Her ponytail will hang its pencil lead down her back*

"Calm Water" by the marvelous Justin Hackworth; prints for sale here

I have been, with varying levels of success, trying to transition from super lazy, non-moving sloth to a girl who exercises with some regularity. For the most part, I feel the following about exercise: hate. There are moments, on a treadmill or an elliptical machine, especially when the iPod is spinning something by The National, when I get the feeling of blissed-out endorphin rush, and I can appreciate a good sweat every now and then, but in general it is, at this phase in the process, hard.

However. Tonight I went swimming and it occurred to me that being in the water is the only activity in which I can feel truly in a groove. Whereas the rhythm of an elliptical machine starts to make me crazy after about 10 minutes, the rhythm of the crawl is hypnotic and smooth and intoxicating in a way that I can only feel in water. As long as I can remember, I have been naturally extremely buoyant -- as in, I probably would not be able to drown even if I wanted to because I can float with my nose out of water without any effort whatsoever. Like, treading water is just a thing to do to keep from getting cold. It's cool when it's not annoying. Therefore, I don't require one of those leg buoys to move smoothly when doing just the arms in a crawl (possibly called doing "pulls"), which is my favorite thing to do. I love to feel my arm muscles burn and stretch out my shoulder joints over and over. I always find it surprising that I am actually happy and content working out when I am in the water.

I have a friend who is a grown man who doesn't ever go in water because he doesn't know how to swim. This I find devastating. Though, in the interest of full disclosure, I'm sure my mom would remind me of a number of hissyfits on the way to the Cottonwood Heights pool for summer swimming lessons because I was . . . scared, I guess, though I don't remember being afraid of the water, exactly, because we went playing around in the pool almost every day, and our mom's best bargaining threat for good behavior was not letting us go. I can't be bothered to analyze what was really going on in my kid mind with those swimming lessons, but I do remember when we moved to Fresno and joined Clovis Swim Club, that trouble was the usual mixture of embarrassment and knowing I was the slowest, worst athlete in the Olympic-size pool at Clovis West High. We were fortunate kids -- spoiled brats, really -- with a very nice pool in our backyard (the middle one), and that amazing facility in our high school. (Here's proof: Michael Phelps at Clovis West. Even I can't believe that.)

Nonetheless, all that swimming/perceived trauma in my youth certainly left me with a decent skillset of all the strokes and a great love for being in and underwater, as close to the bottom as possible, if you please. I am not great at breaststroke or backstroke, and I have completely forgotten how to do a flip turn, but I am nonetheless really, really happy in the water.

* Sharon Olds, "The One Girl at the Boys Party"

Nice belt, Rachael Ray

Here's a hearty helping of depression from James Ledbetter's piece called "Why Martha Stewart's Company is Doomed" @ Slate.com:

"The hard truth is that demand for Martha Stewart in all forms—magazines, books, TV shows, Web sites, and stuff—has passed its peak. You can feel it in the culture, where Rachel Ray is today's go-to domestic goddess."

By which you mean that the woman who named her company Yum-O and brought the terms "EVOO" and "garbage bowl" into the zeitgeist, is now in charge? I reject! Say what you will about Martha's uptight personality, overly persnickety aesthetic, and awkward hosting style, but she and her people have taste and know how to put a magazine together with gravitas. Rachael Ray doesn't even know what gravitas means.

And the thing is, I feel really guilty, because I am part of that problem - I let my MSL subscription run out last year (after, like, 10 years probably - I would have to go check in my white antique cabinet of secretly hoarded magazines) because I had a giant stack that I never got around to reading, much less even looking through. But when I did read them, I always found many, many things that inspired me, even if my taste has leaned more towards the less pristine brand of vintage modern that Martha's been selling all these years.

And I religiously bought the Weddings magazines for years, even when I was on my mission (I packed them at Grandma M's) so I wouldn't miss even one. But I've gotten less obsessed with weddings in general lately, so I haven't dropped my $6 for one of the quarterly issues for at least 3 quarters.

Financial writers make these kinds of predictions about companies all the time, and sometimes they are right on, and sometimes they are alarmist. It seems likely that Martha's brand will persist in some form for years to come, but to what sacrifice, I ask? It's hard for me to let something like Martha Stewart go, when she - it, the whole package - has been such a defining part of my personal style evolution.

Have a listen

Every summer I do believe this sound will be the death of me. It is definitely the enemy of my REM cycle.

(Edited: The most recent Firefox update broke the embedded link, grumble grumble, so if you care enough you can listen here.)

(recorded on my front porch)

Part 12: Sunset at the Snow Camp P.O.

East Greensboro-Chapel Hill Highway

Part 11: Wigs and Hair by Charlie

Highway 54

Part 10: Sound aphorism from Pine Hill United Methodist Church

Highway 109, Montgomery County

Part 9: Field in rain, Snow Camp Road

Part 8: Little white building, what's your job?

Highway 64, between Ramseur and Siler City

Part 7: Barn & blue hills

Highway 64, outside Asheboro

Part 6: Go ahead and just mow around that truck

Snow Camp Road, Alamance County

Part 5: St. Julia's Catholic Church

Highway 64, Chatham County

Part 4: Go ahead and call Doris

Snow Camp Road

Part 3: This is for Dogey

Highway 64, Chatham County

Part 2: Three barns, Silk Hope

Let Freedom Ring (and Part 1)

Highway 64, Chatham County

Martina was singing in my head while the following things happened on this, the 232nd birthday of our uneasy country:

1. Discovered that the farm was visited by JWs while I was at brunch with my friends. I saw a bright neon orange sticker on the mailbox when I pulled up; I first freaked out that someone more unsavory had marked the place, but then I had a flashback to the pen marks that Salt Lake City JWs left on the door moldings of apartment buildings - vertical line if you visited and no one answered, cross (as in . . . you know) it if you found someone home. They left two tracts I've found so far - one talks about why farming is going so bad for America (something to do with disobedience) and one is just the regular Watchtower. That one I found on the front porch of a non-residence, which was . . . weird and unsettling.

2. Decided, kind of impetuously, to borrow Donnie's good camera (um, thanks!) and do a little honoring of my particular corner of America, and found some pretty delightful things to appreciate/be amused by, which I have decided to post for the next 11 days (above is Part 1) so you can do a little honoring of your own. It's the 12 days of being happy if you live in NC.

3. Landed, at dinnertime, at Ruby Tuesday, because it was late and anything local was closed. I really wanted some salad and they do have a decent salad bar (pardon, Garden Bar), even with edamame and julienned beets. I also ordered the teensy turkey burgers, which were on, like, miniature Merita buns. Not the best. Ruby Tuesday has a weird personality, with the square plates and the attempt at flavor combinations with the illusion of being gourmet but not so much with the actual delivery. But the salad ingredients were fresh, so I will give them that. Also, it was like $11 with Diet Coke. While at dinner, read a charming 6-page New Yorker "Personal History" piece on one dude's nicknames, along with those of his family and friends, and thought fondly of my family and our nicknames.

4. Watched a little GAC, decided that despite his popularity with the ladies and men alike, Brad Paisley (or at least his persona, because he doesn't seem to write all these songs) is kind of a misogynist. This video I just watched, "Waiting on a Woman" is "with" Andy Griffith, which is a serious misnomer, because Andy doesn't sing, just says, over and over, how he's spent his life waiting on the chronically late woman. The final scene, heaven help us, is Andy sitting in a white tuxedo on a bench on the great beach in heaven, waiting on his wife. To DIE. Brad Paisley thinks women are annoying enough to dismiss when they show up late and don't approve of drinking or fishing, among other things. (Remember, he's still a guy.) Over. It. I do love this new Keith Urban song called "Stupid Boy." It came on right after Paisley's nonsense; deliberate programming choice?

5. Pondered on how I spent most of the day by myself (excepting the lovely brunch on the patio at the Weathervane) and thought how much I enjoyed it, but decided that not being able to spend holidays with my family leaves a serious hole in my life.