I entered the jury room and sat two seats down from a moron who talked more than any individual I have ever encountered in my life ("blah, blah, blah, blah, BLAH, blah, blah blah ..."), and I proceeded to experience several "WTF?" moments that left me feeling like, well ... like "WTF"?

Following the performance by the verbally diarrheaic moron came the magistrate judge who spoke to us before we moved into the courtroom. Wow, talk about your dinosaurs. I don't mean to be cruel, but this tottering little old man was one of the most boring humans I've ever had the misfortune to be held captive by. I believe his speech was intended to give us some insight as to how jury duty works and encourage us in performing our civic responsibilities, but oh, my. He was anything but inspirational. He went down so many rabbit trails - and he talked sooooooo..... freaking...... slowly ..... When he launched into a lesson on World War II Japanese internment camps (which I still cannot quite correlate to the subject at hand), I started considering viable methods for quickly killing myself and thereby escaping the mere presence of his voice. At one point, he presided as several jurors requested postponement of or dismissal from service. One young woman had a job interview in San Antonio later in the day and asked to have her service postponed. As the decrepit magistrate dismissed her, he said, "Good luck. Do your best. Be your prettiest." Wow. Just ... wow. Sexism. Alive and well in the United States District Court, Northern District of Texas.



I suppose I just haven't had enough courtroom experience to know how this works, but I was left wondering if it is common practice for an overtly Christian prayer to be recited before proceedings begin. (I should note that even though I wasn't selected for jury duty, I did have to go through the voir dire process wherein jurors are questioned by the judge and/or the attorneys to determine selection, which was rather excruciating in itself.) I was quite taken aback when one of the courtroom coordinators issued the mandate, "Let us pray" and launched into your standard, Christian "Lord, watch over these proceedings" type prayer.

Don't misunderstand me. I hold fast to my Christian faith - although I do not necessarily participate in mainstream expressions of such. Although I am a Christian, I do take strong issue with prayer in a court of law. To me, this is a flagrant violation of separation of church and state principles, and I have no idea how or why this is appropriate, much less constitutionally legal. As the mandate to pray was issued, and all around me heads were bowed and eyes were closed in instant submission, I held my head aloft and stared straight ahead. I'm not about to pray because governmental authority instructs me to.



And then there was the woman who sat next to me during voir dire . She obviously thought it was Happy-Chatty Social Hour, because she kept trying to whisper to me, making flippant comments about things the judge said that she found humorous. I finally just faced front and leaned slightly to the right (she was on my left) and lowered my head a bit so that my hair hid my face, but she continued to look over at me repeatedly, trying to catch my eye. Good grief! It's a courtroom, lady! For cryin' out loud!

Another woman on the end of the opposite row was one of these bobbleheaded people who had to nod in agreement with every word being spoken during the proceedings. I don't get people who do that. I mean, is that their way of processing information? Do they do that because they want everyone else in the room to know they agree with what's being said? For heaven's sake - keep your head from flopping up and down. It's annoying.

Although I was not selected to serve on this particular case, I did learn that it was a criminal matter: An adult male was indicted for attempting to "hook up" (I'm sure there's a proper legal term for that) with a 13 year old girl that he met online. That's just got nasty written all over it, and it would have completely repulsed and sickened me, were it not for the fact that the 13 year old never existed in the first place. The defendant had, in actuality, been chatting up a Fort Worth police officer, and when he went to meet what he fully expected to be a hot-to-trot Lolita, he was arrested. (I won't go into my incredulity at how stupid a grown man would have to be to fall for such a sting in the first place. I suppose being a disgusting pedophile and being an ignorant doofus go hand in hand.) Initially I was relieved to have been spared this particular case, but then I started thinking that it would have been interesting to learn the various points of law that undoubtedly came into play. I've always wondered how sting operations produce viable indictments; is this not entrapment by law enforcement? Is mere intent sufficient to bring charges against an individual, even if no physical act has been committed? I wonder how each side would have argued the issues.

Aside from a number of distractions and annoyances (and hey, maybe I was just extra pissy since I had to get up at 5:00 a.m. in order to be on time -- a distinct possibility), I did enjoy simply being in the courtroom. The building itself is an historic treasure, designed in the classic moderne style. The courtroom was spectacular - rich wood paneling and highly detailed, gold-painted relief at the ceiling. Four astoundingly overgrown chandeliers hung at precise points, casting a soft glow. A large mural of Sam Houston had been painstakingly created on the wall behind me. If nothing else, I thoroughly enjoyed being surrounded by such beauty. The courtroom looked like a place where important things happen. I hope that (in spite of prayer-on-demand and a snippet of blatant sexism) it is also a place where justice is consistently served.

You may say I'm a dreamer

...but I'm not the only one ...

Wow. It's been a looooooong time since I've written here. When asked why I've been away so long, my response has invariably been something along the lines of, "Oh, I just haven't been feeling creative lately." I've been thinking about that though, and realize it's not entirely accurate.

The truth is that I'm constantly engaged in some aspect of the creative process in my head. I'm forever mulling over ideas, putting together words and images and colors, forming expressions of my own personal art. In my mind.

I think I'm the type of person who often prefers the actual idea of something over the execution of the idea. Thinking and dreaming and planning and scheming often hold more of a thrill for me than doing, as reality sometimes doesn't quite stand up to my imagination. I guess I've known this about myself for quite some time, but have felt it somehow to be a shortcoming. After all, aren't we taught that success results from achievement? And how can one possibly achieve without doing?

So I'm back. At least for now. Let's see if I can keep the momentum moving in a forward direction this time around.

Vintage Me!

It's no secret that I am a woman with a past ...

Over the past couple of years I've reestablished contact with my first husband, the boy I met and dated the latter part of my high school years. We married in September of 1981, which seems like several lifetimes ago. (Well, I guess that's because it truly was!) We divorced about five years after we wed. After years of no communcation whatsoever between us, we now email occasionally -- just a friendly "keeping in touch" between those for whom so much time has passed that it is possible to view one another simply as old friends. This morning, I received an email from him, with the note, "Look what my daughter found!" -- and this little beauty attached.



Yes, folks - you are looking at Vintage Jen! This photo is probably circa 1979, which would have made me 17 years of age. A mere child, really -- albeit one sporting the ubiquitous Farrah Fawcett, Aqua-Netted-to-the-hilt hairdo in which I felt so very glamorous and adult.

I am certain that at some point, I would have looked at this photo and flinched at its datedness. But now it only makes me smile.

Yes, vintage me -- the young woman I once was. So uncertain of myself in so many ways, yet eager to reach and learn and grow. I've reached the place in life where I enjoy looking back and remembering who and what I once was. The hairstyle may be giggle-inducing, but overall, it is sweet to reminisce.

Adobe & Lace

I love the juxtaposition of old adobe walls with delicate lace at the windows. The warm clay radiates solidity, both contrasting with and complementing the filmy, ethereal beauty of the lace. Earthiness and refinement -- incongruent, yet equally worked by human hands.

The tranquil domestic depiction above is at Acoma, one of the oldest continually inhabited settlements in the United States. It was built atop a 367-foot sandstone mesa in New Mexico, and is often referred to by a name which needs no explanation -- "Sky City." Walking along the dusty streets of this pueblo, where many live without electricity or running water, it is indeed curious and touching to glance up from one's grimy boots and spy the graceful drape of gossamer lace at the rough-hewn windows. It speaks clearly of one's need to create loveliness in even the most seemingly desolate of places. I remember the "lace at Sky City" well, and in some ways, consider it a metaphoric reminder to be always seeking to impart sweetness to the mundane.


~Acoma~

Adobe and lace ... Yin and yang ... Rough and soft ... Common and exquisite ...

Well. Wasn't THAT Creepy!

Yesterday evening I set about my usual routine of working out on the elliptical trainer, which always entails taking remote control in hand and surfing channels until I find something mildly interesting (or even remotely distracting) to watch for the next 50 minutes. I had missed the first ten minutes or so, but soon became engrossed in "Felicia's Journey", a film that I initially thought was going to be upbeat and heartwarming. The story begins with the introduction of the primary characters -- a young, Irish girl (innocent, save for the fact that she is newly and unexpectedly pregnant) and a middle-aged man who appears to be obsessed with gourmet cooking, music, and antiques. The verdant imagery of the Irish and English countrysides, meshed with lovely, vintage cottage interiors, drew me right in. And of course, by the time I was too hooked to look away, the story got weird. Really weird.

From an online review:

Felicia's Journey, based on William Trevor's psychologically shivery novel of the same name, pokes into the auteur's favorite pits of sexual darkness, spiritual hunger, and human disconnectedness in the story of an exceptionally naive Irish girl (Elaine Cassidy) who leaves her insular home and makes her way to the English Midlands to search for the man she thinks she loves.

Clueless on the grimy streets and, it turns out, pregnant, she crosses fatefully into the insular world of Mr. Hilditch (Bob Hoskins, channeling something of the sheet music salesman he so famously played two decades ago in TV's "Pennies From Heaven"), a tidy catering manager with an insidiously warped interest in "rescuing" the young woman.

I was no longer mesmerized by the pretty scenes, but now riveted by the bizarre story (featuring grainy, flashback film footage of murdered prostitutes), and I could not tear myself away from the screen. The film wasn't at all gory or sensationalized (there was actually no onscreen violence at all), but psychologically thrilling, which is always more unsettling than the all-too-easy depiction of blood and guts. Well, to tell the truth, I don't do gore very well either, but mentally and emotionally disturbing stories almost always prove to be a mistake for me. Especially right before bedtime. I guess it goes without saying that I'm exhausted today, thanks to the nightmares that haunted my sleep.

The film carried its viewer from sweet scenery much like this:



To:

Don't be fooled by the cocoa and cookies! He's coming to KILL you ...

and

Will you escape???
(I wanted to reach through the screen and somehow drag that hapless girl to safety, before it was too late!)


::sigh::
I guess you'll just have to see it for yourself. And remind me to stick to comedies ... especially after dark!