We went to see Formula 51 last night, the latest Samuel Jackson flick that was pretty great, made greater by the fact that we hadn't been to an R rated move in almost two years. Lilo and Stitch can't really match action packed drug dealing, murder and mayhem. Not just a little blood and guts, but worth it. Hint: Bring your umbrella.
My sister kept Jenna over night for the first time in a couple of years. Wow. You parents know what I mean. Wow. So we didn't have to rush home. We actually got onto our street before we looked at one another and said, "Hey, we don't even really have to go home." George turned the car around and we drove to the bar in one of the plazas up the street for a nightcap. Neither of us had ever been to the place before.
And wouldn't you know it was kareokee night, with all the regulars, some very scary-to-me, way-wasted 50-somethings, the guys with polo shirts and a turtleneck sweater or two(L.L. Bean ribbed cotton maybe?), their ladies with big hair, layered makeup, and too-fake smiles. They would have been friendly enough, and they were, but it was that kind of DRUNK FRIENDLY--you know what I mean? I could have passed any one of them in the grocery store the next day and they wouldn't have remembered my face. But last night, they were so glad to have met us, leaning on our shoulders, one burly old fucker trying to massage George's shoulders after making off with his lighter, translated in the language of Wasted as, "I'm Sorry," which, if you knew George, you would know one thing--don't touch his neck.
So burly drunk guy, who apparently is a physical therapist, although I can't imagine, got a little miffed that his massage wasn't appreciated, and showed his displeasure by favoring a lean our way when his drunken sway shifted into full gear. You know, "the lean," the "I can't stand up straight so can I lean on you?" lean. Luckily, this guy had a hard time standing or sitting still, so he left us alone every ten minutes or so to check on his wife.
Mike, the official bar greeter, made sure to stop by and say hello, tell us that the place is a regular hangout for the area, that Friday nights they start early, Saturday a little later, that it's always the same people, that they love one another, swear at one another, sometimes borrow from one another--some swap wives, not Mike of course, but some, he said.
I sipped my rum and coke and wondered about their lives.
Did I mention there was kareoke?
It wasn't really the people or the lame DJ that left me with that shifted feeling. It was realizing that I'm so in between. Gone are the pre-kid days of clubs and hanging out til 3 a.m. and talking with friends over drinks after a gig. My friends are at home doing the same thing I'm usually doing: taking care of the kid, the house, the bills, the cars. that's one side of being in between. The other side of being in between is not yet being a 50-something like most of the free birds at the bar last night were. You could tell, their nests were empty; they were looking for something new, something more, some taste of something they'd lost along the way. Instead, they settle for familiar faces, vodka or gin, and someone else's husband, someone else's wife.
In other words, the movie was better than the bar.
Being able to spend the evening eye to eye with my husband, laughing and holding hands, without the constant interjection that is our love personified, Jenna, was a true gift. A regular baby sitter may just be in our future....
October 20, 2002
October 18, 2002
The Friend of Our Friend is Our Friend
Shelley clued me in on the details of stavrosthewonderchicken's friend Rick who was hurt in the Bali explosion. His condition is currently critical, and the family is encountering some serious medical expenses for his care. A trust fund has been started to help. Shelley has the details on where and how to lend a helping hand. From what I've gleaned, Rick was on holiday before starting a new chapter of his life with a new job when he was caught in the blast that killed and injured so many. Life is far too fragile.
October 16, 2002
sometimes I want to have my say without linking to you or emailing you, dammit.
Alright, this needs to be said and I'm going to say it. David and Halley need to add comment capability to their blogs, and RageBoy needs to fix his comments forthwith.
I love all of these blogs. Everyone knows that. Which is why I get so frustrated not being able to run off at the mouth instantaneously in some form of comment or discussion spot on said blogs. Sometimes I don't want to have to go back to my blog and dedicate an entire post to something you said. I just want to add my two cents. The ability to talk back, respond, vibe, chortle, as well as listen, are all vital parts of conversation, non?
I used to get on my blogging nemesis' ass about this all the time. Mike Sanders' blog was the first to frustrate me by relegating me to linking to him in order to continue the discourse. discord? I slammed him for this many times. Which means it's time I hold my blog friends up to the same standard, albiet without the personal vendetta.
Commenting, threaded discussions and the like are essential for this blogging exercise we're involved in to work. They add layers to our writing, to our conversations. They enlarge our community. A quarter of the folks on my blogroll are there as a result of someone else's comment boxes. I read their comments, say wow this person talks some interesting talk, click on their "homepage" link, spend ten minutes finding out who they are, and usually add them to my blogroll. I also get a few new visitors to this blog each day who hopped here via a comment I've left somewhere else. New friends, new twists in the conversation, new wrinkles, new ideas, spark to flame, pop pop pop, the loosely joined become tighter and more loose all at once.
Got it? Get it.
I love all of these blogs. Everyone knows that. Which is why I get so frustrated not being able to run off at the mouth instantaneously in some form of comment or discussion spot on said blogs. Sometimes I don't want to have to go back to my blog and dedicate an entire post to something you said. I just want to add my two cents. The ability to talk back, respond, vibe, chortle, as well as listen, are all vital parts of conversation, non?
I used to get on my blogging nemesis' ass about this all the time. Mike Sanders' blog was the first to frustrate me by relegating me to linking to him in order to continue the discourse. discord? I slammed him for this many times. Which means it's time I hold my blog friends up to the same standard, albiet without the personal vendetta.
Commenting, threaded discussions and the like are essential for this blogging exercise we're involved in to work. They add layers to our writing, to our conversations. They enlarge our community. A quarter of the folks on my blogroll are there as a result of someone else's comment boxes. I read their comments, say wow this person talks some interesting talk, click on their "homepage" link, spend ten minutes finding out who they are, and usually add them to my blogroll. I also get a few new visitors to this blog each day who hopped here via a comment I've left somewhere else. New friends, new twists in the conversation, new wrinkles, new ideas, spark to flame, pop pop pop, the loosely joined become tighter and more loose all at once.
Got it? Get it.
October 15, 2002
it always comes down to prepositions
about or from?
that's really the distinction.
A sometimes subtle distinction.
But a significant disinction. One that can mean the difference between personal disarray--family mayhem, lost friends, lost jobs and a host of non-specific offline maladies--and very moving writing.
that's really the distinction.
A sometimes subtle distinction.
But a significant disinction. One that can mean the difference between personal disarray--family mayhem, lost friends, lost jobs and a host of non-specific offline maladies--and very moving writing.
there ought to be a law
against this. Our dear RageBoy is off to crush all we hold dear again. Poor Gary and Fiona. I read at Frank Paynter's place that poor Gary happened upon RB's parenthood sacralidge just after returning home from a parent-to-be class. Yikes!
Sir Locke (Sherlock?) breaks some more rules with the post above his Dr. Spock abomination, in which he demonstrates the incredible talent it takes for winners of the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest to confound their readers.
Is nothing sacred to this man?
Esther? Help me out here.
Sir Locke (Sherlock?) breaks some more rules with the post above his Dr. Spock abomination, in which he demonstrates the incredible talent it takes for winners of the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest to confound their readers.
Is nothing sacred to this man?
Esther? Help me out here.
dictionary.com, add this one
Tom Matrullo has the best definition of blogs I've come across yet:
"Blogs are extensions or representations of individual selves, which enter into relations of esteem, commerce or criminality."
Don't miss his take on bloggers on the take.
I wish I were a blogger on the take.
Better than wishing I were an Oscar Mayer Weiner. Although, if Oscar Mayer wanted to sponsor this fine blog, I'd be happy to throw some weiner mobile icons on my archives page. Oh okay. I'm lying. I'd run over to the kosher Hebrew National folks jack-rabbit fast and tell them why they should sponsor me for $100 more, thereby solidifying a relationship with the sponsor whose product I always choose and sharing the good news about some really good weiners with my friends. In other words, Utopia.
Does that make me a bad blogger? Or a good weiner? Or Dave Winer?
I don't know.
"Blogs are extensions or representations of individual selves, which enter into relations of esteem, commerce or criminality."
Don't miss his take on bloggers on the take.
I wish I were a blogger on the take.
Better than wishing I were an Oscar Mayer Weiner. Although, if Oscar Mayer wanted to sponsor this fine blog, I'd be happy to throw some weiner mobile icons on my archives page. Oh okay. I'm lying. I'd run over to the kosher Hebrew National folks jack-rabbit fast and tell them why they should sponsor me for $100 more, thereby solidifying a relationship with the sponsor whose product I always choose and sharing the good news about some really good weiners with my friends. In other words, Utopia.
Does that make me a bad blogger? Or a good weiner? Or Dave Winer?
I don't know.
i have seen the hitler, and it is us
I found a link to this over on Bearman's way-worthy blog. You know, I've been reading through all the war talk and peace talk around these parts for a long while. This story floored me but good. If we are to believe the Sunday Herald about the Bush administration's blueprint for US global domination -- and there are enough quotes from the document, brainchild of the neo-conservative think-tank Project for the New American Century (PNAC), to make me believe it -- well then holy shit we really are rolling down a steep hill into obliteration.
Of all the things in the article, this one scared me most. Think of this tool in the hands of the neo-cons and wonder who exactly they might target for genocide:
"...advanced forms of biological warfare that can 'target' specific genotypes may transform biological warfare from the realm of terror to a politically useful tool."
Yes. Politically useful. I get it.
say it with me now.
politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful.
Of all the things in the article, this one scared me most. Think of this tool in the hands of the neo-cons and wonder who exactly they might target for genocide:
"...advanced forms of biological warfare that can 'target' specific genotypes may transform biological warfare from the realm of terror to a politically useful tool."
Yes. Politically useful. I get it.
say it with me now.
politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful.
October 14, 2002
Calling all small businesses...
Eeeeks. Where I come from we call this PR and smile about it. And yes, I still sleep at night.
In truth, Gonzo Marketing covers the "how blogs might make money" thing in detail. I don't think taking money from sponsors would ruin the integrity of blogs. The company we keep here in Blogaria keeps us honest enough, whether we like it or not. We sniff out coverups as fast as any conspiracy theorist. And, generally speaking, the types of sponsors we should go after should be complementary to our blogging, but not necessarily related to our blog's theme (of which, mine has no theme except death, loss, and love, so unless we're talking casket manufacturers or Fanny Farmer, I guess there's not many businesses directly related to my blog).
On the sponsors/corporate side, there's so much to gain from standing up for the great writing and significant conversations going on here it almost makes me insane that more businesses aren't doing it. There is perceived risk too. The risk of sponsoring a blog that comes out and complains about the product of the sponsorer, or, worse, falls in love with the sponsorer's fiercest competitor. But that risk is not really risky at all. Once the first wave of sponsors jumps on, they will necessarily become less paranoid about these eventualities. We're the Howard Sterns of the net. THAT we are talking among ourselves, for our sponsors, will be ultimately more important than our current pet peve or gripe of the day.
I think, small companies will be the ones to jump in with us first. They have the most to gain from bloggers. If I owned and SMB right now, I'd be looking at blogs. Bloggers are mostly suspicious of big brands. Either that, or we're already zealots with firm opinions. But the lesser knowns--that small online specialty food or gifts company, that family owned business who knits covers for golf clubs, whatever--should swoop in here with us little guys ASAP and help us turn the mofo upside down.
Either that or fuck business PERIOD. We bloggers pledge to one another. We each decide on a blog WE'RE going to sponsor every month. Every blogger adopts a code of support... like a co-op or something... and I say, I'm adopting Marek this month for $10 (or 13.52 to be exact--all the money I had in my paypal account), and next month I sponsor Tom, and so on. If each of us could support one blogger at $5 or $10 or $20 a month, we'd all end up somewhat happy, no? Am I totally wacked here?
Too tired to think about it more tonight. Later, though. Let me go find my copy of Gonzo first.
In truth, Gonzo Marketing covers the "how blogs might make money" thing in detail. I don't think taking money from sponsors would ruin the integrity of blogs. The company we keep here in Blogaria keeps us honest enough, whether we like it or not. We sniff out coverups as fast as any conspiracy theorist. And, generally speaking, the types of sponsors we should go after should be complementary to our blogging, but not necessarily related to our blog's theme (of which, mine has no theme except death, loss, and love, so unless we're talking casket manufacturers or Fanny Farmer, I guess there's not many businesses directly related to my blog).
On the sponsors/corporate side, there's so much to gain from standing up for the great writing and significant conversations going on here it almost makes me insane that more businesses aren't doing it. There is perceived risk too. The risk of sponsoring a blog that comes out and complains about the product of the sponsorer, or, worse, falls in love with the sponsorer's fiercest competitor. But that risk is not really risky at all. Once the first wave of sponsors jumps on, they will necessarily become less paranoid about these eventualities. We're the Howard Sterns of the net. THAT we are talking among ourselves, for our sponsors, will be ultimately more important than our current pet peve or gripe of the day.
I think, small companies will be the ones to jump in with us first. They have the most to gain from bloggers. If I owned and SMB right now, I'd be looking at blogs. Bloggers are mostly suspicious of big brands. Either that, or we're already zealots with firm opinions. But the lesser knowns--that small online specialty food or gifts company, that family owned business who knits covers for golf clubs, whatever--should swoop in here with us little guys ASAP and help us turn the mofo upside down.
Either that or fuck business PERIOD. We bloggers pledge to one another. We each decide on a blog WE'RE going to sponsor every month. Every blogger adopts a code of support... like a co-op or something... and I say, I'm adopting Marek this month for $10 (or 13.52 to be exact--all the money I had in my paypal account), and next month I sponsor Tom, and so on. If each of us could support one blogger at $5 or $10 or $20 a month, we'd all end up somewhat happy, no? Am I totally wacked here?
Too tired to think about it more tonight. Later, though. Let me go find my copy of Gonzo first.
October 10, 2002
Thank you one and all
From those who wrote her emails to those who sent presents, Jenna thanks you all for making her fifth blogday so special.
More Pictures Here.
More Pictures Here.
October 09, 2002
Jonathon does a garbage plate
Jonathon Mays recently enjoyed a Western New York classic dish: the Garbage Plate. Made famous at legendary Nick Tahous, a Rochester late night cult classic, the Garbage Plate can be seen eating Jonathon here.
Jonathon's on a business assignment in Rochester. And now, as if he had nothing better to do, I've sent him off on a food assignment to visit our favorite Rochester eateries (do not mistake this for "arteries," which are will be hardened by the time Jonathon finishes his assignment.) Should he choose to accept the challenge, he is to visit Mamasans (say hi to Bea from Jeneane and George Sessum in Atlanta), where he must try the fresh vegetarian spring rolls (fresh, not fried) and the chicken or vegetarian coconut noodle soop, and maybe some Pad Thai.
Then he's off to Schaller's for a burger on a hard roll (through the garden). The hot sauce in Rochester has meat in it. Don't miss it. Unless you're a vegetarian, which, I assume by your knowledge of Nick Tahous you are not. Jonathon's not done until he samples an order of mixed wings at Country Sweet. He has also been instructed to try a Rubino's sub. Or, he is so instructed now.
There are some people you could squeeze some money out of while you're there--some folks who owe George. But I don't suppose you're there to do that kind of business.
(and if you are, let us know!)
Happy Dining Jonathon!
Jonathon's on a business assignment in Rochester. And now, as if he had nothing better to do, I've sent him off on a food assignment to visit our favorite Rochester eateries (do not mistake this for "arteries," which are will be hardened by the time Jonathon finishes his assignment.) Should he choose to accept the challenge, he is to visit Mamasans (say hi to Bea from Jeneane and George Sessum in Atlanta), where he must try the fresh vegetarian spring rolls (fresh, not fried) and the chicken or vegetarian coconut noodle soop, and maybe some Pad Thai.
Then he's off to Schaller's for a burger on a hard roll (through the garden). The hot sauce in Rochester has meat in it. Don't miss it. Unless you're a vegetarian, which, I assume by your knowledge of Nick Tahous you are not. Jonathon's not done until he samples an order of mixed wings at Country Sweet. He has also been instructed to try a Rubino's sub. Or, he is so instructed now.
There are some people you could squeeze some money out of while you're there--some folks who owe George. But I don't suppose you're there to do that kind of business.
(and if you are, let us know!)
Happy Dining Jonathon!
unfamous quotations
I refer you to the Book of Gary (turner dot net). Yes, our favorite wily UK-er has done it again. Gary's latest brainchild is Unfamous Quotations (first edition) featuring the oft-underestimated and unsung wisdom of bloggers round the world. Now's your chance to contribute to history--don't miss out!
October 08, 2002
The BlogSisters Get a Facelift
Thanks to Web Doctor Andrea Roceal James, the BlogSisters team blog got a groovy face lift. Check it out, join, comment, discuss.
Nice job, Andrea--and thank you.
Nice job, Andrea--and thank you.
October 07, 2002
where I was a year ago...
what I was blogging about....
"These interconnected 'places of voice' are not the communities we see today on Amazon and in other over-designed pre-fab online subdivisions, but instead real communities, with potholes and assholes--just like real life."
"Passive yields to Active. Eyeballs to Voice."
"I'm scared about the Rageboy™ thing. Not your rageboy (no trademark here--I'm using it generically-notice the lower case), but the variation of rageboy you think we all have. How can I keep writing nice things about my coveted 'blue chip' clients--and usually 'as' one of my clients--if I admit to having a ragegirl inside of me. I can never ever acknowledge her."
"Interactive reviews… write as you read… experience the book. Does a product exist for this? Read the book in the right hand column… Record your thoughts in the left… Somehow you co-write and revise what you are reading… giving it breath beyond the paper page. Continuing the voice--adding new voices to the author's voice… Then, we can merge this co-thinking, co-speaking, and co-mingling of ideas into a creation of its own. A daughter publication. And, the cycle could start again. Think of where we would end up--so far away from, and yet I suspect so close to, the original piece."
"I am canceling my subscription to EGR--that man is a lunatic. He's got me talking all kinds of crazy."
(Oh and one of my personal favorites...)
"How about these 'guidelines,' for all of the mightier-than-thou Internet publication hacks who gave us grief over the last three years:
-Don't patronize and piss off industry professionals who work for your publication for free--providing most of the stuff your readers pay you for.
-Don't fill your publication with so many lame ads that it makes your magazine 600 pages thick and you have to start publishing it twelve times a month, you greedy fuck.
-Don't look like an idiot when no one is buying ad space anymore, you have to layoff half your staff, and your magazine is now 3 pages and comes out twice a year."
From the RGE Archives.
"These interconnected 'places of voice' are not the communities we see today on Amazon and in other over-designed pre-fab online subdivisions, but instead real communities, with potholes and assholes--just like real life."
"Passive yields to Active. Eyeballs to Voice."
"I'm scared about the Rageboy™ thing. Not your rageboy (no trademark here--I'm using it generically-notice the lower case), but the variation of rageboy you think we all have. How can I keep writing nice things about my coveted 'blue chip' clients--and usually 'as' one of my clients--if I admit to having a ragegirl inside of me. I can never ever acknowledge her."
"Interactive reviews… write as you read… experience the book. Does a product exist for this? Read the book in the right hand column… Record your thoughts in the left… Somehow you co-write and revise what you are reading… giving it breath beyond the paper page. Continuing the voice--adding new voices to the author's voice… Then, we can merge this co-thinking, co-speaking, and co-mingling of ideas into a creation of its own. A daughter publication. And, the cycle could start again. Think of where we would end up--so far away from, and yet I suspect so close to, the original piece."
"I am canceling my subscription to EGR--that man is a lunatic. He's got me talking all kinds of crazy."
(Oh and one of my personal favorites...)
"How about these 'guidelines,' for all of the mightier-than-thou Internet publication hacks who gave us grief over the last three years:
-Don't patronize and piss off industry professionals who work for your publication for free--providing most of the stuff your readers pay you for.
-Don't fill your publication with so many lame ads that it makes your magazine 600 pages thick and you have to start publishing it twelve times a month, you greedy fuck.
-Don't look like an idiot when no one is buying ad space anymore, you have to layoff half your staff, and your magazine is now 3 pages and comes out twice a year."
From the RGE Archives.
Uh-huh. I knew it.
Something told me that Tom Matrullo would become obsessed with GoogleFight. Heh. If Tom's mastery of "this vs. that" teaches us anything, it teaches us that war is hell, and small wins big. Well, you'll get my drift if you check out Tom's interesting hour (day? couple days?) on GoogleFight.
A note about fair fights--Some of you with rather not-so-unusual first and last names (cough cough--one Gary Turner comes to mind...) need to put QUOTATION MARKS around your whole name when you decide to pick on someone. It's not fair for you Turners of the world to ride on the coat tails of Ike and Tina. Not when the Sessums and Marek Js of the world have to go it alone.
And? Wanna make somethin' of it?
A note about fair fights--Some of you with rather not-so-unusual first and last names (cough cough--one Gary Turner comes to mind...) need to put QUOTATION MARKS around your whole name when you decide to pick on someone. It's not fair for you Turners of the world to ride on the coat tails of Ike and Tina. Not when the Sessums and Marek Js of the world have to go it alone.
And? Wanna make somethin' of it?
happy anniversary to me... and gonzo
one year blogging anniversary for me today. eeeeeeeeeeeee!
And mostly, happy anniversary to everyone who participated with me in the early and later days of the Reading Gonzo--Engaged team blog.
(Rumor has it that the PAPERBACK edition of the book responsible for launching the RGE blog is shipping any day now... rumor has it you ought to buy the thing if you haven't. rumor has it cousin Vito might pay you a visit if you don't. All rumors and speculation, of course.)
How d'ya like me so far? Here's to year two.
And mostly, happy anniversary to everyone who participated with me in the early and later days of the Reading Gonzo--Engaged team blog.
(Rumor has it that the PAPERBACK edition of the book responsible for launching the RGE blog is shipping any day now... rumor has it you ought to buy the thing if you haven't. rumor has it cousin Vito might pay you a visit if you don't. All rumors and speculation, of course.)
How d'ya like me so far? Here's to year two.
October 06, 2002
just when we were getting tired of hearing ourselves not saying much...
There are some amazing weblogs I've come across recently thanks to others in this circle of friends who are linking to them. I would credit my circle friends for the links, but I've been hopping around so very much tonight that I don't know how I got to where I got! Nuff said. Check these destinations out...
Resident Blog, a team weblog of women residents in their journey to becoming our docs of the future... Tired, worn out, stressed--they STILL find time to blog. Amanda has a particularly moving account of her work in the NICU and more...
"In the process of writing this I have drawn 15 ccs of spinal fluid off of an indwelling reservoir in a baby with hydrocephalus, I have been to the cesarian birth of a beautiful bellowing baby girl whose mom is trying to stay off of methamphetamines in an inpatient drug treatment. Her friend held the baby close to her face behind the curtain and her sparkling blue eyes teared up as she said "Wow." Then, I tried to intubate a tiny 1 1/2 pound baby whose O2 sats were in the 40s. I didn't make it and I handed the blade over to the senior resident who finally made it on the third try. We peeled off our gloves and our hands were all pruney from sweating. My senior's headed to bed- I'm on the first shift and there's folks over in labor and we're likely to be called any minute for some deliveries. I've got clinic tomorrow post call and have put in an 81.5 hour week by midnight tonight."
I didn't see permalinks, so scroll down and read them all--it's worth it.
Another fast rising blog of interest is The Homeless Guy, which chronicles the challenges and warmspots of a homeless weblogger in (I think) Nashville.
There's also excellent writing on HotMud.
This from there:
"He arrives. He looks good. One of the great injustices since the trouble began is that he's looked fantastic. And I don't. The pain goes straight to my face and lodges there; anyone can read it in the tension around my mouth, which is constant, and in my eyelids, which are always slightly swollen. In pain, he shines. It's inexplicable and enviable. It makes me feel ill. It makes me long for anesthetic. I pretend that my mocha contains codeine."
Nice stuff... dat's all for tonight. I'm on the hunt for more. When I get sick of hearing myself write, I always go look for new blood to add to my blogroll... widen the circle... toward one world... one peaceful world.
Resident Blog, a team weblog of women residents in their journey to becoming our docs of the future... Tired, worn out, stressed--they STILL find time to blog. Amanda has a particularly moving account of her work in the NICU and more...
"In the process of writing this I have drawn 15 ccs of spinal fluid off of an indwelling reservoir in a baby with hydrocephalus, I have been to the cesarian birth of a beautiful bellowing baby girl whose mom is trying to stay off of methamphetamines in an inpatient drug treatment. Her friend held the baby close to her face behind the curtain and her sparkling blue eyes teared up as she said "Wow." Then, I tried to intubate a tiny 1 1/2 pound baby whose O2 sats were in the 40s. I didn't make it and I handed the blade over to the senior resident who finally made it on the third try. We peeled off our gloves and our hands were all pruney from sweating. My senior's headed to bed- I'm on the first shift and there's folks over in labor and we're likely to be called any minute for some deliveries. I've got clinic tomorrow post call and have put in an 81.5 hour week by midnight tonight."
I didn't see permalinks, so scroll down and read them all--it's worth it.
Another fast rising blog of interest is The Homeless Guy, which chronicles the challenges and warmspots of a homeless weblogger in (I think) Nashville.
There's also excellent writing on HotMud.
This from there:
"He arrives. He looks good. One of the great injustices since the trouble began is that he's looked fantastic. And I don't. The pain goes straight to my face and lodges there; anyone can read it in the tension around my mouth, which is constant, and in my eyelids, which are always slightly swollen. In pain, he shines. It's inexplicable and enviable. It makes me feel ill. It makes me long for anesthetic. I pretend that my mocha contains codeine."
Nice stuff... dat's all for tonight. I'm on the hunt for more. When I get sick of hearing myself write, I always go look for new blood to add to my blogroll... widen the circle... toward one world... one peaceful world.
Down for the Count
I took an uppercut from Tom Matrullo who whooped me on Google Fights, but I KO-ed Halley Suitt in Round Two.
Thanks to Scoble for the link!
Thanks to Scoble for the link!
October 04, 2002
a rainy night in georgia, and it feels like I'm bloggin' all over the world.
Shelley's got me thinking--again. In today's post she made me feel nostalgic in a way I've never felt before. Not more or less intense than regular nostalgia, but compressed for sure.
I remember the days Shelley is writes about. They were what, six months ago? In blogland it seems like ten years ago. Jokin', jivin', jawin' on the tele, everything was upside down and sideways but somehow just right. Are we saying, "Those were the days, my friend?" Well, for now, maybe I am.
Looking back. Shared History.
Shared agony, ecstacy. hurt. laughter. With you, Shell. About those days.
When George was in Hong Kong, me here with Jenna, the telephone inviting long talks with Marek, Shelley, Halley, Gary, RB, Tom, Elaine, and crew. They helped take care of me, supported my journey into therapy and soul searching. Jenna wasn't even in pre-K yet. I was working full-time. I hadn't told my parents they were alcoholics yet. So much is different now.
The world in blogtime.
And so I go further back.
And I realize that a year ago Monday (Oct 7th) I started blogging. I signed onto blogger with Reading Gonzo--Engaged after spending a week engrossed with a review copy of Chris Locke's Gonzo Marketing. The infamous RageBoy and I had exchanged a few emails before then. But I never imagined the guy would be our daughter's Uncle when I sent him that MS Word document last October--a document in which I'd been journaling my reading of Gonzo Marketing. He wrote back and said, "This would be just right for a blog, or two, or three." I took him at his word. Still do.
For me, this is where my life among bloggers began.
Gonzo Engaged lived a pretty full life, as its archives attest to. But of late, it has waned in popularity and postings. Many of the bloggers Locke inspired, some of whom started blogging right then and there on the Gonzo team blog, are now focused on their own weblogs and team blogs, me among them.
Still, I wait. To see if Gonzo will re-ignite.
Blogs are funny that way.
So is RageBoy.
But when I look back at my first year of blogging, it seems like a lifetime ago.
Maybe that's because we're living in so many people's lives at once.
Do you think?
I remember when Gary launched the soon-to-be international phenomenon known as Blog Stickers, me saying, can I put one of those things on my blog? (Yes, I was the first.) I picked "Blog is a four letter word," bought up Gary's t-shirts and mugs, told him we'd just hit the new era of e-commerce, and shit, we kind of did, never forseeing Gary was just getting going with his insane ideas, hadn't yet experienced his Chukka Bar Incident; chalk chalking was just a glimmer in its father's eye, as was Baby Turner to be.
RageBoy was loving, then dying; now reborn. I've watched the metamorphosis, which has been incredible, and as real life as real life gets hundreds of miles away over wires.
Halley, Craig, Shelley, and now Doc, all lived in different houses. I feel like I've moved with all of them. Is that why I'm so tired? Halley, where'd you put my f-ing can opener?
Marek hadn't scared us yet with his traumatic hospital stay, Dave Winer hadn't either.
I was on Mike Sanders' blogroll and he was on mine.
The warbloggers were mere pains in the asses, not a full-fledged movement.
Blog Sisters was an idea that woke me up one night, nothing less or more, until... and then...
Elaine wasn't a grandma yet.
I hadn't met AKMA's amazing wife, Margaret.
So many things. So many things to have happened. So many things to have happened to so many of us.
And more to come.
Only one absolute: I feel blessed to be among you.
I remember the days Shelley is writes about. They were what, six months ago? In blogland it seems like ten years ago. Jokin', jivin', jawin' on the tele, everything was upside down and sideways but somehow just right. Are we saying, "Those were the days, my friend?" Well, for now, maybe I am.
Looking back. Shared History.
Shared agony, ecstacy. hurt. laughter. With you, Shell. About those days.
When George was in Hong Kong, me here with Jenna, the telephone inviting long talks with Marek, Shelley, Halley, Gary, RB, Tom, Elaine, and crew. They helped take care of me, supported my journey into therapy and soul searching. Jenna wasn't even in pre-K yet. I was working full-time. I hadn't told my parents they were alcoholics yet. So much is different now.
The world in blogtime.
And so I go further back.
And I realize that a year ago Monday (Oct 7th) I started blogging. I signed onto blogger with Reading Gonzo--Engaged after spending a week engrossed with a review copy of Chris Locke's Gonzo Marketing. The infamous RageBoy and I had exchanged a few emails before then. But I never imagined the guy would be our daughter's Uncle when I sent him that MS Word document last October--a document in which I'd been journaling my reading of Gonzo Marketing. He wrote back and said, "This would be just right for a blog, or two, or three." I took him at his word. Still do.
For me, this is where my life among bloggers began.
Gonzo Engaged lived a pretty full life, as its archives attest to. But of late, it has waned in popularity and postings. Many of the bloggers Locke inspired, some of whom started blogging right then and there on the Gonzo team blog, are now focused on their own weblogs and team blogs, me among them.
Still, I wait. To see if Gonzo will re-ignite.
Blogs are funny that way.
So is RageBoy.
But when I look back at my first year of blogging, it seems like a lifetime ago.
Maybe that's because we're living in so many people's lives at once.
Do you think?
I remember when Gary launched the soon-to-be international phenomenon known as Blog Stickers, me saying, can I put one of those things on my blog? (Yes, I was the first.) I picked "Blog is a four letter word," bought up Gary's t-shirts and mugs, told him we'd just hit the new era of e-commerce, and shit, we kind of did, never forseeing Gary was just getting going with his insane ideas, hadn't yet experienced his Chukka Bar Incident; chalk chalking was just a glimmer in its father's eye, as was Baby Turner to be.
RageBoy was loving, then dying; now reborn. I've watched the metamorphosis, which has been incredible, and as real life as real life gets hundreds of miles away over wires.
Halley, Craig, Shelley, and now Doc, all lived in different houses. I feel like I've moved with all of them. Is that why I'm so tired? Halley, where'd you put my f-ing can opener?
Marek hadn't scared us yet with his traumatic hospital stay, Dave Winer hadn't either.
I was on Mike Sanders' blogroll and he was on mine.
The warbloggers were mere pains in the asses, not a full-fledged movement.
Blog Sisters was an idea that woke me up one night, nothing less or more, until... and then...
Elaine wasn't a grandma yet.
I hadn't met AKMA's amazing wife, Margaret.
So many things. So many things to have happened. So many things to have happened to so many of us.
And more to come.
Only one absolute: I feel blessed to be among you.
September 30, 2002
I am a mouth hanging open
Well, since Uncle RageBoy posted his plea to burst Jenna's brain with a bushel of presents for her five-year-old birthday, I decided to check Jenna's wishlist to see what was going on. I was dumbfounded by the outpouring of generosity--and really cool presents--that are coming her way. I called George over to my laptop and said, "Check this out!" We were stunned. No way, George said... I said, "See, I told you these bloggers are cooler than most of the real life people we know." Which, in and of itself is a rather odd statement, but, I know you all know what I mean. What we have is a truly amazing community of love unseen, of hope untouched, all the more powerful because.
And it's not just the presents--the good wishes from those who can't or choose not to jump on amazon and one-click Jenna a gift are just as sincere and meaningful, just as special and appropriate, and we appreciate them all. Please do know that.
I sat Jenna down at the laptop before school early this morning to read her the comments from Dean, from Frank, from Shelley, from all these crazy uncles and aunts she has yet to meet.
She was all smiles and giggles, and please know that you are all becoming household names around the Sessum homestead. That *can* be a good thing.
Thank you one and all... I'll keep you posted as the packages arrive--try to get some pics of our little darling in her glory.
And it's not just the presents--the good wishes from those who can't or choose not to jump on amazon and one-click Jenna a gift are just as sincere and meaningful, just as special and appropriate, and we appreciate them all. Please do know that.
I sat Jenna down at the laptop before school early this morning to read her the comments from Dean, from Frank, from Shelley, from all these crazy uncles and aunts she has yet to meet.
She was all smiles and giggles, and please know that you are all becoming household names around the Sessum homestead. That *can* be a good thing.
Thank you one and all... I'll keep you posted as the packages arrive--try to get some pics of our little darling in her glory.
September 29, 2002
put her back inside?
Five years ago this evening, we stared at each other, a lot.
We knew that the next day we'd have a baby, with ultrasound certainty, a baby girl to be exact.
Tonight, I don't know why, and I do know why, and either way, I mourn the end of my pregnancy. It's five years later, and tonight I am grieving over the loss of those nine months as if the last four years never happened.
Although my pregnancy was filled with plenty of peril--ultrasounds to track my multitude of uterine fibroids (many bigger than "the bean" as we called her then), office trips for episodes of sudden bleeding, and my own untold doubts about my ability to mother--it was also the most blissful time in my life. For a couple, there is nothing like a first pregnancy. You have one another's complete attention (which you never have again). You watch the miracle of creation take place before your very eyes. You learn what your mate is made of. You work together to complete the most amazing human task there is.
Having been married 11 years before deciding to take the plunge into parenthood, we were pretty used to being two. I relished those 9 months knowing that I should, understanding that nothing would ever be the same again. I took five or six baths a day, read every trashy novel I could get my hands on in the tub, loved my husband attending to my every need.
It really was the best of times. And it's over.
And maybe it's me being 40 and Jenna turning 5 that has me in this place where I'm afraid--very afraid--I'll never get to do it again.
I remember saying to George, one night in my 8th month, "Think about what we're doing right now--this minute. What will it be like to have another person here with us?" I couldn't fathom it. He said, "The house adapts; we adapt. She'll just be here doing these things with us."
And so she is. And I feel so blessed I am weak from it. And I am going to sleep.... to lie next to my baby for a while. Goodnight.
We knew that the next day we'd have a baby, with ultrasound certainty, a baby girl to be exact.
Tonight, I don't know why, and I do know why, and either way, I mourn the end of my pregnancy. It's five years later, and tonight I am grieving over the loss of those nine months as if the last four years never happened.
Although my pregnancy was filled with plenty of peril--ultrasounds to track my multitude of uterine fibroids (many bigger than "the bean" as we called her then), office trips for episodes of sudden bleeding, and my own untold doubts about my ability to mother--it was also the most blissful time in my life. For a couple, there is nothing like a first pregnancy. You have one another's complete attention (which you never have again). You watch the miracle of creation take place before your very eyes. You learn what your mate is made of. You work together to complete the most amazing human task there is.
Having been married 11 years before deciding to take the plunge into parenthood, we were pretty used to being two. I relished those 9 months knowing that I should, understanding that nothing would ever be the same again. I took five or six baths a day, read every trashy novel I could get my hands on in the tub, loved my husband attending to my every need.
It really was the best of times. And it's over.
And maybe it's me being 40 and Jenna turning 5 that has me in this place where I'm afraid--very afraid--I'll never get to do it again.
I remember saying to George, one night in my 8th month, "Think about what we're doing right now--this minute. What will it be like to have another person here with us?" I couldn't fathom it. He said, "The house adapts; we adapt. She'll just be here doing these things with us."
And so she is. And I feel so blessed I am weak from it. And I am going to sleep.... to lie next to my baby for a while. Goodnight.
baby blogger's turning five tomorrow...
I remember five years ago, all the feelings of terror and wonder, knowing that the next day we would have a daughter. Scheduled c-section means you pick your baby's birthday--a weighty task not lost on me. September baby? October baby? The choice was ours, and we made it based on who we thought the best doctor for the job was. Turned out, he wasn't, but along came this beautiful spirit, powering her way into the world--she hasn't let up a day in five years. I love her so.
Jenna's Amazon Wish List
Jenna's Amazon Wish List
September 27, 2002
the big top
Pink cotton candy
on a rolled paper stick,
slick hungry fingers unwrap,
hurrying, taste sugar, melting.
Is that you? It is you.
So much so sweet
so long I've known
those eyes.
dare, I dare you.
come with me to
the big top
where carnival music
carries us back,
light hearted children
without scars,
just loose cotton shorts
that tie at the waist
tie dye tank tops
and a cool fifty cents
to burn.
Hurry, Hurry,
step right up.
don't be late
to the greatest
show on earth.
on a rolled paper stick,
slick hungry fingers unwrap,
hurrying, taste sugar, melting.
Is that you? It is you.
So much so sweet
so long I've known
those eyes.
dare, I dare you.
come with me to
the big top
where carnival music
carries us back,
light hearted children
without scars,
just loose cotton shorts
that tie at the waist
tie dye tank tops
and a cool fifty cents
to burn.
Hurry, Hurry,
step right up.
don't be late
to the greatest
show on earth.
September 24, 2002
blog therapy
cold stone sleep feathers dust damp night
lantern stove light wood appear among
man woman betrayal dance leaving coming
going esteem shame blame run faster guilt
trance eyes closed thoughts come stories
undone swirling starts....
trigger.
stop!
blog.
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is where we heal.
lantern stove light wood appear among
man woman betrayal dance leaving coming
going esteem shame blame run faster guilt
trance eyes closed thoughts come stories
undone swirling starts....
trigger.
stop!
blog.
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is how we heal
this is where we heal.
September 22, 2002
Answer Song: Let Us Purge
Yeah, brother forgive me, Marek, I've consumed too. Consumed and watched others consume this poison culture, out there, not in here, yes in here too, skinning me raw, making me consume poison, the poison we're fed all our lives, from parents who consumed, and who consumed us, and now I am so full of emptiness, I need to consume some more until I have stuffed so much consumption so far down I feel very full of empty, and so then what do I do? I am power; I am unconsumption; I purge. I vomit sleek tall runway models and bulging musclemen from my gut, puke them on the floor, Disney soft porn drips from my lips, tastes sweet going down, bitter coming up. I shake from 4/4 rhythms in the key of C until bile bubbles up from the pit of my stomach, burns my throat on its way out, unconsuming sexy sleek brainless mindless realfakeworld people that fuck so good, drive shiny new cars that hurt my eyes. I am purging them, vomiting scrap metal and lingere onto my tile floor, a heap of consumption unconsumed, until I am empty but so full.
Thank you. That felt so good.
Thank you. That felt so good.
September 21, 2002
getting to know you
George is back home. Been busy catching up, growing, cloudbursts, sunbursts, living, transitioning into unto within whereas who knows. But mainly I wanted to say I skinned his blog and put some sound samples up. 'bout time someone round here did that. Now, if I can get a new pic and figure out how to put the permalinks in, Im'a call it done.
talk at ya soon.
talk at ya soon.
September 17, 2002
search and destroy
There was, not so long ago, quite a dialog in blogland about anger. I'm trying not to focus on anger this 3:17 in the morning, when I should be sleeping, so much to do, so much to keep up with, and the plague of the locuses chirping away outside.
Instead I'm thinking more about anger's natural outlet: Destruction. There is, I think, no greater power than destruction. Destruction reduces creation. So, then, destruction is the natural enemy of creativity.
But still, there is so much I could destroy, I wouldn't know where to start. It's in my genes to do this. Family members have murdered business partners and been sent down the river for it. Lives and families have been destroyed. And in a covert way, on the other side of my of my family continuum, destruction is even more powerful because it is executed covertly. Many have died in my family, in my life, and not all by accident. In fact, even without a physical murder weapon, destruction has laid waste and left dead bodies strewn across upstate New York graveyards. Some of us are walking monuments to destructive forces. Give me a steamroller anyday.
So I look at my inherent ability, and inborn proclivity, to destroy and wonder why I don't do it. And I think, then, maybe I have done it, by trying to avoid destruction, thereby playing into its hands. And that makes me want to search and destroy all the more. The power surge I feel just thinking about unleashing my wrath is, well, pleasant. No, it's not disturbing to me at all. This may not be a good thing. What should I run over today, what should I reduce to rubble, and what should I save? Myself? Well, yes, there's that. No power surge in that though.
And yet, when the wave passes--the pure DNA based understanding that I could easily smash the tallest castle to dust with my mind, that my thoughts and the manifestations of those thoughts could so over power another human creation, that my strength of voice could leave another human being a drewling mass of flesh and not much more--oops, I got carried away there, sorry--as I was saying, when the wave passes, some odd sense of peace and joy take it's place. A greater understanding of all I've been so angry about. I jump to another level of understanding.
And I can't decide whether it's because I've resisted the urge (and in many ways have not been allowed) to destroy something, or because I've already exercised it here, in my blog/voice/mind and need not act it out. No matter how you cut it, destruction is a force we must keep in check, because when the whirlwind starts, self-destruction is often the end result of that large load of anger.
Instead I'm thinking more about anger's natural outlet: Destruction. There is, I think, no greater power than destruction. Destruction reduces creation. So, then, destruction is the natural enemy of creativity.
But still, there is so much I could destroy, I wouldn't know where to start. It's in my genes to do this. Family members have murdered business partners and been sent down the river for it. Lives and families have been destroyed. And in a covert way, on the other side of my of my family continuum, destruction is even more powerful because it is executed covertly. Many have died in my family, in my life, and not all by accident. In fact, even without a physical murder weapon, destruction has laid waste and left dead bodies strewn across upstate New York graveyards. Some of us are walking monuments to destructive forces. Give me a steamroller anyday.
So I look at my inherent ability, and inborn proclivity, to destroy and wonder why I don't do it. And I think, then, maybe I have done it, by trying to avoid destruction, thereby playing into its hands. And that makes me want to search and destroy all the more. The power surge I feel just thinking about unleashing my wrath is, well, pleasant. No, it's not disturbing to me at all. This may not be a good thing. What should I run over today, what should I reduce to rubble, and what should I save? Myself? Well, yes, there's that. No power surge in that though.
And yet, when the wave passes--the pure DNA based understanding that I could easily smash the tallest castle to dust with my mind, that my thoughts and the manifestations of those thoughts could so over power another human creation, that my strength of voice could leave another human being a drewling mass of flesh and not much more--oops, I got carried away there, sorry--as I was saying, when the wave passes, some odd sense of peace and joy take it's place. A greater understanding of all I've been so angry about. I jump to another level of understanding.
And I can't decide whether it's because I've resisted the urge (and in many ways have not been allowed) to destroy something, or because I've already exercised it here, in my blog/voice/mind and need not act it out. No matter how you cut it, destruction is a force we must keep in check, because when the whirlwind starts, self-destruction is often the end result of that large load of anger.
September 16, 2002
Shame Blame Insane
One of the first damaging emotions many of us learned is shame. I remember its roots in my early life, remember the earliest lesson in human creation even: shame. It is one of the worst feelings, isn't it? Fear and shame run deep in me. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" What is that to tell a child? Lessons of unlove=lessons in shame.
I remember my grandmother, my mothers' mother who stayed with us for months on end, coming into my room one cloudy afternoon--a staunch Roman Catholic ultra uptight and nervous woman, enough baggage to fill a semi. I was there on the floor, doing what I always did: drawing on something. That day it was my Barbie, naked, and of course Malibu Ken was with her, sans swim trunks, and me, at probably 8 years old, outlining their forms on plastic flesh, circling Barbies breasts, wondering how do they get like *that*? And Ken's buldge, curious, but mostly noticing form, form and shape, lines and space, the abscence and presence of *body*, the hills and valleys, indentations, all the time drawing and circling, until Barbie and Ken looked like they had just returned from an outing at an obscene tattoo parlor.
When my grandmother happened upon me, by surprise of course, she said, "Shame on you! Look what you're doing! Give me those dolls!" Memory stop. Full stop. Left with no memory of events following the moment but a very strong memory of feeling shame. I'm sure she took them to my mother, who probably set them aside, never said anything to me about it, instead most likely remembered her own shame: reflect the mirror, shame be with you--and also with you.
The other memory I have of second generation shame is directly related to nakedness, an early love for it, for liking to sleep without a nightgown if I could--or at least without the very modest "underpants" I had to wear. I didn't know anything other than I really liked the feel and smell of cool, ironed, perfect, air-dried, cotton sheets against my skin, especially on hot nights. So I got away with what I could, which meant a nightgown, and if I could, nothing else.
Who should happen upon me in my state of euphoric disrepair one night--yes, Grandma, with her reaction: "Look at you! Don't you ever go to bed without underpants on--shame on you!"
It wasn't until this week that I figured out what she was worried about. She wasn't worried about my nudity as much as what I might be doing without those panties on. And you know what? I wasn't doing anything except exploring the magical feeling of cotton on skin, of cool on hot, of smooth on rough, of skin on fabric, lulling me to sleep. And regardless, should shame be the reaction to a child in wonder? It was the mighty sword that kept me in control, covered, hidden, stuffing curiosity and wonder in place of fear of retribution.
And yet, I don't blame her. Unless we unlearn the unhealthy pieces of what we learned, we cannot know. And if we let our moral compass be guided by fear, not love, that is our destiny--that was their destiny. That is not my destiny.
I remember my grandmother, my mothers' mother who stayed with us for months on end, coming into my room one cloudy afternoon--a staunch Roman Catholic ultra uptight and nervous woman, enough baggage to fill a semi. I was there on the floor, doing what I always did: drawing on something. That day it was my Barbie, naked, and of course Malibu Ken was with her, sans swim trunks, and me, at probably 8 years old, outlining their forms on plastic flesh, circling Barbies breasts, wondering how do they get like *that*? And Ken's buldge, curious, but mostly noticing form, form and shape, lines and space, the abscence and presence of *body*, the hills and valleys, indentations, all the time drawing and circling, until Barbie and Ken looked like they had just returned from an outing at an obscene tattoo parlor.
When my grandmother happened upon me, by surprise of course, she said, "Shame on you! Look what you're doing! Give me those dolls!" Memory stop. Full stop. Left with no memory of events following the moment but a very strong memory of feeling shame. I'm sure she took them to my mother, who probably set them aside, never said anything to me about it, instead most likely remembered her own shame: reflect the mirror, shame be with you--and also with you.
The other memory I have of second generation shame is directly related to nakedness, an early love for it, for liking to sleep without a nightgown if I could--or at least without the very modest "underpants" I had to wear. I didn't know anything other than I really liked the feel and smell of cool, ironed, perfect, air-dried, cotton sheets against my skin, especially on hot nights. So I got away with what I could, which meant a nightgown, and if I could, nothing else.
Who should happen upon me in my state of euphoric disrepair one night--yes, Grandma, with her reaction: "Look at you! Don't you ever go to bed without underpants on--shame on you!"
It wasn't until this week that I figured out what she was worried about. She wasn't worried about my nudity as much as what I might be doing without those panties on. And you know what? I wasn't doing anything except exploring the magical feeling of cotton on skin, of cool on hot, of smooth on rough, of skin on fabric, lulling me to sleep. And regardless, should shame be the reaction to a child in wonder? It was the mighty sword that kept me in control, covered, hidden, stuffing curiosity and wonder in place of fear of retribution.
And yet, I don't blame her. Unless we unlearn the unhealthy pieces of what we learned, we cannot know. And if we let our moral compass be guided by fear, not love, that is our destiny--that was their destiny. That is not my destiny.
September 15, 2002
September 14, 2002
she shoots, she scores
Well, after we got washed out in the rain today, the first rain in forever, Jenna decided to put on some lipstick--what a better time to get a mother/daughter self portrait. ha! Anyone want to make a trading card for me? I got left out of the "great blogger" trading cards that went around the first time. And, well, I think it's time. Remember those trading cards when you were a kid--baseball, or the ones in those big packs of gum? I used to think about the players, how much more valuable those cards would get when a player got traded. Funny how that works. So, if ya make me one, will you send one on over? May make us rich someday. ;-)
September 12, 2002
I'm with Marek
Nothing's really funny anymore. I used to feel funny, but not today, not anymore. More work to do. More soul searching. Drained and pained. A commercial-free break is in order. Read the people on my blogroll for a while. They're pretty funny.
Redneck Neighbor
As someone who actually lived next door to a *worse* redneck neighbor than this one, I can sympathize. Another one of Georgia's finest. You have to click through on some of the pictures to get the full flavor--chickenwire fence, torched lawn, burned down deck, and various "building projects" this fine southern gentlemen has subjected his neighbors to. heee heee.
September 11, 2002
wanna hear it? here it go...
steamroller
New day, sky goes gray
Unearth some roots of pain
Think I’m moving aside without a fight
Means you better think again
Fade away, not today
So much stronger than you know
Getting what you bargained for
Means you better lie real low
Got my eye on you while your eye’s on him
Got the hurt planned out as the gear slips in
Got some demolition plans for you, baby….
The steamroller’s rollin’ on in.
Watch your back, sneak attack
No warning for a thief of hearts
Dust kicks up you might think twice
Think I’ll smile while you fall apart
Talk real sweet, teeth grind meat
For a better game you’d disappear
Kick your pumps off girl and get a head start
‘cause my aim’s always been real clear
Got my eye on you while your eye’s on him
Got the hurt planned out as the gear slips in
Got some demolition plans for you, baby….
The steamroller’s rollin’ on in.
Got my eye on you while your eye’s on him
Got the hurt planned out as the gear slips in
Got some demolition plans for you, baby….
The steamroller’s rollin’ on in.
The steamroller’s rollin’ on in.
The steamroller's rollin' on -- you.
September 07, 2002
More on Dr. Real
One quote that I should have included in the post below from Terrence Real's interview is this one:
"I'd like to see the culture change. I'd like to see more people like you doing interviews like this. When you think of the support that a young woman has, in breaking out of roles, Ms. Magazine and all the consciousness-raising groups, and you contrast that to the almost total aloneness a young man has in trying to break out of these roles, I think it's time for us to help a young man like that by creating some kind of a counter-movement or counter-wave that he can feel at home in. That's partly why I'm here."
To a great extent, that's what I think many men are doing through weblogging. The brave ones. You guys ARE the counter-culture movement among men. Men like Mike Golby, Marek, George S., George P., Ray, Tom S., Tom M., Craig Jensen, AKMA, Euan, Frank Paynter, Gary Turner, and of course the father of male truth bloggers and post 40s depression, RageBoy.
If Real is right, and cultural edicts are largely responsible for disconnecting men--under the guise of a survival mechanism for their very gender--then this is why so many men are "coming out" and reconnecting as bloggers. I know that Mike and Tom and Gary and George Partington go to work each day and do their thing--their semi-connected, make-the-best-of-it role which is necessary for their survival, to provide for the well-being of their families. I also know that they unleash parts of themselves in a very real and necessary way within their weblogs that the folks at work--sometimes even at home--don't get to see.
Men ARE reconnecting through weblogging. Not in the same way that women are--more subtle, more slowly--but perhaps in an even more important way. Somehow Real's notion that cultural edicts have taken power away from women and connections away from men seems just right when it comes to what we're doing here in Blogaria. Women are gaining power and voice in a way that's never been before, and men are connecting in ways that are rare and special and human.
Food for thought. And you guys are braver than I knew.
"I'd like to see the culture change. I'd like to see more people like you doing interviews like this. When you think of the support that a young woman has, in breaking out of roles, Ms. Magazine and all the consciousness-raising groups, and you contrast that to the almost total aloneness a young man has in trying to break out of these roles, I think it's time for us to help a young man like that by creating some kind of a counter-movement or counter-wave that he can feel at home in. That's partly why I'm here."
To a great extent, that's what I think many men are doing through weblogging. The brave ones. You guys ARE the counter-culture movement among men. Men like Mike Golby, Marek, George S., George P., Ray, Tom S., Tom M., Craig Jensen, AKMA, Euan, Frank Paynter, Gary Turner, and of course the father of male truth bloggers and post 40s depression, RageBoy.
If Real is right, and cultural edicts are largely responsible for disconnecting men--under the guise of a survival mechanism for their very gender--then this is why so many men are "coming out" and reconnecting as bloggers. I know that Mike and Tom and Gary and George Partington go to work each day and do their thing--their semi-connected, make-the-best-of-it role which is necessary for their survival, to provide for the well-being of their families. I also know that they unleash parts of themselves in a very real and necessary way within their weblogs that the folks at work--sometimes even at home--don't get to see.
Men ARE reconnecting through weblogging. Not in the same way that women are--more subtle, more slowly--but perhaps in an even more important way. Somehow Real's notion that cultural edicts have taken power away from women and connections away from men seems just right when it comes to what we're doing here in Blogaria. Women are gaining power and voice in a way that's never been before, and men are connecting in ways that are rare and special and human.
Food for thought. And you guys are braver than I knew.
the night that the lights went out in georgia?
Well it seems as though my state of personal reflection of late has taken me away from some---uh---fundamental responsibilities---uh--like paying bills. Or, well, like not bouncing checks. Much to my dismay and without any sort of my typical panic, I realized today, after reading some unopened mail, that I have bounced two checks to Cobb EMC, the lovely power fuckers that provide our gas and electric service.
ooops.
It all started when work cut me a paper check, after four years of direct deposits, without me knowing it. The check got here three days late, and needless to say, my checking account -- shakey on a good day -- danced itself into an amazing downward spiral that I, given my current detached emotional state, have watch like a made-for-tv movie. I wonder at it. Mainly, that's what I express. Everything is full of wonder for me now. Even things that used to scare me. Like fiscal mismanagement.
Which is to say, the letter from Cobb EMC also said if the redeposit of the check bounced, which it did last night, I would be subject to an immediate disconnect. I hope to straighten it out on Monday, but if I go dark for a while, literally, you know why.
Doesn't help that all my phones are cordless.... which is to say... cordfull, as they all "plug in."
Send energy. And maybe Quicken.
-me
ooops.
It all started when work cut me a paper check, after four years of direct deposits, without me knowing it. The check got here three days late, and needless to say, my checking account -- shakey on a good day -- danced itself into an amazing downward spiral that I, given my current detached emotional state, have watch like a made-for-tv movie. I wonder at it. Mainly, that's what I express. Everything is full of wonder for me now. Even things that used to scare me. Like fiscal mismanagement.
Which is to say, the letter from Cobb EMC also said if the redeposit of the check bounced, which it did last night, I would be subject to an immediate disconnect. I hope to straighten it out on Monday, but if I go dark for a while, literally, you know why.
Doesn't help that all my phones are cordless.... which is to say... cordfull, as they all "plug in."
Send energy. And maybe Quicken.
-me
Depression: the word of the day
Marek isn't the only one feeling it. George isn't the only one writing about it. You guys know who you are. Read this 1998 interview with Dr. Terry Real who tackles the whys and wherefores of male depression in a way that's incredibly new, refreshing, and I think accurate. Dr. Real's book, I Don't Want to Talk About It: Overcoming The Secret Legacy of Male Depression, is worth reading, for both men and women.
Some of what he says in the interview I've pulled out and posted here:
"Here's what it boils down to. As a culture, it's like we've taken a piece of paper and drawn a line down the center, saying that everything on this side of the line is feminine and everything on the other side is masculine, and woe unto that little boy or little girl who dares to cross that line. Women have been complaining for the last generation about the forces that have brought to bear on women to stay on their side of the line and the consequences of that. My work is about the reciprocal story for the boy. The half of the humanity that girls have been pressured out of has to do with power. The part that boys have been pressured out of has to do with connection."
"Let me say something about the idea of depression as an auto-aggressive disease. I wish I could take credit for it, but Sigmund Freud is the one. He didn't use that phrase, but he talked about depression as aggression turned against one's self. The thing that's important about that is understanding that the root of male depression is violence. And the core of gender socialization for little boys is violence. The way that we "turn boys into men" in this culture is through severance. We turn boys away from their mothers, from their hearts, from other people. The cost of this is disconnection, a disconnection I call the normal traumatization of boys. What happens is that men have overt depression take this violence and turn it in on themselves. Men who have covert depression don't want to bear this violence. I don't blame them. They either try to run from it through intoxication or burying themselves, or they inflict it on other people."
"Once you start to hit the geyser of those raw feelings, it's very tempting to act out. I've been there. You're in a rage, you're hurt. You don't want to feel the pain. Somebody walks into our face and crosses you, and you're not a very pleasant person to be around. The other thing is that a person can be in touch their wounds until they're blue in the face. I know a lot of guys who are working their wounds, but they're still creeps to be around. In the work that I do, I talk about two inner children. I learned this from Pia Mellody. There's the wounded child, who was young, who was on the receiving end of the abuse. But there's also the adaptive child, which is the part of you that took on the mores, the privileges, the false empowerment and the point of view of the perpetrator."
"The very phrase 'be a man' means 'disconnect.' Disconnect from your own feelings and play through the pain. The thing that people are tumbling onto is that the other word for these transactions is violence, trauma. Men walk around with these deep, deep wounds, coupled with an entitlement to mishandle these wounds by irresponsible addictive or violent measures. When you have a hurt little boy walking around in a big, grown man's body, with centuries of male prerogative, that's a pretty volatile combination."
There's lots more. And it's worth reading.
Some of what he says in the interview I've pulled out and posted here:
"Here's what it boils down to. As a culture, it's like we've taken a piece of paper and drawn a line down the center, saying that everything on this side of the line is feminine and everything on the other side is masculine, and woe unto that little boy or little girl who dares to cross that line. Women have been complaining for the last generation about the forces that have brought to bear on women to stay on their side of the line and the consequences of that. My work is about the reciprocal story for the boy. The half of the humanity that girls have been pressured out of has to do with power. The part that boys have been pressured out of has to do with connection."
"Let me say something about the idea of depression as an auto-aggressive disease. I wish I could take credit for it, but Sigmund Freud is the one. He didn't use that phrase, but he talked about depression as aggression turned against one's self. The thing that's important about that is understanding that the root of male depression is violence. And the core of gender socialization for little boys is violence. The way that we "turn boys into men" in this culture is through severance. We turn boys away from their mothers, from their hearts, from other people. The cost of this is disconnection, a disconnection I call the normal traumatization of boys. What happens is that men have overt depression take this violence and turn it in on themselves. Men who have covert depression don't want to bear this violence. I don't blame them. They either try to run from it through intoxication or burying themselves, or they inflict it on other people."
"Once you start to hit the geyser of those raw feelings, it's very tempting to act out. I've been there. You're in a rage, you're hurt. You don't want to feel the pain. Somebody walks into our face and crosses you, and you're not a very pleasant person to be around. The other thing is that a person can be in touch their wounds until they're blue in the face. I know a lot of guys who are working their wounds, but they're still creeps to be around. In the work that I do, I talk about two inner children. I learned this from Pia Mellody. There's the wounded child, who was young, who was on the receiving end of the abuse. But there's also the adaptive child, which is the part of you that took on the mores, the privileges, the false empowerment and the point of view of the perpetrator."
"The very phrase 'be a man' means 'disconnect.' Disconnect from your own feelings and play through the pain. The thing that people are tumbling onto is that the other word for these transactions is violence, trauma. Men walk around with these deep, deep wounds, coupled with an entitlement to mishandle these wounds by irresponsible addictive or violent measures. When you have a hurt little boy walking around in a big, grown man's body, with centuries of male prerogative, that's a pretty volatile combination."
There's lots more. And it's worth reading.
willow
Silence paints
memories of you
on me
like leaves
from the willow,
majestic shade,
now
even the stump
is gone.
never enough
to drink,
roots
sought something
from the concrete
and gave up.
Fresh water was there
all along.
But then.
Not knowing
what you know
only me knowing
I love you.
Numbness
tries to find a
way in,
to erase us,
but can't.
waiting.
memories of you
on me
like leaves
from the willow,
majestic shade,
now
even the stump
is gone.
never enough
to drink,
roots
sought something
from the concrete
and gave up.
Fresh water was there
all along.
But then.
Not knowing
what you know
only me knowing
I love you.
Numbness
tries to find a
way in,
to erase us,
but can't.
waiting.
pathos
So I called her, for the first time in over a month. Me at 40, detached. Finally. And she wept and apologized and begged. Asked forgiveness. I listened. Did not follow her down that ruinous path. I said this instead:
"Every interaction I've had with you
has been affected by your drinking.
I cannot have that in my life anymore."
waited. hoping for I don't know what.
"I understand."
Acknowledgement without excuses. My fears true. A year ago I didn't know what was false; now I know so much is false--and maybe I understand one truth: the fundamental truth in addiction is the need/compulsion to do something--sometimes anything--to mask incredible pain. Without getting to the pain, the addiction remains. And in some cases, when the addiction is so entrenched, the addiction has to go first, before you can touch the pain.
So many people in pain. So much ruin. An endless circle of tragedy.
Breaking the cycle.
She tells me she's at the end of her journey, that something better awaits her. In other words, I've been doing this too long to change now. I wish I understood that. But I'm not 70. She tells me that if I'm alright, she's alright. And again I want to scream, stop living through me. It is an incredible weight, that need to be okay for you. I am no longer willing to carry it.
With this knowledge, an amazing burden has been lifted. I try not to let sadness replace it.
I used to tell her "When you get little and I get big," and whatever followed that was a reflection of my illusion that we would one day trade places. She'd be the little girl, I'd be the mother. That was even after I knew that parents die, because my father had. But somehow, I thought with her: "When you get little and I get big, I'll take care of you." But you see, I already *was* taking care of her at a great cost to me. No more. I've known that for months. But I said it. My voice. Strong.
Underneath it all I am alone.
Through my window concrete pain.
Rippling with the heat off my driveway, whisps of joy.
Beginning to discern which is which.
"Every interaction I've had with you
has been affected by your drinking.
I cannot have that in my life anymore."
waited. hoping for I don't know what.
"I understand."
Acknowledgement without excuses. My fears true. A year ago I didn't know what was false; now I know so much is false--and maybe I understand one truth: the fundamental truth in addiction is the need/compulsion to do something--sometimes anything--to mask incredible pain. Without getting to the pain, the addiction remains. And in some cases, when the addiction is so entrenched, the addiction has to go first, before you can touch the pain.
So many people in pain. So much ruin. An endless circle of tragedy.
Breaking the cycle.
She tells me she's at the end of her journey, that something better awaits her. In other words, I've been doing this too long to change now. I wish I understood that. But I'm not 70. She tells me that if I'm alright, she's alright. And again I want to scream, stop living through me. It is an incredible weight, that need to be okay for you. I am no longer willing to carry it.
With this knowledge, an amazing burden has been lifted. I try not to let sadness replace it.
I used to tell her "When you get little and I get big," and whatever followed that was a reflection of my illusion that we would one day trade places. She'd be the little girl, I'd be the mother. That was even after I knew that parents die, because my father had. But somehow, I thought with her: "When you get little and I get big, I'll take care of you." But you see, I already *was* taking care of her at a great cost to me. No more. I've known that for months. But I said it. My voice. Strong.
Underneath it all I am alone.
Through my window concrete pain.
Rippling with the heat off my driveway, whisps of joy.
Beginning to discern which is which.
September 03, 2002
undie
the scream is real.
come out
come to be
visible
from behind
for
the first
time
see you/me
breaking
thawing cracking
I'm in my father's skin
I'm in my father's skin
looking out
seeing her
for the first time
needing
pleasing
undoing of
me
seeking
regretting
forgetting
getting
to remembering
no net
no skin
begin
unfold
behold what
you fear
understand
it's more than
real
it's more than
alive
electric
static
pain
bend the frame
twist and knott
untie.
come out
come to be
visible
from behind
for
the first
time
see you/me
breaking
thawing cracking
I'm in my father's skin
I'm in my father's skin
looking out
seeing her
for the first time
needing
pleasing
undoing of
me
seeking
regretting
forgetting
getting
to remembering
no net
no skin
begin
unfold
behold what
you fear
understand
it's more than
real
it's more than
alive
electric
static
pain
bend the frame
twist and knott
untie.
September 02, 2002
Be who I need you to be or I'll cease to exist, and so will you.
When you're face to face with a time of complete undoing, you know it. Not any one thing--everything. Not depression, revelation. Not maturity, rebirth. Not pleasant, painful. Agony. I've been writing for a while now about feeling that everything I ever thought was so wasn't. But I didn't know what I meant. I just knew that the thread of me was weakening, fraying. Now, the flashes hit several times a day, make me scream out, oh no oh yes I see.
I can't get the words out without sounding trite, blaming, petty. Blame your mother--so cliche. So I'm quiet. You would have to be able to see the thousands of pieces assembled to understand the power each piece had on me individually while I was growing up (the first time around). What you don't know about is the neurotic need she fostered in me because she needed it, had to have it to live herself, how she replaced my father with me as her feeding ground after he gave up and died. That is the little girl who prayed every night in terror well into her teenage years that if her mother were to die, please God take me too. The 17 year old who tried to open the door of a moving car and jump out upon news that she'd be going away for two weeks. The adolescent and college girl obsessed with confessing, asking absolution, trying to drive her away--test her--do you love me still?
But it was never love because it was conditional on her layering and devouring of me. Her love was based on me feeding her exactly what she needed, her then feeding me everything I didn't need, and I was so good at keeping the cycle going. It was all I ever knew. Her light on me, nothing felt as good. And yet, she undermined me--set out to ruin my beauty as it threatened her spotlight. Set out to ruin me emotionally so I would need her always. Keep me. Eat me. Drink my blood. This is narcisism. Now, add alcoholism on top of that, and you see my wall of denial build itself.
When you have a child, you begin to see your parents for who they really are. In my case, the lifting curtain reveals monsters--pitiful monsters. Having removed my mother's voice from my head for the first time in my life--not speaking or hearing a word in well over a month--I know why she kept up the constant drone, the noise. When the noise falls away, the truth creeps in.
It's not like this is a huge revalation. It's been happening since Jenna was born, and intensely over this past year. But for the first time I'm embracing this loss and using it to heal ME to build ME.
I can't tell you all about it because there is too much to tell. I do not want to write "about" the place I'm in right now, but from it. But I thought you deserved to know where I was, kind blog friends; you continue to give me the gifts of wonder and hope.
I can't get the words out without sounding trite, blaming, petty. Blame your mother--so cliche. So I'm quiet. You would have to be able to see the thousands of pieces assembled to understand the power each piece had on me individually while I was growing up (the first time around). What you don't know about is the neurotic need she fostered in me because she needed it, had to have it to live herself, how she replaced my father with me as her feeding ground after he gave up and died. That is the little girl who prayed every night in terror well into her teenage years that if her mother were to die, please God take me too. The 17 year old who tried to open the door of a moving car and jump out upon news that she'd be going away for two weeks. The adolescent and college girl obsessed with confessing, asking absolution, trying to drive her away--test her--do you love me still?
But it was never love because it was conditional on her layering and devouring of me. Her love was based on me feeding her exactly what she needed, her then feeding me everything I didn't need, and I was so good at keeping the cycle going. It was all I ever knew. Her light on me, nothing felt as good. And yet, she undermined me--set out to ruin my beauty as it threatened her spotlight. Set out to ruin me emotionally so I would need her always. Keep me. Eat me. Drink my blood. This is narcisism. Now, add alcoholism on top of that, and you see my wall of denial build itself.
When you have a child, you begin to see your parents for who they really are. In my case, the lifting curtain reveals monsters--pitiful monsters. Having removed my mother's voice from my head for the first time in my life--not speaking or hearing a word in well over a month--I know why she kept up the constant drone, the noise. When the noise falls away, the truth creeps in.
It's not like this is a huge revalation. It's been happening since Jenna was born, and intensely over this past year. But for the first time I'm embracing this loss and using it to heal ME to build ME.
I can't tell you all about it because there is too much to tell. I do not want to write "about" the place I'm in right now, but from it. But I thought you deserved to know where I was, kind blog friends; you continue to give me the gifts of wonder and hope.
August 30, 2002
Theory: The Critical Mass of Therapy
"When you are working more on yourself than you have self to work on." --jeneane sessum
thank you very much.
Elvis has left the building.
thank you very much.
Elvis has left the building.
August 27, 2002
one more for the road
He was mostly a pest. He showed up on my doorstep while George was in Hong Kong, you remember, an interlude between all those love poems and self-exploration I was doing. I didn't need a tom cat around. He was needy and bit when he didn't get just what he wanted. I'd have to fill his food dish on the outside step three times a day just to keep him from nipping at my heel when I stepped outside for a smoke.
Still...
He hasn't been around in three or four days. Not like him--he usually shows up a few times a day -- coming from wherever he came from. I never did figure out if he was someone's cat just looking for an extra bowl of food, or a stray, or just a lost little cat soul.
I saw him today, not on my step, but on the main road. I didn't look closely as I approached the run-of-the-mill roadkill that seems to haunt these streets. I knew though, not from the guts and innards I saw first, but from the unusual tiger grey fur that had opened up to let his life force go, it was him. My wheels straddled him as I continued on -- had to get Jenna to school in time for french toast sticks. I blocked it for most of the day. But tonight, when the little sister cats next door had the courage to come up my steps like they used to--before him--and see what was left in his food bowl, I said good bye to Ashes.
Glad I could give you a bowl of cat chow and fresh water when you were in need. Sorry I couldn't do more.
Ashes to ashes...
Still...
He hasn't been around in three or four days. Not like him--he usually shows up a few times a day -- coming from wherever he came from. I never did figure out if he was someone's cat just looking for an extra bowl of food, or a stray, or just a lost little cat soul.
I saw him today, not on my step, but on the main road. I didn't look closely as I approached the run-of-the-mill roadkill that seems to haunt these streets. I knew though, not from the guts and innards I saw first, but from the unusual tiger grey fur that had opened up to let his life force go, it was him. My wheels straddled him as I continued on -- had to get Jenna to school in time for french toast sticks. I blocked it for most of the day. But tonight, when the little sister cats next door had the courage to come up my steps like they used to--before him--and see what was left in his food bowl, I said good bye to Ashes.
Glad I could give you a bowl of cat chow and fresh water when you were in need. Sorry I couldn't do more.
Ashes to ashes...
August 26, 2002
Taking time
Still not well -- taking some time to re-focus energies and spirit on the positive, the truly meaningful. Above all, do no harm.
Peace, y'all.
Peace, y'all.
August 23, 2002
Or then...
Well, I felt fine. But now I'm getting sick--catching Jenna's cough and head cold. I'm worn out. It sure felt good to feel good for a minute! Remind me about that in a couple days, will ya?
Going to rest.
Going to rest.
August 21, 2002
if someone had ever told me
I wouldn't have believed them. If they told me I'd be here at 40 at this very odd place on the precipice of losing nearly everything I've held dear--rewind, replay, repeat--I wouldn't have believed them. My family, my self, my future--all resting on unsteady ground.
I thought I had the biggest loss once upon a time, when I was very young, and I thought no other empty space would ever compare to that. With my dad dead, the only loss I could imagine being greater than that, at six, was my mother. Things would get bad, very bad, and I had my mantra: at least my mother's alive. I would watch others die, move away, go away, and I would repeat the mantra: I still have my mother.
At the same time, I watched my mother and step-father drink, retreated from the odd and uncomfortable situations that resulted from their nightly insobriety, and my mantra became just as uncomfortable to me. It was starting to not work. I wasn't hers; I wasn't mine. I was just incomplete. I tried to complete myself with my worthy spouse, then a deacde later with a child. But, big surprise, that doesn't work. Not for long. At least not forever. Joke's on me.
I did not come to this mother mantra all alone, I now realize. It's something that she nurtured in me--she needed me to be hers. She herself had been through great trauma. And so, it was fed to me. An unhealthy diet of "love" by control, and me willing to eat and repeat, knowing no other way.
It's not all her fault. And I love her still. But I hate what she's done. She takes no responsibility--she won't look at this.
Not won't. Can't.
Did I mention I haven't spoken to my mother in nearly a month now? Yes. Well. To you that may seem like no big deal. To me, it's nothing short of miraculous. I have never gone more than a week--two during a particularly nasty family blow up--without hearing her voice. We were once so close. The problem was, we were mostly always way too close. I let myself subsist on her. And she let me. To the detriment of all other relationships.
And so I've asked her for space, now--time to be with me. And I've gotten it, and a month has ticked by.
George away. Jenna in school. No mother to direct and intercept my feelings. I'm here with me. Really here with me.
And I've discovered why I never tried this before: The movies that play backward in my head are not very comforting. I'm seeing them for the first time. They are unraveling what I thought was so, a little at a time, and in their place I'm left with what really was. Freeze frame:
He's behind the wheel for the hundredth time in a condition that by any account, even in the 70s, is illegal. And she is in the front seat, staring straight ahead, no seat belt--her role is not to challenge him, only to control him through her reactions. I whisper to her, "Why don't YOU drive?" Even I know, from car rides past, weaving in and out of his lane of choice, me gripping the side door, that it will be a dicey ride home. She doesn't ever take the keys from him.
This is the part of this backwards movie I'd like to remember a different way: A police car pulls us over, he blows, he goes to jail, something. Something to change what was. But that never happened. We always made it home. See, she was right to let him drive. Everything turned out fine.
Nothing was ever fine.
But me, I am going to be fine.
I am going to be FUCKING fine because I'm finding me, and I'm finding out.
I thought I had the biggest loss once upon a time, when I was very young, and I thought no other empty space would ever compare to that. With my dad dead, the only loss I could imagine being greater than that, at six, was my mother. Things would get bad, very bad, and I had my mantra: at least my mother's alive. I would watch others die, move away, go away, and I would repeat the mantra: I still have my mother.
At the same time, I watched my mother and step-father drink, retreated from the odd and uncomfortable situations that resulted from their nightly insobriety, and my mantra became just as uncomfortable to me. It was starting to not work. I wasn't hers; I wasn't mine. I was just incomplete. I tried to complete myself with my worthy spouse, then a deacde later with a child. But, big surprise, that doesn't work. Not for long. At least not forever. Joke's on me.
I did not come to this mother mantra all alone, I now realize. It's something that she nurtured in me--she needed me to be hers. She herself had been through great trauma. And so, it was fed to me. An unhealthy diet of "love" by control, and me willing to eat and repeat, knowing no other way.
It's not all her fault. And I love her still. But I hate what she's done. She takes no responsibility--she won't look at this.
Not won't. Can't.
Did I mention I haven't spoken to my mother in nearly a month now? Yes. Well. To you that may seem like no big deal. To me, it's nothing short of miraculous. I have never gone more than a week--two during a particularly nasty family blow up--without hearing her voice. We were once so close. The problem was, we were mostly always way too close. I let myself subsist on her. And she let me. To the detriment of all other relationships.
And so I've asked her for space, now--time to be with me. And I've gotten it, and a month has ticked by.
George away. Jenna in school. No mother to direct and intercept my feelings. I'm here with me. Really here with me.
And I've discovered why I never tried this before: The movies that play backward in my head are not very comforting. I'm seeing them for the first time. They are unraveling what I thought was so, a little at a time, and in their place I'm left with what really was. Freeze frame:
He's behind the wheel for the hundredth time in a condition that by any account, even in the 70s, is illegal. And she is in the front seat, staring straight ahead, no seat belt--her role is not to challenge him, only to control him through her reactions. I whisper to her, "Why don't YOU drive?" Even I know, from car rides past, weaving in and out of his lane of choice, me gripping the side door, that it will be a dicey ride home. She doesn't ever take the keys from him.
This is the part of this backwards movie I'd like to remember a different way: A police car pulls us over, he blows, he goes to jail, something. Something to change what was. But that never happened. We always made it home. See, she was right to let him drive. Everything turned out fine.
Nothing was ever fine.
But me, I am going to be fine.
I am going to be FUCKING fine because I'm finding me, and I'm finding out.
August 20, 2002
deux intervieux
See if you can follow this--not sure I've gotten it down yet: Sandhill's Frank Paynter interviews the barely downloadable Mike Golby (not once, but a couple of times), and Blogaria's quickest study George Partington interviews Frank Paynter, who has earned my respect for his ability to churn out these great interviews, for just being Frank, and for quoting Alphonso Johnson--a great guy and colleague of George's.
August 19, 2002
Backstage Riders
I've seen backstage/tour riders before and have heard some amazing stories from George, but these are pretty interesting.
Like, Ozzy Osbourn and Frank Sinatra required Decadron (a steroid); Aerosmith says no alcohol backstage at any time; Black Crows say LOTS of alcohol backstage; Busta Rhymes says NO to pork and beef, yes to KFC, and bring it on to the obligatory box of Rough Rider or Lifestyle ribbed condoms. Busta, with all that dough, you can't supply your own rubbers?
Like, Ozzy Osbourn and Frank Sinatra required Decadron (a steroid); Aerosmith says no alcohol backstage at any time; Black Crows say LOTS of alcohol backstage; Busta Rhymes says NO to pork and beef, yes to KFC, and bring it on to the obligatory box of Rough Rider or Lifestyle ribbed condoms. Busta, with all that dough, you can't supply your own rubbers?
August 18, 2002
My Mother Needed No One
Here's the thing about my mother. Married at 19, three kids by 28, and a dead husband by 35, followed two weeks afterward by her own father's surprise death (today they would call it negligent homocide), a widow raising 3 kids alone for six years in the 60s and 70s, where, in suburban Irondequoit, that made her a freak and us the "freak" family--she didn't have it easy. The whole time, me as the youngest, looked at how she did it and thought: She doesn't need anyone. She is so strong.
But that strength went awry somewhere. If someone made her angry, or looked to be contradicting how she was raising us, she'd cut them out of her life like most people slice cheese. They were there one minute, gone the next. Relatives, friends, no one dared mess with my mom. They all knew the consequences.
So, I'm finding out, did I.
She was and is in the eyes of most who know her one of the strongest, most together woman walking the planet. Then the undercurrent rushes in. Me the mirror. And I remember so vividly my thought process that went: Maternal Strength = Mother loves X + X made Mother mad + bye bye X.
What I saw as great strength then, I now see as a weakness, and a life lesson that has left me a little skewed. Turning people on and off like light switches isn't a strength--it's cruel, it's selfish, and it's false. It was a way for her to avoid confronting the things she should have been and should still be confronting. It was her way of hiding.
And so I learn little things about who I am and why--these snags in me that are caught on the rough edges of my insides.
One thing is for sure: this apple has begun her roll.
But that strength went awry somewhere. If someone made her angry, or looked to be contradicting how she was raising us, she'd cut them out of her life like most people slice cheese. They were there one minute, gone the next. Relatives, friends, no one dared mess with my mom. They all knew the consequences.
So, I'm finding out, did I.
She was and is in the eyes of most who know her one of the strongest, most together woman walking the planet. Then the undercurrent rushes in. Me the mirror. And I remember so vividly my thought process that went: Maternal Strength = Mother loves X + X made Mother mad + bye bye X.
What I saw as great strength then, I now see as a weakness, and a life lesson that has left me a little skewed. Turning people on and off like light switches isn't a strength--it's cruel, it's selfish, and it's false. It was a way for her to avoid confronting the things she should have been and should still be confronting. It was her way of hiding.
And so I learn little things about who I am and why--these snags in me that are caught on the rough edges of my insides.
One thing is for sure: this apple has begun her roll.
No Deposit, No Return
Today was a delightful day. Believe me? Consider this: A good two hours of it, on and off, was spent with my daughter sobbing for her daddy. "Two more days--that's all I can do! Daddy, please come back nooooooow. DaaaDeee! DAAADEEE!"
Having sat with this for what is now close to five months with him out of the U.S., my nerves are wilted, not frayed. I have no more tears to cry in the bathroom, alone, hoping she won't hear me--that I won't feed that need in her that is usually just south of the surface in me. So I have no more tears for it now. I'm fine. I hold her and say, "I know. I know. Soon, baby. Soon. Way sooner than last time." And she says, "Not soon, Now!" And I wipe tears away some more, wishing I had some to give her, let me cry instead of her. But they don't come.
I took her to my sister's house for a cookout, which brightened her mood some, until it was time to leave, and leaving reminded her, and again all the way home, more tears.
Then I went about the business of trying to get a $500 tuition deposit back from a school she's not going to. Mind you, I raised the flag right after I gave them the check--before the deadline for admission. Also asked if this money was a deposit or if it was part of the tuition. I was assured this went toward the tuition. It's a new school, so they weren't bothering with admission fees. They needed bodies. If I'm right no tuition, no attendance, withdrawl before the August 1st deposit deadline--I should get the money back, right? I know most schools keep the $75 admission fee if you don't attend, but $500???
And to think, around the end of July, I had a flash that I should put a stop payment on that check. Why didn't I? I thought it was unnecessary. People are ethical. People live up to their agreements. I'm such a stupid fuck.
Two days ago, I called the administrator again--he said his checkbook was at home and that I should finish talking it over with the directress. So today, I call the teacher/directress, whom I really do love (she is not the administrator--i.e. money man), and she is still trying to get me to enroll Jenna there, but we can't afford it. And I say what George said to the administrator: "Let's get the money back in my hands--then we can talk about it--maybe for January. But right now we can't do it."
So SHE says that according to what she was told, the $500 is non-refundable. There go my ears, filling up with blood again. Ouch, that was my neck. I'm about go balistic. Then I back off, thinking of my sister's lawyer who will write a letter for $90 if I want her to. At this point, the teacher offers me another deal (discounted tuition) that I said I'd talk with George about, but I can't really, because he's not here, so there I am. Back where I started from.
No deposit, no return, a grieving daughter, and only me-myself-I and the blog universe to whine to about it.
Here's to Monday!
Having sat with this for what is now close to five months with him out of the U.S., my nerves are wilted, not frayed. I have no more tears to cry in the bathroom, alone, hoping she won't hear me--that I won't feed that need in her that is usually just south of the surface in me. So I have no more tears for it now. I'm fine. I hold her and say, "I know. I know. Soon, baby. Soon. Way sooner than last time." And she says, "Not soon, Now!" And I wipe tears away some more, wishing I had some to give her, let me cry instead of her. But they don't come.
I took her to my sister's house for a cookout, which brightened her mood some, until it was time to leave, and leaving reminded her, and again all the way home, more tears.
Then I went about the business of trying to get a $500 tuition deposit back from a school she's not going to. Mind you, I raised the flag right after I gave them the check--before the deadline for admission. Also asked if this money was a deposit or if it was part of the tuition. I was assured this went toward the tuition. It's a new school, so they weren't bothering with admission fees. They needed bodies. If I'm right no tuition, no attendance, withdrawl before the August 1st deposit deadline--I should get the money back, right? I know most schools keep the $75 admission fee if you don't attend, but $500???
And to think, around the end of July, I had a flash that I should put a stop payment on that check. Why didn't I? I thought it was unnecessary. People are ethical. People live up to their agreements. I'm such a stupid fuck.
Two days ago, I called the administrator again--he said his checkbook was at home and that I should finish talking it over with the directress. So today, I call the teacher/directress, whom I really do love (she is not the administrator--i.e. money man), and she is still trying to get me to enroll Jenna there, but we can't afford it. And I say what George said to the administrator: "Let's get the money back in my hands--then we can talk about it--maybe for January. But right now we can't do it."
So SHE says that according to what she was told, the $500 is non-refundable. There go my ears, filling up with blood again. Ouch, that was my neck. I'm about go balistic. Then I back off, thinking of my sister's lawyer who will write a letter for $90 if I want her to. At this point, the teacher offers me another deal (discounted tuition) that I said I'd talk with George about, but I can't really, because he's not here, so there I am. Back where I started from.
No deposit, no return, a grieving daughter, and only me-myself-I and the blog universe to whine to about it.
Here's to Monday!
August 17, 2002
waxing and waning
I've figured it out. Not me alone. You know. But I think I figured out the problem with the planet, world, country, region, neighborhood, family, and people in general. It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it.
That problem being that too few of us understand what it means to love. Simply to love and to love simply. At the heart of the matter, too many (for my liking) are missing heart--a passion that transcends the feelings we have for ourselves (our own individuality, needs, and so on) and that transcends even the feeling we have for the other person involved (the recipient of our love).
That "beyond" place is a place where love loves itself--driven by an undeniable instinct to protect and honor itself at all costs. Suddenly, there, if you're lucky enough to get there, love carries you and yours. You are no longer under your own power--things become more effortless, a moving sidewalk. If you're there, hang on. Don't leave that place, even for a minute. It's like a good concert--if you go outside, you'll have a hell of a time getting back in. Do not pass go, do not leave your spot on the love line.
To lose that place is to be truly lost.
That problem being that too few of us understand what it means to love. Simply to love and to love simply. At the heart of the matter, too many (for my liking) are missing heart--a passion that transcends the feelings we have for ourselves (our own individuality, needs, and so on) and that transcends even the feeling we have for the other person involved (the recipient of our love).
That "beyond" place is a place where love loves itself--driven by an undeniable instinct to protect and honor itself at all costs. Suddenly, there, if you're lucky enough to get there, love carries you and yours. You are no longer under your own power--things become more effortless, a moving sidewalk. If you're there, hang on. Don't leave that place, even for a minute. It's like a good concert--if you go outside, you'll have a hell of a time getting back in. Do not pass go, do not leave your spot on the love line.
To lose that place is to be truly lost.
alone again, naturally
George is off to Germany to record for a couple of weeks. I'm back to the familiar alone-with-jenna life I've become accustomed to over the last six months. It's just wonderful. Really. You believe me? Well, then. Don't. I'm not having fun yet. Feeling very family-less. I miss him--I miss "us" the family of three. My life suddenly isn't what it was.
It's funny, when you're growing up you long for that family that will be better than the family you were raised in--in one way or ten.
When you're six, it's "When I have a family of my own, I won't make MY kids go to bed at 8:30."
When you're sixteen, it's "When I have a family of my own I won't run my kids' lives the way my mom tries to run mine."
For me, as a teenager, it was, "When I have a family of my own, no one will ever leave or die." (okay, so I had a little baggage.)
When I was 24, and I heard myself thinking, "This is my husband, this is our house, we're a team ready to take on the world. No one can stop us now."
When I was 36 I thought, "I have a family of my own--this is our baby girl--we're three now. We'll be together always and laugh and joke and play stupid games."
Now I'm 40 and three months, and I hear myself thinking, "Where did my family of my own go?"
It's funny, when you're growing up you long for that family that will be better than the family you were raised in--in one way or ten.
When you're six, it's "When I have a family of my own, I won't make MY kids go to bed at 8:30."
When you're sixteen, it's "When I have a family of my own I won't run my kids' lives the way my mom tries to run mine."
For me, as a teenager, it was, "When I have a family of my own, no one will ever leave or die." (okay, so I had a little baggage.)
When I was 24, and I heard myself thinking, "This is my husband, this is our house, we're a team ready to take on the world. No one can stop us now."
When I was 36 I thought, "I have a family of my own--this is our baby girl--we're three now. We'll be together always and laugh and joke and play stupid games."
Now I'm 40 and three months, and I hear myself thinking, "Where did my family of my own go?"
August 15, 2002
skewered
it is sharper
than the edge
of a blade
turned inward
feels like
blood pooling
around my
heart
wretch
to purge
the agony
a feeling
I know
a familiar
letting go,
getting to
emptiness.
than the edge
of a blade
turned inward
feels like
blood pooling
around my
heart
wretch
to purge
the agony
a feeling
I know
a familiar
letting go,
getting to
emptiness.
August 14, 2002
vow
From two lips
until forever
spoken on leaves
that drip promise
or is it the surprise
morning shower
that soaks
the day
with heat.
One now
not two
the thickness
of the air
carries the music,
a slow cadence
purposeful,
the notes
have time
to lick my ear
remind me
this day
happens
only once.
Unwrap a lifetime
look at it up close
meaning gives
way to knots, bumps
the bee hive disturbed
children in suits
and party dresses
scatter, crying,
stung
welts rising
eyes
wet with tears
the grownups kiss
away.
until forever
spoken on leaves
that drip promise
or is it the surprise
morning shower
that soaks
the day
with heat.
One now
not two
the thickness
of the air
carries the music,
a slow cadence
purposeful,
the notes
have time
to lick my ear
remind me
this day
happens
only once.
Unwrap a lifetime
look at it up close
meaning gives
way to knots, bumps
the bee hive disturbed
children in suits
and party dresses
scatter, crying,
stung
welts rising
eyes
wet with tears
the grownups kiss
away.
step down
Cixous says
climb the
ladder down
step down
into writing
where pain
and grief
bring strange
joy -- relief
if not because,
then because not.
I step down
into pain
again
that doesn't
go away
eases up
for a year
two, five,
minutes
another
step down
now into it
and how do I know
when I'm at the
bottom
my foot
reaches ahead
of me
my toes
feel only air
I am afraid
to know
I'm not there
yet.
climb the
ladder down
step down
into writing
where pain
and grief
bring strange
joy -- relief
if not because,
then because not.
I step down
into pain
again
that doesn't
go away
eases up
for a year
two, five,
minutes
another
step down
now into it
and how do I know
when I'm at the
bottom
my foot
reaches ahead
of me
my toes
feel only air
I am afraid
to know
I'm not there
yet.
August 13, 2002
more on relateivity
back to relationshipping for a minute, or relationtrips, because they are a trip, right?
tripp-fucking-y.
Elaine had a really good comment (that's now gone because of my disappearing/reappearing previous post) that said some stuff about the power of coming to a relationship already formed, complete, good with yourself, individually together BEFORE you delve into the long-term relationship, not struggling to get there after you've made the commitment. But I think you can't do that, or at least mostly you can't. I think it takes relationships to make you relate. I shouldn't use "you." Or should I? Are we relating? I guess I should use we.
Maybe folks who wait until they're 30 or 40 to get serious about a relationship do bring their more fully-formed individual selves into their eventual relationship. But don't they bring extra baggage too? Because how did they get fully formed? Not by sitting on a rock alone shouting into the wind? By relating, no? I think.
Does it take that kind of thing--that individuality of being completely alone by and with yourself for some I-don't-know-how-long length of time before you become that complete/solid individual who can better fulfill his or her end of a relationship? And if so, where do you run into another individual just like you? Someone who's also been sitting alone on their rock getting good with themselves before they get good with you? Like, how would you two ever run into one another? Because you wouldn't want to waste your solid self on someone who hasn't been doing their own deep interpersonal work--otherwise, aren't you doomed to a failed relationship?
Fascinating to me. Really. Because I'm pretty sure I just don't get it. It's like some mystery novel for me with the back half of the book torn off.
I say that we say this: I fucking love you, that's first, then second, I love us, what we are together, and yes of course, third--this is where last but certainly not least comes from--I love me because if I didn't love me, how could I love you? or Us? And if I happen to not love all of me, then show me how you do. And I'll do that for you too. Look, you love me. That's amazing. What do you feel like inside, now, this minute, no, do you see me? look at me. see my eyes. know them? you do know them. And they love you. It's more than my "self" that loves you--bigger than that. It's my skin on yours, my eyes shining out from yours, my finger tips on your cheek that love you. It's your brain on my funny bone. It's my head tucked under your chin.
It's the wierd places of me that I wouldn't know I had unless they were bouncing off of you.
tripp-fucking-y.
Elaine had a really good comment (that's now gone because of my disappearing/reappearing previous post) that said some stuff about the power of coming to a relationship already formed, complete, good with yourself, individually together BEFORE you delve into the long-term relationship, not struggling to get there after you've made the commitment. But I think you can't do that, or at least mostly you can't. I think it takes relationships to make you relate. I shouldn't use "you." Or should I? Are we relating? I guess I should use we.
Maybe folks who wait until they're 30 or 40 to get serious about a relationship do bring their more fully-formed individual selves into their eventual relationship. But don't they bring extra baggage too? Because how did they get fully formed? Not by sitting on a rock alone shouting into the wind? By relating, no? I think.
Does it take that kind of thing--that individuality of being completely alone by and with yourself for some I-don't-know-how-long length of time before you become that complete/solid individual who can better fulfill his or her end of a relationship? And if so, where do you run into another individual just like you? Someone who's also been sitting alone on their rock getting good with themselves before they get good with you? Like, how would you two ever run into one another? Because you wouldn't want to waste your solid self on someone who hasn't been doing their own deep interpersonal work--otherwise, aren't you doomed to a failed relationship?
Fascinating to me. Really. Because I'm pretty sure I just don't get it. It's like some mystery novel for me with the back half of the book torn off.
I say that we say this: I fucking love you, that's first, then second, I love us, what we are together, and yes of course, third--this is where last but certainly not least comes from--I love me because if I didn't love me, how could I love you? or Us? And if I happen to not love all of me, then show me how you do. And I'll do that for you too. Look, you love me. That's amazing. What do you feel like inside, now, this minute, no, do you see me? look at me. see my eyes. know them? you do know them. And they love you. It's more than my "self" that loves you--bigger than that. It's my skin on yours, my eyes shining out from yours, my finger tips on your cheek that love you. It's your brain on my funny bone. It's my head tucked under your chin.
It's the wierd places of me that I wouldn't know I had unless they were bouncing off of you.
okay my relate-ivity post got gone, so I copied it and pasted it in again
but... comments from elaine, marek, and ray went away. sorry.... wha happend???
my theory of relate-ivity
Relationships aren't individuals.
Individuals aren't relationships.
You don't relate individually, except, to yourself.
yourself. yourself. yourself.
(that's an echo)
You relate in relationships. ONLY. period.
So, I'm asking. How does it work?
Is there ever or always a third and fourth person in relationships?
You bring yourself in.
The other person brings himself/herself in.
Then each of you brings the self who works on the relationship TO the relationship -- that's the entire job of these third and fourth relationship selves. Because you need them. It's that hard.
Individually it is much easier to remain an individual. Separate from a relationship. No?
Maybe...
Individual self says:
I want my needs met = Meet them for me or I will have to meet them myself.
Relationship self says:
I want my needs met = I want to meet your needs too.
I dunno. This isn't all about love/romantic relationships. I think it stretches across friendships and blogging and work/business and all of that. Our boundaries are ever more interesting. This relating thing is getting more and more complicated as our understanding of our "selves" and "our world," and their limits or lack thereof, continue to morph.
good night.
my theory of relate-ivity
Relationships aren't individuals.
Individuals aren't relationships.
You don't relate individually, except, to yourself.
yourself. yourself. yourself.
(that's an echo)
You relate in relationships. ONLY. period.
So, I'm asking. How does it work?
Is there ever or always a third and fourth person in relationships?
You bring yourself in.
The other person brings himself/herself in.
Then each of you brings the self who works on the relationship TO the relationship -- that's the entire job of these third and fourth relationship selves. Because you need them. It's that hard.
Individually it is much easier to remain an individual. Separate from a relationship. No?
Maybe...
Individual self says:
I want my needs met = Meet them for me or I will have to meet them myself.
Relationship self says:
I want my needs met = I want to meet your needs too.
I dunno. This isn't all about love/romantic relationships. I think it stretches across friendships and blogging and work/business and all of that. Our boundaries are ever more interesting. This relating thing is getting more and more complicated as our understanding of our "selves" and "our world," and their limits or lack thereof, continue to morph.
good night.
August 12, 2002
artist+realist=progeny
Getting Jenna to wind down for bed is never easy. I could tell you all of the "conversation"--a demand she makes nightly, no matter how many books, no matter how many stories--that we had tonight, but it would embarass her well into her 30s. This nugget deserves to be told, though. Aunt Net is Annette, our next door neighbor. And for those playing the home game, Jenna is 4.
Jenna: "I love all the arts and crafts Aunt Net does. Those are the kind of things I like to do. Do you know if she painted the pine cones for me yet? I will ask her. Tomorrow. I still want to be an artist when I grow up. When I have my own house, I'll paint and draw all the things I want to, and I'll paint my bathroom any colors I want. I'll draw pictures for it too."
Mom: "That sounds fun--and can I come over and watch you?"
Jenna: "Sure, if you're not dead."
Jenna: "I love all the arts and crafts Aunt Net does. Those are the kind of things I like to do. Do you know if she painted the pine cones for me yet? I will ask her. Tomorrow. I still want to be an artist when I grow up. When I have my own house, I'll paint and draw all the things I want to, and I'll paint my bathroom any colors I want. I'll draw pictures for it too."
Mom: "That sounds fun--and can I come over and watch you?"
Jenna: "Sure, if you're not dead."
August 11, 2002
BB votes to amputate RB's lips
Shelley is tired of them. I'm tired of them. We're all tired of them. THOSE FUCKING LIPS! Join Shelley's email campign to nudge the God of Gonzo on to other body parts. No more teeth. No more lips. No more teeth and lips. Say it loud. Say it like you mean it: "Lose the Lips TODAY, RB!"
My body part replacement suggestion was the middle finger. I know, it's been done. But it still seemed fitting. So hands off the middle finger, Paynter. ;-)
My body part replacement suggestion was the middle finger. I know, it's been done. But it still seemed fitting. So hands off the middle finger, Paynter. ;-)
August 10, 2002
the return
mountains good
city bad
deer good
stray cat bad
pontoon boat good
blue minivan bad
hotel good
house bad
service good
no service bad
eating out good
cooking bad
fishing good
PR bad
sun good
flourescent lights bad
swimming good
typing bad
guess where I'd rather be.
city bad
deer good
stray cat bad
pontoon boat good
blue minivan bad
hotel good
house bad
service good
no service bad
eating out good
cooking bad
fishing good
PR bad
sun good
flourescent lights bad
swimming good
typing bad
guess where I'd rather be.
August 09, 2002
Gone fishing
Headed to Red Top Mountain for a day or so to fish, swim, and celebrate our 16th Wedding Anniversary, with Jenna in tow, of course. Will reflect upon our return. Hard copy blogging while gone. Film at 11.
August 06, 2002
Skeleton Keys
Before I happened upon yesterday's metro carnage, I was taking one of those naps--a three hour doosey during which I never slept at all, rather lay there paralyzed by visions hell bent on attacking me. Those are fast dreams. It's like being pummeled by a stronger oponent with bigger boxing gloves than you. I always "wake up" from those kind of naps more tired than I was before, and generally suicidal. It's a long standing thing with me--DON'T NAP.
You see, I tricked myself after having a baby. I became a pretty good napper. A champion napper. You have no choice but to nap when you have a baby. Our little chow hound demanded milk every hour and a half. Her shrill scream would snap me out of slumber, wouldn't hush until her mouth was busy on my breast, where it gnawed for a half hour, which meant, I spent three months sleeping one hour at a time. That's some major nap mileage. Yeah. I learned to nap. I really can be like normal people.
No, sorry. Not so. That was just exhaustion talking. I still can't nap. Not without waking up feeling like I need to crawl out of my skin, like nothing could ever possibly be okay again.
Where does that come from? It's not a fear of napping--I like the idea of napping. It's the fear of waking up into chaos. I got a glimpse of it tonight, as I thought and thought about it, and almost got back there, to the morning after my father died, the first coming awake with the knowledge that nothing would ever be okay again, and I think my wake phobia may have roots to that very morning. The day of the news, I did what any six year old would do, I think. I asked to go outside and play. I wasn't allowed to. Understandable. Now. Not then. Okay, you guys have a stiff drink and I'll sit here twidling my thumbs--what about my relief? Play was my relief. But not this day.
Still, the day he died, as I remember it, wasn't that bad after the initial shock wore off. Used to being helpless, children come to acceptance faster than adults do. You have been trained by six to accept what you have no control over.
The next day. The waking to find everything still undone. That's where it is. That's where I am.
So yesterday's nap was one of those three hour paralysis sessions that I guess other people call naps, and one of the wake-dreams I had was about skeleton keys.
Growing up in western New York, the houses were old. Not like here. City houses in Rochester are big, huge, old, structures with lots of oak and wood inside and a whole lot of character, some good, some not so good. The doors in the houses I remember aren't these hollow pre-fabs. They're solid. They're massive. And all the ones I knew had skeleton keys.
That's what parents had back then that we don't have now. Skeleton Keys. For all the inside doors, the bedroom doors. One worked pretty much like the rest. All you needed was one good skeleton key. You know why skeleton keys are different than regular keys? Why those locks are different than the spin-the-handle knob locks we have here? Because skeleton keys worked from both sides. Lock in / lock out. That's how good Rochester Catholics kept all twelve kids on regular nap and bedtime schedules. That's how they kept kids in line, out of their hair. That was discipline. That's when "Go to your room" meant you were going to your room, and if you came out, the skeleton key would make sure you didn't do it twice. Lock us out, lock us in. Privacy. Order. Enforced loneliness.
Something to be said for that. Or is it just time for me to take another nap?
You see, I tricked myself after having a baby. I became a pretty good napper. A champion napper. You have no choice but to nap when you have a baby. Our little chow hound demanded milk every hour and a half. Her shrill scream would snap me out of slumber, wouldn't hush until her mouth was busy on my breast, where it gnawed for a half hour, which meant, I spent three months sleeping one hour at a time. That's some major nap mileage. Yeah. I learned to nap. I really can be like normal people.
No, sorry. Not so. That was just exhaustion talking. I still can't nap. Not without waking up feeling like I need to crawl out of my skin, like nothing could ever possibly be okay again.
Where does that come from? It's not a fear of napping--I like the idea of napping. It's the fear of waking up into chaos. I got a glimpse of it tonight, as I thought and thought about it, and almost got back there, to the morning after my father died, the first coming awake with the knowledge that nothing would ever be okay again, and I think my wake phobia may have roots to that very morning. The day of the news, I did what any six year old would do, I think. I asked to go outside and play. I wasn't allowed to. Understandable. Now. Not then. Okay, you guys have a stiff drink and I'll sit here twidling my thumbs--what about my relief? Play was my relief. But not this day.
Still, the day he died, as I remember it, wasn't that bad after the initial shock wore off. Used to being helpless, children come to acceptance faster than adults do. You have been trained by six to accept what you have no control over.
The next day. The waking to find everything still undone. That's where it is. That's where I am.
So yesterday's nap was one of those three hour paralysis sessions that I guess other people call naps, and one of the wake-dreams I had was about skeleton keys.
Growing up in western New York, the houses were old. Not like here. City houses in Rochester are big, huge, old, structures with lots of oak and wood inside and a whole lot of character, some good, some not so good. The doors in the houses I remember aren't these hollow pre-fabs. They're solid. They're massive. And all the ones I knew had skeleton keys.
That's what parents had back then that we don't have now. Skeleton Keys. For all the inside doors, the bedroom doors. One worked pretty much like the rest. All you needed was one good skeleton key. You know why skeleton keys are different than regular keys? Why those locks are different than the spin-the-handle knob locks we have here? Because skeleton keys worked from both sides. Lock in / lock out. That's how good Rochester Catholics kept all twelve kids on regular nap and bedtime schedules. That's how they kept kids in line, out of their hair. That was discipline. That's when "Go to your room" meant you were going to your room, and if you came out, the skeleton key would make sure you didn't do it twice. Lock us out, lock us in. Privacy. Order. Enforced loneliness.
Something to be said for that. Or is it just time for me to take another nap?
metro carnage
It seems that every time I go out in this metropolis that is Atlanta, trauma is waiting. Maybe it's the size of this overgrown and mostly annoying city. Or maybe it's haunted. Something about everything being so new--burned down once to rise again with a vengence. What's under the layers of bulldozed earth, made so pristine by hired-hand landscaping and clean brick fronts. I think of Shelley telling me to peel back the layers of the onion. Be careful how far you go.
I'm on my way to pick up Jenna from afternoon summer camp. Forgetting the cell phone, I head back upstairs to get it. Those are the 30 seconds, a minute maybe, the ticking of the clock you become thankful for later, after you happen on an accident that just happened, one you would have been in if you hadn't forgotten something, hadn't stopped to wipe down the counter before leaving.
I'm one of the first cars there--neighbors are already rushing out of their houses doing the thing that makes people feel connected--we're at war you know--and God bless them, they try to direct traffic, call 911, wonder how the hell they'll get out of their driveways now.
Like an exclamation point at the nucleus of the wreckage, I see the perfect, shining coat, amazing muscular body lying on its side, part of him still under one of the cars, three cars in all in various stages of being forever mangled, interrupted from the daily rush by the simple and innocent instinct of this purebred Rottweiler who decided to cross the road at the wrong instant. He's still--I know he's dead. A petite blonde with bad hair kneels by his belly, strokes his face. She isn't crying. I wonder if this is his owner, or one of the unhurt from the mangled cars feeling just as crushed.
I've seen accidents with semi-trucks where the unlucky participants didn't look as bad as these cars. What the hell happened? I can only imagine the white car turning off the side street, seeing the romping mass of life charging across the street, then slamming on the breaks just in time for the two cars barreling down the main road to smash him and this beautiful creature to bits.
You didn't have to be there. Officer, would you like me to tell you what happened? I've just watched the replay in my mind a dozen times, and I didn't even see it happen.
I sit two, three minutes waiting for the police to come, which they do, and clear an imaginary path so that the growing line of traffic can get around the mess, which is taking up the entire road. While I wait for them, I get to stare at the dead-or-dying rottie, the man in the driver's seat of the first car in the line of wreckage with his head tilted back in a way that clues me in: he has no other option. Neighbors are reaching inside another car and shouting to one another. Everyone is in motion, except the dog.
Sacrifice. That's what I named him, there, this day.
I'm on my way to pick up Jenna from afternoon summer camp. Forgetting the cell phone, I head back upstairs to get it. Those are the 30 seconds, a minute maybe, the ticking of the clock you become thankful for later, after you happen on an accident that just happened, one you would have been in if you hadn't forgotten something, hadn't stopped to wipe down the counter before leaving.
I'm one of the first cars there--neighbors are already rushing out of their houses doing the thing that makes people feel connected--we're at war you know--and God bless them, they try to direct traffic, call 911, wonder how the hell they'll get out of their driveways now.
Like an exclamation point at the nucleus of the wreckage, I see the perfect, shining coat, amazing muscular body lying on its side, part of him still under one of the cars, three cars in all in various stages of being forever mangled, interrupted from the daily rush by the simple and innocent instinct of this purebred Rottweiler who decided to cross the road at the wrong instant. He's still--I know he's dead. A petite blonde with bad hair kneels by his belly, strokes his face. She isn't crying. I wonder if this is his owner, or one of the unhurt from the mangled cars feeling just as crushed.
I've seen accidents with semi-trucks where the unlucky participants didn't look as bad as these cars. What the hell happened? I can only imagine the white car turning off the side street, seeing the romping mass of life charging across the street, then slamming on the breaks just in time for the two cars barreling down the main road to smash him and this beautiful creature to bits.
You didn't have to be there. Officer, would you like me to tell you what happened? I've just watched the replay in my mind a dozen times, and I didn't even see it happen.
I sit two, three minutes waiting for the police to come, which they do, and clear an imaginary path so that the growing line of traffic can get around the mess, which is taking up the entire road. While I wait for them, I get to stare at the dead-or-dying rottie, the man in the driver's seat of the first car in the line of wreckage with his head tilted back in a way that clues me in: he has no other option. Neighbors are reaching inside another car and shouting to one another. Everyone is in motion, except the dog.
Sacrifice. That's what I named him, there, this day.
Happy Blogday, Marek
Marek's two today! Marek, I think that makes you old. Or else terrible. I dunno. But I do know you have been an inspiration to me both as blogger, and more importantly as a human being. Struggle, climb, fall, struggle, climb, fall, struggle, climb, summit. We will. Have a great blogday Marek!
August 05, 2002
swallow
Find out too late
maybe never
the swallow in the
garage yesterday,
drawn to the
shine of the
black truck,
what he saw there,
himself.
the sudden sound
of damage
wings meet metal
flight interrupted
by panes of glass
he doesn't know how
to stop trying
to break free.
How long did it
take me
to open the door
watch him fly off
touch down
on the highest branch
the nearest tree,
his rapid altitude saying
no thanks to you.
I pick up a feather
study its fine lines
play tricks with
patterns
wonder
is this all
he lost?
maybe never
the swallow in the
garage yesterday,
drawn to the
shine of the
black truck,
what he saw there,
himself.
the sudden sound
of damage
wings meet metal
flight interrupted
by panes of glass
he doesn't know how
to stop trying
to break free.
How long did it
take me
to open the door
watch him fly off
touch down
on the highest branch
the nearest tree,
his rapid altitude saying
no thanks to you.
I pick up a feather
study its fine lines
play tricks with
patterns
wonder
is this all
he lost?
For Immediate Release
But Don't Let RageBoy Make It
Boulder, CO., August 5, 2002... Digiorno Pizza today announced an improved method for cooking its fast-rising-crust Supreme pizzas. Next week the company will make a correction to its label, which previously instructed "users" to remove pizza from the plastic wrapper and cardboard before cooking. Digiorno now advises that cooking the pizza with the cardboard backing still in place is safe, and in some instances advised.
The correction was based on recommendataions from the R&D department, headed by Dr. Rage Boy, (RB) PhD, who made the discovery late yesterday that Digiorno cardboard is inflamable.
"I never knew you were supposed to take the fucking cardboard off in the first place," he said. "I put the za in the oven with the cardboard on the bottom, and when the timer went ding 20 minutes later, I'm asking myself, with blogger friend Jeneane Sessum listening in by phone, what the fuck do I put the pizza on? OUCH! Shit, I burned myself. So she goes, put it back on the cardboard, goofball. And I go, it's already on the cardboard. And she goes, already on the cardboard? What, you cooked the fucking cardboard? And I go, um, yeah. Aren't you supposed to? And she goes, you're the head of R&D, don't you know? And I go, no."
Sessum expressed immediate concern that dangerous carcinogens may have leached into the pizza from cooking the cardboard at the extra-crunchy-crust 425-degree recommended temperature.
"I was pretty sure he'd be dead," Sessum said. "I figured, either his place was burning to the ground and he had no idea--he's on these medicnes, you know--or that he'd be taking a dirt nap after one bite of that bigass fast-rising crust laced with poisonous cardboard shavings."
In a surprise move, RB pulled the cardboard off the bottom of the pizza, threw it in the trash, and downed the first piping hot piece in 30 seconds flat.
"It fucking tasted better," he said. "Tender, chewy and crunchy all at the same time, with a nice wood smoked flavor to boot. I'm thinking that this is the Reeses Fucking Peanut Butter Cup story all over again. Peanut butter in my chocolate, cardboard in my crust. EUREKA! So I call the boss right away and I says to him, Papa Digiorno, I gotta some news! Tell marketing to call me--I gotta newa crust idea!"
The company intends to add the cardboard-ready fast rising supreme pizza crust to its product line sometime next fall. Currently, packaging on the full line of Digiorno products will be revised to include instructions for the with-cardboard preparation method.
Digiorno's move shook the already volitile market, with Dominos' stock up $8.70 on the news.
August 03, 2002
Welcome Mary to the blogging scene
Welcome Mary Brotherton to Blogaria. I've been giving her prods and hints all along, after reading many emails from her that were worthy of blog posts. We met Mary, who works for our accupuncturist, about a year ago. Knowing that she loves to write, George and I both told her, MARY YOU SHOULD BLOG! Well, she finally gave into the temptation. Watch how quickly it becomes an addiction, Mary. She's new, so any hints you can give her, I know she'd welcome. Hey Mary, put your email in my comment field if you want some extra advice from the crew.
August 02, 2002
Taking a Chance on Me
I've been working full time for 20 years now. And for me--well you all know me well enough to know that full time is full time plus pulling all the stops out, doing whatever it takes for a cause or colleage--which means that full time is more like 50-60 hours a week. Sometimes more. Not all my dutiful nature, mind you. I got a lot out of my work--I always have since writing has always been involved. So I loved work as much as work loved me. The star performer, the one the client always wants to work with. Meantime, have a baby why don't you, and raise her at home while you work full-plus time, trading care for her off in random intervals with your husband, who is also trying to further his career and take care of business, and suddenly project after project after project, goal after goal after goal, time ticks by. And where did you go? We go?
So I made a decision yesterday, and my employer was kind enough to accommodate me. I'm going part-time. Starting with 30 hours a week, which will give me the freedom to work just the hours Jenna's in school when Pre-K starts August 12th. Doesn't sound like much of a cutback, but when you realize I was working 50 just to be able to bill 40, it could mean a lot. What that means I think, first, is nights and weekends without work. Wow.
Wow. I can't remember the last time I didn't work a weekend to try to keep up, bill the hours. Be the star. The one they think kindly of. That's the wonderful world of consulting. Billability, the double-edged sword. It's sweet when times are good--look how valuable I am = see how much I bill. But in tough times, both economically and personally, the struggle to fulfill your commitment to the organization (when you're an overly consciensous worker like me) can wear you down, wear you out. burn you out.
I'm worn out. And I'm doing my best to change one part of the equation that's burned out my passion. By going part time I think I can give the BEST of me to work and the BEST of me to myself and my family. It's a start anyway. One change at a time, so to speak.
Next week, for the first time in my grown up years, I am a part-timer.
yikes.
wow.
That's all for now.
So I made a decision yesterday, and my employer was kind enough to accommodate me. I'm going part-time. Starting with 30 hours a week, which will give me the freedom to work just the hours Jenna's in school when Pre-K starts August 12th. Doesn't sound like much of a cutback, but when you realize I was working 50 just to be able to bill 40, it could mean a lot. What that means I think, first, is nights and weekends without work. Wow.
Wow. I can't remember the last time I didn't work a weekend to try to keep up, bill the hours. Be the star. The one they think kindly of. That's the wonderful world of consulting. Billability, the double-edged sword. It's sweet when times are good--look how valuable I am = see how much I bill. But in tough times, both economically and personally, the struggle to fulfill your commitment to the organization (when you're an overly consciensous worker like me) can wear you down, wear you out. burn you out.
I'm worn out. And I'm doing my best to change one part of the equation that's burned out my passion. By going part time I think I can give the BEST of me to work and the BEST of me to myself and my family. It's a start anyway. One change at a time, so to speak.
Next week, for the first time in my grown up years, I am a part-timer.
yikes.
wow.
That's all for now.
August 01, 2002
looking for me
It's not that I got lost along the way; it's that in some fundamental ways, I never formed. I'm talking origins, the origins of damage--not of damaging things done or said, but of the most important thing that never happened at all.
I've been running for a long time--making my life one big project, one activity-packed week at a time, living my days in billable hours, pushing along, trying to make progress for me and my family--in short, hiding. Hiding from what? Noticing. Noticing that I'm not here. Anywhere.
You've heard people say, "I spent a year in Alaska trying to find myself." That'd be nice. I wish that would work for me. The point is, I'm not out there. I could go to Alaska, Australia, to the corner smoke shop to get a pack of American Spirits, and guess who wouldn't be there. Me.
So begins my odyssey. Unraveling and digging into really hurtful places, empty spaces, terrifying to me, and coming out of it with I don't know who, hopefully coming out of it alive. Hopefully coming out of it with my family still there. And even more--hopefully making myself do it. I have to start. No other way through but in.
I've been running for a long time--making my life one big project, one activity-packed week at a time, living my days in billable hours, pushing along, trying to make progress for me and my family--in short, hiding. Hiding from what? Noticing. Noticing that I'm not here. Anywhere.
You've heard people say, "I spent a year in Alaska trying to find myself." That'd be nice. I wish that would work for me. The point is, I'm not out there. I could go to Alaska, Australia, to the corner smoke shop to get a pack of American Spirits, and guess who wouldn't be there. Me.
So begins my odyssey. Unraveling and digging into really hurtful places, empty spaces, terrifying to me, and coming out of it with I don't know who, hopefully coming out of it alive. Hopefully coming out of it with my family still there. And even more--hopefully making myself do it. I have to start. No other way through but in.
July 30, 2002
some time off
I won't be blogging for a while. Some other things demand my attention right now. Thanks for understanding.
July 29, 2002
we went to chuck-e-cheese
My mother decides to run her game on me--she knows that we try to make Sunday "family day," and that we didn't get to have our family days--well, not the usual ones anyway, which are, well, fun--while George was in Hong Kong. Lots of in between here that would take me staring a dysfunctional families team blog to recount, but the bottom line is that we offered them some visiting time with Jenna Saturday, and on that day they became mysteriously not around.
So by Saturday night my mom is appologizing for missing us, asking if they can take Jenna for a few hours on Sunday. Now, consciously, she believes this is just a simple request, oh they miss her so. But unconsciously it's LOADED. So yesterday when the Sunday Request phone call comes in earnest, I say no. I say, Sunday is family day and we have plans. She is dejected, hurt I can tell, but I'm getting better at NOT letting it ruin my day or yank my survivor child chains.
And we had a really nice day. We went to the hobby shop and raced cars. Then off to Chuck E. Cheese. George writes about it it better justice than I could:
"There is a beautiful common bond parents can share with one another and that bond is their progeny. It is truly a thing of beauty to behold so many people who decided to take the chance of procreating and sacrifice a considerable amount of freedom [mental and emotional freedom, especially]."
Every time I hate Atlanta and begin looking at it through the eyes of someone who doesn't live here anymore, I become more and more aware of its one redeeming quality: diversity. I don't think there was a country or ethnicity missing at Chuck E. Cheese this day. At the booth next to us a family in traditional garments from Africa chatted in a language I didn't know. On the "Take Your Photo with Chuck E." ride, a mother perhaps speaking Portuguese was watching her incredible daughters with whisps of curls that I wanted to sink my fingers into, take a lock and keep it for my own. Hispanic, East Indian, Mediterianian, varieties of Asian, African Africans, African Americans, Red Necks--and, my FAVORITE--mixed families crossing and bluring all of these lines, just like the net.
And the unity among the fathers, which George writes about made me teary eyed. Here were men that could be doing anything else on a Sunday, and they were there with their children, and in many cases, their wives. Good dads. Dads that lifted their daughters on and off rides, not with a monotone stare, but with the contagious joy of a child.
George hit a payday at one of the games. He figured out how to align the trigger mechanism just so, nudging it a milimeter at a time, until the coins roled upright across this spinning wheel and threaded themselves inside a thin slot. The other dads gathered round. I glanced over to see three at one time in rapt attention at George's technique. And once he'd won about 1,000 tickets, he took a break and handed his perfectly-aligned shooter to a fellow father, who brought home at least that many before handing it off to another dad, who soon learned the technqiue before handing the reins back over to George.
All these dads, giving one another the thumbs up across the expanse of children. Winking at one another--their secret safe with eachother. They'd walk by George and say, "Thanks, man. Thanks for showing us." I'm proud to be there--wife of the Chuck E. Cheese game master.
Meanwhile, Jenna--yes, she was there too--had the time of her life, making friends and learning how to finally boss other kids around instead of being on the receiving end.
All in all, it was a fine family day.
Although I don't think we're here for the long term, it sure was a pleasant day in historic Kennesaw, Georgia.
So by Saturday night my mom is appologizing for missing us, asking if they can take Jenna for a few hours on Sunday. Now, consciously, she believes this is just a simple request, oh they miss her so. But unconsciously it's LOADED. So yesterday when the Sunday Request phone call comes in earnest, I say no. I say, Sunday is family day and we have plans. She is dejected, hurt I can tell, but I'm getting better at NOT letting it ruin my day or yank my survivor child chains.
And we had a really nice day. We went to the hobby shop and raced cars. Then off to Chuck E. Cheese. George writes about it it better justice than I could:
"There is a beautiful common bond parents can share with one another and that bond is their progeny. It is truly a thing of beauty to behold so many people who decided to take the chance of procreating and sacrifice a considerable amount of freedom [mental and emotional freedom, especially]."
Every time I hate Atlanta and begin looking at it through the eyes of someone who doesn't live here anymore, I become more and more aware of its one redeeming quality: diversity. I don't think there was a country or ethnicity missing at Chuck E. Cheese this day. At the booth next to us a family in traditional garments from Africa chatted in a language I didn't know. On the "Take Your Photo with Chuck E." ride, a mother perhaps speaking Portuguese was watching her incredible daughters with whisps of curls that I wanted to sink my fingers into, take a lock and keep it for my own. Hispanic, East Indian, Mediterianian, varieties of Asian, African Africans, African Americans, Red Necks--and, my FAVORITE--mixed families crossing and bluring all of these lines, just like the net.
And the unity among the fathers, which George writes about made me teary eyed. Here were men that could be doing anything else on a Sunday, and they were there with their children, and in many cases, their wives. Good dads. Dads that lifted their daughters on and off rides, not with a monotone stare, but with the contagious joy of a child.
George hit a payday at one of the games. He figured out how to align the trigger mechanism just so, nudging it a milimeter at a time, until the coins roled upright across this spinning wheel and threaded themselves inside a thin slot. The other dads gathered round. I glanced over to see three at one time in rapt attention at George's technique. And once he'd won about 1,000 tickets, he took a break and handed his perfectly-aligned shooter to a fellow father, who brought home at least that many before handing it off to another dad, who soon learned the technqiue before handing the reins back over to George.
All these dads, giving one another the thumbs up across the expanse of children. Winking at one another--their secret safe with eachother. They'd walk by George and say, "Thanks, man. Thanks for showing us." I'm proud to be there--wife of the Chuck E. Cheese game master.
Meanwhile, Jenna--yes, she was there too--had the time of her life, making friends and learning how to finally boss other kids around instead of being on the receiving end.
All in all, it was a fine family day.
Although I don't think we're here for the long term, it sure was a pleasant day in historic Kennesaw, Georgia.
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