I've been thinking about this, in fits and starts, about how my personal tolerance for poor customer service and appreciation for stellar customer service has changed over the last few years. There isn't a company out there claiming to have anything but a superior, well-trained, talented, at-the-ready support staff. No one says, our product's great but our service sucks. I know of what I write.
But we have changed. Call us consumers (but please don't), call us customers, call us clients. A rose by any other name still has a wallet. And what we expect out of a company is something of an inverse proportion to the amount of change ding-a-linging in our change purses.
What I mean is this: during recent times of plenty--not now, but think back to the good days that came just after the last time when things were just like this--we didn't expect much. We said we did. But we didn't. Not really. Because we had a lot. Most of us, at least more of the U.S. than is now the case, had more money, spent more money, and felt like business and especially the Internet offered limitless opportunities.
And it was in that spirit that we got involved in, and accepted, a lot of crap. It was cool to grab a beta product, to help companies work the kinks out, to just go ahead and fix things yourself. Gee wiz, they're really busy changing the world over there--should I expect them to be there to answer this simple question? I'm lucky to have my hands on this great product. I'm so glad they accepted me as a client! I uttered, and heard, those words more than once.
My how things have changed.
Now, companies like Dell, and they're not alone, are feeling the wrath and repercussion of a public that put up with a lot and didn't mind it. As we have fewer and fewer pennies in our hands, as fewer and fewer of us have jobs at stable companies--or jobs at all--we have become more demanding. Really demanding. Forget about pulling out and taking our business elsewhere--we're pulling it in and not taking our business anywhere. Forget about beta, I want to pay $19.99 for a solid product, or I won't bother getting one at all.
In a time of haves and haves not, we haven't. And we just won't.
It seems to me, then, that the companies staffed and positioned to deliver on the promise of superior customer service--and companies already leveraging customer information and putting it to good use (amazon is one of the few that comes to mind, and earthlink isn't bad either.)--stand the best chance of all of surviving these challenging times, and actually floating to the top in an ocean full of sinkers.
Who am I to say? I'm a customer, a client, and on my worst days a consumer. And I've also repeated the "great service" mantra in my writing with the largest and tiniest companies for 20 years now. Sometimes I've known it to be true. Sometimes I lied. Sometimes I took a guess. But now, when I see a company that delivers on their language around responsiveness to customers, I know it's something special. I grab it in my writing and showcase it. Because I know my own wallet's empty. I know I'm not experimenting anymore on my dime. And I can appreciate and tend to give my business to companies that "get" that.
Just something that crossed my mind today, as I'm working away on a brochure and simultaneously mopping the kitchen floor. Those crazy multi-tasking consumers. Ain't we something!
May 31, 2003
a bedtime apart
It has been a busy busy week here. So many times I blogged in my head, pushed publish, and sent posts to the back of my brain, where they're lost with thousands of swimming memories. But I wanted to remember to write about the sleeping children.
Jenna's friendship with one of the girls in her dance class has blossomed over the last week. This has involved spending time at each other's houses. I marvel at their neighborhood, not too far from my own, maybe 4 miles, but a world apart. Our houses are similar, same style, same age; our trees are similar, our yards too. But they have the kind of neighborhood built for kids. The kind that bustles with playing children instead of adults worried about work and lawns and shopping. It seems like everyone is always at home and outside on their street. It seems like no one is ever at home or outside on our street. Unless you count the paramedics, who should be pulling up any time now for our alcoholic suicidal neighbor. Anyway, that's for another post. Trauma central.
Back to the children.
Please.
One night last week Jenna's new best friend came to spend the night here. It was supposed to be reversed--Jenna was over there until 10 and was going to try to spend the night, but wanted to come home. So I went over to get her and their sad eyes got to me--please can she come too? PLEASE? Okay, let's switch. You come stay at our house. A good first experience for Jenna.
And so it was, although they were up until 2 a.m., until finally, I completely gave up and let them come sleep with me in our big king-size bed.
There we were. Girl, girl, woman. Jenna in the middle. Me and this beautiful little creature with straight thin blonde hair so unfamiliar to me in every way, like bookends for my daughter. I woke up a lot in the six hours we slept. Kept looking over at this little stranger, curled tight so close to the edge of the bed I kept waiting for a thump. In her sleep she'd roll some, wipe away wisps of hair, smile, pout. All of the things I've seen in my own daughter's dreaming, but never in someone else's child so close, so near, so vulnerable in her sleeping and dream state.
Jenna sat bolt upright at 8:00. I wasn't surprised. She's awoken that way since she was very little. Because she could talk long before she should have been able to, she'd sit straight up in her crib, look to the blinds shining in sunlight, and announce to the world in a voice I can only described as suprise and wonder: "I WAKE UP!" Every morning amazed her that way. She was astounded by the miracle of morning, the concept of waking after sleep.
This morning her friend was right behind her: "We're not tired anymore!" So the two five year olds bounded downstairs and left me to stumble out of bed, still tired, but in an odd way refreshed. As if I absorbed some of their energy while we slept.
My next thought was of Michael Jackson. Yes, a leap. I know. But it occurred to me that maybe, although he's neurotic and likely psychotic, there is truth in what he says of the innocence in sleeping with children. There was something incredibly moving and vulnerable about having these girl children so close, one of them not my own, in such a relaxed and unguarded state as sleep, and something so marvelous about waking and looking at their faces, them looking at one another, and then me. We wake up! It was like that.
I'd like to believe that's all it is for MJ too. That maybe just because he wakes up, a man in a bed with a couple of boys, it's just as genuine and innocent as a women waking up in bed with a couple of girls. And it doesn't matter how many. There could have been five of her little friends piled in that bed and it would have been the same relaxed sleep, the same wonder at waking.
But men don't get that opportunity. Men are immediately suspect. Because this partriarchial culture and heavy western mores say that men don't lie in bed with boys, or even girls. Men need to be men, Alpha Males, and all they should ever think about is sex and work. That men can't be trusted, except to produce and procreate, and that they should never, not ever, be vulnerable. Not for a minute.
Maybe something is wrong with Michael Jackson having children sleep in his bed. I kind of think they would have already hung him if something criminal were going on, since he's been a marked man for a long time in the business. And maybe there is something wrong with the man himself, albeit his particular neuroses are predictable based on childhood.
But maybe something is wrong with us too.
Those were my thoughts, as I made toast and pizza squares and pop tarts for breakfast. As the girls giggled and danced around the living room. And they're still my thoughts today.
Jenna's friendship with one of the girls in her dance class has blossomed over the last week. This has involved spending time at each other's houses. I marvel at their neighborhood, not too far from my own, maybe 4 miles, but a world apart. Our houses are similar, same style, same age; our trees are similar, our yards too. But they have the kind of neighborhood built for kids. The kind that bustles with playing children instead of adults worried about work and lawns and shopping. It seems like everyone is always at home and outside on their street. It seems like no one is ever at home or outside on our street. Unless you count the paramedics, who should be pulling up any time now for our alcoholic suicidal neighbor. Anyway, that's for another post. Trauma central.
Back to the children.
Please.
One night last week Jenna's new best friend came to spend the night here. It was supposed to be reversed--Jenna was over there until 10 and was going to try to spend the night, but wanted to come home. So I went over to get her and their sad eyes got to me--please can she come too? PLEASE? Okay, let's switch. You come stay at our house. A good first experience for Jenna.
And so it was, although they were up until 2 a.m., until finally, I completely gave up and let them come sleep with me in our big king-size bed.
There we were. Girl, girl, woman. Jenna in the middle. Me and this beautiful little creature with straight thin blonde hair so unfamiliar to me in every way, like bookends for my daughter. I woke up a lot in the six hours we slept. Kept looking over at this little stranger, curled tight so close to the edge of the bed I kept waiting for a thump. In her sleep she'd roll some, wipe away wisps of hair, smile, pout. All of the things I've seen in my own daughter's dreaming, but never in someone else's child so close, so near, so vulnerable in her sleeping and dream state.
Jenna sat bolt upright at 8:00. I wasn't surprised. She's awoken that way since she was very little. Because she could talk long before she should have been able to, she'd sit straight up in her crib, look to the blinds shining in sunlight, and announce to the world in a voice I can only described as suprise and wonder: "I WAKE UP!" Every morning amazed her that way. She was astounded by the miracle of morning, the concept of waking after sleep.
This morning her friend was right behind her: "We're not tired anymore!" So the two five year olds bounded downstairs and left me to stumble out of bed, still tired, but in an odd way refreshed. As if I absorbed some of their energy while we slept.
My next thought was of Michael Jackson. Yes, a leap. I know. But it occurred to me that maybe, although he's neurotic and likely psychotic, there is truth in what he says of the innocence in sleeping with children. There was something incredibly moving and vulnerable about having these girl children so close, one of them not my own, in such a relaxed and unguarded state as sleep, and something so marvelous about waking and looking at their faces, them looking at one another, and then me. We wake up! It was like that.
I'd like to believe that's all it is for MJ too. That maybe just because he wakes up, a man in a bed with a couple of boys, it's just as genuine and innocent as a women waking up in bed with a couple of girls. And it doesn't matter how many. There could have been five of her little friends piled in that bed and it would have been the same relaxed sleep, the same wonder at waking.
But men don't get that opportunity. Men are immediately suspect. Because this partriarchial culture and heavy western mores say that men don't lie in bed with boys, or even girls. Men need to be men, Alpha Males, and all they should ever think about is sex and work. That men can't be trusted, except to produce and procreate, and that they should never, not ever, be vulnerable. Not for a minute.
Maybe something is wrong with Michael Jackson having children sleep in his bed. I kind of think they would have already hung him if something criminal were going on, since he's been a marked man for a long time in the business. And maybe there is something wrong with the man himself, albeit his particular neuroses are predictable based on childhood.
But maybe something is wrong with us too.
Those were my thoughts, as I made toast and pizza squares and pop tarts for breakfast. As the girls giggled and danced around the living room. And they're still my thoughts today.
May 30, 2003
stories i've been meaning to tell, part 1.
Jenna's graduation from Pre-K was last week. Right. Already told you. But then there's this.
They're sitting around in their graduation circle during the program, and I notice that one of the boys' brother has joined them there. He's a a year or so older. Striking Arabic profile. Dark hair, carmel skin, and a magnetic personality which he demonstrated by taking every available opportunity to distract his younger brother from his graduation duties. A general cut-up this kid was.
Afterward I asked Jenna if that was her classmate's brother.
I see the look in her eye. The blush. The beaming. "Yes," she says softly.
Oh no, I think. And then I say,
"Well, he is a handsome boy."
She shines the brightest smile I've seen in weeks and blurts out:
"Set up the wedding!!"
And I fall off the bed laughing. I don't mean to. There's no one here with me to help absorb the hilarity--left to my own devices, I crack up silly.
Set up the wedding.
OYE!
They're sitting around in their graduation circle during the program, and I notice that one of the boys' brother has joined them there. He's a a year or so older. Striking Arabic profile. Dark hair, carmel skin, and a magnetic personality which he demonstrated by taking every available opportunity to distract his younger brother from his graduation duties. A general cut-up this kid was.
Afterward I asked Jenna if that was her classmate's brother.
I see the look in her eye. The blush. The beaming. "Yes," she says softly.
Oh no, I think. And then I say,
"Well, he is a handsome boy."
She shines the brightest smile I've seen in weeks and blurts out:
"Set up the wedding!!"
And I fall off the bed laughing. I don't mean to. There's no one here with me to help absorb the hilarity--left to my own devices, I crack up silly.
Set up the wedding.
OYE!
May 29, 2003
Go Anita! Rediff Article on Site Counters and Referrer Logs
Check out Anita Bora's article for Rediff called Hits and Misses, a write up on site counters, referrer logs and and statistics. And not just because she gave me lots of quotes. ;-) Well, okay, partly. But it's also a cool article in its own right, one in which I admit to playing mind games with my stats. What bloggers won't do for fun.
Also interesting was Anita's note on her blog that the bloggers she interviewed responded f-a-s-t to her interview questions. I've found this to be true as well, when I've asked for any kind of information from the community--be it what to feed a baby ferral cat to what women think about blogging. Human response is one of the many processes blogging speeds up--a process that old J journalists could easily leverage if they decide to take up residence in the neighborhood--i.e., join the conversation.
Thanks, Anita!
Also interesting was Anita's note on her blog that the bloggers she interviewed responded f-a-s-t to her interview questions. I've found this to be true as well, when I've asked for any kind of information from the community--be it what to feed a baby ferral cat to what women think about blogging. Human response is one of the many processes blogging speeds up--a process that old J journalists could easily leverage if they decide to take up residence in the neighborhood--i.e., join the conversation.
Thanks, Anita!
The Eyes Have It
I couldn't help myself. As I clicked through the images--all from women so far--who took the challenge to upload their eyes, I had to put them all in one place, because hopping from eyes to eyes to eyes felt really powerful to me. So Here: The Web Eyes Project.
First thing's first: I have linked directly to the photos people posted. If this brings too much traffic to your blog, tell me and I'll take your eyes off. It just seemed to me like the easiest way to link to everyone's blogs--directly through their eyes. Just let me know if you want me to remove your eyes--out with them!--no, really. Or, if you want your eyes included, post a picture on a blog and email me the link to the jpeg plus a link to your main blog page.
Enjoy. All I could think was, Wow.
First thing's first: I have linked directly to the photos people posted. If this brings too much traffic to your blog, tell me and I'll take your eyes off. It just seemed to me like the easiest way to link to everyone's blogs--directly through their eyes. Just let me know if you want me to remove your eyes--out with them!--no, really. Or, if you want your eyes included, post a picture on a blog and email me the link to the jpeg plus a link to your main blog page.
Enjoy. All I could think was, Wow.
May 27, 2003
Ain't Nobody Does It Better...
Some memes were born to be remembered forever. Mostly Gary Turner's slow rising memes, which generally puff up over several days, until they turn from a tasty chuckle into a delicious brew-ha-ha.
If you weren't around for the original Enquirer Covers, some are still left here. Gary, bring back the oldies. Too good. I'm still laughing.... Looky Marek! Oh, God, I'm crackin' a rib over here....!!
If you weren't around for the original Enquirer Covers, some are still left here. Gary, bring back the oldies. Too good. I'm still laughing.... Looky Marek! Oh, God, I'm crackin' a rib over here....!!
May 26, 2003
learning to play
This last two months, with me and Jenna left to our own devices, hasn't been easy. And then, it has been the easiest time I've known in a long time. Because I'm changing. I'm getting to know my daughter. For the first time. There is a lot to write on this, on my inability, until stepping outside of all of my internally constructed walls and relationships, to see her. Really to see her, and to, more than that, let her see me. To play. She has been determined to get me to: to teach me to see her, to get down on the floor with her, to play. To let her in.
So afraid to let her in. I have been so afraid to see her, in seeing her expecting that she would vanish before my eyes, my eyes: see with them, die in them. That's all I have known.
And if you don't die with me, then maybe there is living. Teach me that there is living, a reason, unexpected dips and climbs in season, and that maybe it's enough.
Last night we built a train track on the floor. I was feeling so sick, so exhausted, but I did it. She put her "Cheer Bear" Care Bear under my head: "This'll cheer you up, Mama." I said, "Sweetie, I'm not sad, just so tired." And I watched her, and before long she handed me her recorder to blow through, and soon I was making chuga-chuga CHOO CHOO noises with the recorder as she pulled the train around the track.
And I let myself see her. The pain in seeing her, vulnerable, me vulnerable, how can you stand to love someone so much, and see in her the you, the world, and still dare to touch her vulnerability, to let it touch you, to touch her thigh, her soft skin, wonder at her pores, her sweet brown hairs, as I did last night, and know that it could all be gone, in a flash, and in going, how it would kill your soul, would take you too.
And in loving someone so vulnerable, a child, in knowing she will go one day away from me--has to--in loving like that, with the desparate sorrow I wear around my heart, the loss that was my first life lesson, there is finally, finally, FINALLY, a sweet rejoicing.
I feel with a bone-deep jab of heartache, something else: joy.
I love you my sweet Jenna.
May 25, 2003
Hunter John Willis
NOW
So you're wondering, what happened to that little four-week old kitten you found? He's gotten bigger. More spoiled. He's grown into a man cat, as I have yet to get him to the vet for his final shots and neutering. But he's happy.
jenna's breakfast
Hot dog, tater tots, clindimycin rootbeer float.
My breakfast, levaquin and water.
She wins.
My breakfast, levaquin and water.
She wins.
giving in
Okay, I've kept this illness on the brink of making me sick for the last two weeks--feeling sickly but not quite sick. When I had to use a fork to scratch my throat last night, I decided to give in and take the antibiotics if I didn't feel better this morning. I don't. So I did. Darn. I was hoping to have a personal first--get better without the antibiotics. But I decided that for me, not to go down hill into asthma hell in 24 hours was itself an accomplishment. My cocktails of cold killers must have been doing something.
Echinacea, goldenseal, zicam, B-vitamins, time-release C's. Almost made it.
The weather here has been astounding the last two days. Magnificent. And after all the rain, the sun amplifies the green of the trees, the grass, ten times over. Even the little rollie pollies who've crawled out from underneath everything damp seem to be happy.
Take a clue from the bugs. That's what I'll try to do.
Echinacea, goldenseal, zicam, B-vitamins, time-release C's. Almost made it.
The weather here has been astounding the last two days. Magnificent. And after all the rain, the sun amplifies the green of the trees, the grass, ten times over. Even the little rollie pollies who've crawled out from underneath everything damp seem to be happy.
Take a clue from the bugs. That's what I'll try to do.
May 24, 2003
permission to become......beautiful
This is a post I want to be able to come back to.
Maybe you'll get why. But if not, give me this one. This one is for me. Message to myself: Let yourself.
My mother has been, is, always will be, was born, and has worked hard to remain beautiful. Stunning. At any age, she has surpassed the looks, caught and held the gaze, of her peers, her contemporaries, knew how to be beautiful, knew how to make her beauty work for her. Blonde, slavic, full Czech, in her 20s and thirties she was Mia Farrow breath taking. At 70, she still is.
And there were other parts of her too, the softer parts, no lines, the creams and potions, the vitamin e capsules, pricked with a pin, gel in a tiny porcelin dish on her dresser, for just under the eyes, magnificent in the daylight, my mother. Petite, like a doll, flapper flat and thin, with proper manners and grace I never seemed to learn.
Yes me.
Those are the Dimino genes, she'd say. My curves and blooming and puberty hitting at 11. Me shapely and developing early, me at five already knowing I would have some chest.
I can't tell if, though something has nagged at me this year, if she, maybe unconsciously, fed me, draped me, over did it with me--was that from love, the overabundance of food and toys and undershirts? Or was it something else.
I remember being in the pediatrician's office at 13. Him saying, in his 50-something Italian Macho way, "If you lost 20 pounds, you'd be Miss America." I remember the panic setting in, my mother in the examining room with me. And I can't quite hit on what was swelling inside that panic. Besides myself. I do remember some of the thoughts that came to me, flooded my 13-year-old brain. Things like:
I'm not allowed to do that.
I don't want that kind of attention.
I can't achieve real beauty, slavic beauty. I have the wrong genes.
Why would I want to be a ditzy miss america?
Why wouldn't I?
What do I do?
What should I say when I leave this room, to her?
Why is my face so red?
Just some thoughts. Like those. Rushing and pushing their way from somewhere in my groin up past my forehead, pulsating. Oh God. Why did we have to come here?
So over the years, the decades, the 20 pounds doubled, and doubled. And while I never felt particularly "ugly," I journeyed through my adolescence and early adulthood remaining in my place, the place I had learned to love and receive love, a place where I fit with the side of the family that was my father, whom I missed so, him thick and strong, those Dimino genes. Yes. Okay. I'll keep those. But how far do I have to go to fit that mold. Like Aunt Marge, may she rest in peace, needing a cane to carry her plumpness around? To be a good girl, do I need to be deny my physical beauty? Agree to decide it isn't Beauty? Beauty that is not flapper thin, blonde, petite, or especially attractive from a Magazine-Media point of view? Or from my mother's point of view? I didn't know. Sometimes I still don't know.
I know I can think of myself as genetically challenged.
And I did that. Have done that. Although I found in my husband someone who saw into my beauty, appreciated me, even with my genetic challenges, which he didn't see, which I saw, still--finding that in someone else does not change how you feel about yourself. You take yourself, as they say, with you.
Just this last year, I've set out on a journey that I've chronicled pieces of here--you hear it, don't you--you read it in me, in us, in our love and language, in our agony and breathtaking vulnerability--I know you do. In the end, opening our skin and becoming vulnerable to one another is the only way to get inside. You gotta get in to get out.
So, where is this going? What has moved me this week, to write this?
I think that for the first time in my life, I'm giving myself permission to be beautiful. The way I see beauty. Me. I. The way I see it. I'm learning to see it. And maybe it won't be Magazine georgeous, and maybe it won't be thin, and maybe my beauty will be, more, well, challenging than the norm--to the norm--and maybe it won't be. I don't know. Because I've never, not ever, until this year, looked at myself through my own two eyes.
I'd never seen myself until I came here.
But I am starting to. And being here--finding my voice--that's a big part of why, of how I've come to not fear my own mirror. Put down hers. Stop judging based on genetic code. Start relishing health, start accepting that it's okay to get better. It's okay to live. For me.
For Me.
Me.
ME.
Maybe you'll get why. But if not, give me this one. This one is for me. Message to myself: Let yourself.
My mother has been, is, always will be, was born, and has worked hard to remain beautiful. Stunning. At any age, she has surpassed the looks, caught and held the gaze, of her peers, her contemporaries, knew how to be beautiful, knew how to make her beauty work for her. Blonde, slavic, full Czech, in her 20s and thirties she was Mia Farrow breath taking. At 70, she still is.
And there were other parts of her too, the softer parts, no lines, the creams and potions, the vitamin e capsules, pricked with a pin, gel in a tiny porcelin dish on her dresser, for just under the eyes, magnificent in the daylight, my mother. Petite, like a doll, flapper flat and thin, with proper manners and grace I never seemed to learn.
Yes me.
Those are the Dimino genes, she'd say. My curves and blooming and puberty hitting at 11. Me shapely and developing early, me at five already knowing I would have some chest.
I can't tell if, though something has nagged at me this year, if she, maybe unconsciously, fed me, draped me, over did it with me--was that from love, the overabundance of food and toys and undershirts? Or was it something else.
I remember being in the pediatrician's office at 13. Him saying, in his 50-something Italian Macho way, "If you lost 20 pounds, you'd be Miss America." I remember the panic setting in, my mother in the examining room with me. And I can't quite hit on what was swelling inside that panic. Besides myself. I do remember some of the thoughts that came to me, flooded my 13-year-old brain. Things like:
I'm not allowed to do that.
I don't want that kind of attention.
I can't achieve real beauty, slavic beauty. I have the wrong genes.
Why would I want to be a ditzy miss america?
Why wouldn't I?
What do I do?
What should I say when I leave this room, to her?
Why is my face so red?
Just some thoughts. Like those. Rushing and pushing their way from somewhere in my groin up past my forehead, pulsating. Oh God. Why did we have to come here?
So over the years, the decades, the 20 pounds doubled, and doubled. And while I never felt particularly "ugly," I journeyed through my adolescence and early adulthood remaining in my place, the place I had learned to love and receive love, a place where I fit with the side of the family that was my father, whom I missed so, him thick and strong, those Dimino genes. Yes. Okay. I'll keep those. But how far do I have to go to fit that mold. Like Aunt Marge, may she rest in peace, needing a cane to carry her plumpness around? To be a good girl, do I need to be deny my physical beauty? Agree to decide it isn't Beauty? Beauty that is not flapper thin, blonde, petite, or especially attractive from a Magazine-Media point of view? Or from my mother's point of view? I didn't know. Sometimes I still don't know.
I know I can think of myself as genetically challenged.
And I did that. Have done that. Although I found in my husband someone who saw into my beauty, appreciated me, even with my genetic challenges, which he didn't see, which I saw, still--finding that in someone else does not change how you feel about yourself. You take yourself, as they say, with you.
Just this last year, I've set out on a journey that I've chronicled pieces of here--you hear it, don't you--you read it in me, in us, in our love and language, in our agony and breathtaking vulnerability--I know you do. In the end, opening our skin and becoming vulnerable to one another is the only way to get inside. You gotta get in to get out.
So, where is this going? What has moved me this week, to write this?
I think that for the first time in my life, I'm giving myself permission to be beautiful. The way I see beauty. Me. I. The way I see it. I'm learning to see it. And maybe it won't be Magazine georgeous, and maybe it won't be thin, and maybe my beauty will be, more, well, challenging than the norm--to the norm--and maybe it won't be. I don't know. Because I've never, not ever, until this year, looked at myself through my own two eyes.
I'd never seen myself until I came here.
But I am starting to. And being here--finding my voice--that's a big part of why, of how I've come to not fear my own mirror. Put down hers. Stop judging based on genetic code. Start relishing health, start accepting that it's okay to get better. It's okay to live. For me.
For Me.
Me.
ME.
that strawberry tongue
Jenna's still on her medicines for the strep. She's been doing great on them.
Today I checked her throat outside in the daylight. It still looks like crap. Her tonsils are the size of small boulders. Her pediatrician wants her to see an ENT because she snores and has recurrent strep infections. One thing she mentioned is that they would probably want to do a CAT Scan of her adenoids. (i lost all that plumbing long ago for similar reasons.) I'm reluctant to make the appointment. I don't want to hear them tell us anything about CAT scans or surgery.
So I'm starting to pump the anticeptic mouthwash again, echinacea in her water. If anyone knows of kids' vitamins that actually taste good, please leave me a comment. I've done Flinstones, Rugrats, Bubblegum Vitamins. She gags on all of them... I'm also going to start searching online. Maybe there are some simple procedures these days--laser or something? To deal with this kind of thing. You'd think so, something that can shrink tonsills of kids who are unfortunate enough to have big germ trapping ones.
The part of this that concerns me, in addition to the exhaustion of recurrent strep on MY part, because I think in time she'll outgrow this--say when her throat grows big enough to actually FIT those boulders--is that she had some serious sleep apnea this last episode of strep. One night I slept with my head on her back so I could nudge her when she got silent for too long. The doctor said, that's the strep because her throat was swollen, and since she had a bad sinus infection she couldn't breathe through her nose.
But a couple of the doctors asked, "Has she always been a mouth breather?"
That's what they called me at her age. A mouth breather. I remember the term. I remember wondering, uh, what else are you supposed to breathe through? I remember feeling like I was doing something wrong, this breathing thing. What exactly did they want me to do?
In truth, yah, she does breathe a lot through her mouth, but only when she sleeps. I think it's more out of habbit, because of these stinking sinus infections, than anatomy. Call it instinct. That's what I think. BUT THEN, her daddy does have sleep apnea. I know it's a serious thing, something to be watched.
All of this is to say, I'll be googling up a storm on alternative, new, cutting edge, and less dramatic ways of coping with strep, tonsilitis, and the like. I hear they are less hasty to do surgery these days than they were in our day, so maybe there are new, more advanced, techniques to try, and maybe we should just schedule a visit with an ENT to find out what's new and different.
Ideas, thoughts, web finds, atlanta-area specialist recommendations, and coping mechanisms welcome.
Today I checked her throat outside in the daylight. It still looks like crap. Her tonsils are the size of small boulders. Her pediatrician wants her to see an ENT because she snores and has recurrent strep infections. One thing she mentioned is that they would probably want to do a CAT Scan of her adenoids. (i lost all that plumbing long ago for similar reasons.) I'm reluctant to make the appointment. I don't want to hear them tell us anything about CAT scans or surgery.
So I'm starting to pump the anticeptic mouthwash again, echinacea in her water. If anyone knows of kids' vitamins that actually taste good, please leave me a comment. I've done Flinstones, Rugrats, Bubblegum Vitamins. She gags on all of them... I'm also going to start searching online. Maybe there are some simple procedures these days--laser or something? To deal with this kind of thing. You'd think so, something that can shrink tonsills of kids who are unfortunate enough to have big germ trapping ones.
The part of this that concerns me, in addition to the exhaustion of recurrent strep on MY part, because I think in time she'll outgrow this--say when her throat grows big enough to actually FIT those boulders--is that she had some serious sleep apnea this last episode of strep. One night I slept with my head on her back so I could nudge her when she got silent for too long. The doctor said, that's the strep because her throat was swollen, and since she had a bad sinus infection she couldn't breathe through her nose.
But a couple of the doctors asked, "Has she always been a mouth breather?"
That's what they called me at her age. A mouth breather. I remember the term. I remember wondering, uh, what else are you supposed to breathe through? I remember feeling like I was doing something wrong, this breathing thing. What exactly did they want me to do?
In truth, yah, she does breathe a lot through her mouth, but only when she sleeps. I think it's more out of habbit, because of these stinking sinus infections, than anatomy. Call it instinct. That's what I think. BUT THEN, her daddy does have sleep apnea. I know it's a serious thing, something to be watched.
All of this is to say, I'll be googling up a storm on alternative, new, cutting edge, and less dramatic ways of coping with strep, tonsilitis, and the like. I hear they are less hasty to do surgery these days than they were in our day, so maybe there are new, more advanced, techniques to try, and maybe we should just schedule a visit with an ENT to find out what's new and different.
Ideas, thoughts, web finds, atlanta-area specialist recommendations, and coping mechanisms welcome.
economic indicators that matter
Shelley's got a job.
I have clients.
That's all you really need to know, if you've been following our sagas, to get the feeling an economic upturn is in the air.
You heard it here first.
(Shhhh. Don't tell Ginsberg. He'll just rase interest rates. Must get out of debt first.)
I have clients.
That's all you really need to know, if you've been following our sagas, to get the feeling an economic upturn is in the air.
You heard it here first.
(Shhhh. Don't tell Ginsberg. He'll just rase interest rates. Must get out of debt first.)
He's Taking His Alter to the Altar!
DID you hear?
Finally RageBoy is making an honest man of Chris Locke, and it's about damn time. How long could these two go on, living in sin? Pretending. Splitting. Dissociating. Jeesh!
The time for integration is NOW!
As Billy Idol has been known to sing, ever so sweetly with his drug-induced-stroke-like grin, "It's a nice day for a borderline wedding."
We at the Sessum household couldn't be happier for these two lovebirds. Sure, they've fought over the years. A few bloddied noses. A gun shot wound here and there. But hey, what do you expect from such a passionate pair?
Be sure to check out the boyz gift registry on amazon.com. And give until it hurts.
Last one to the night vision scope is a rotten egg!
May 23, 2003
13 Things I've Blogged Lately that I Wouldn't Say in a Job Interview
So I'm getting some. Clients. A few. That's good. They're getting to know me, know I'm good at what I do, trying to figure out who *is* this woman and where did she come from.
I say, "If you want to view my portfolio..." or "If you can't remember my number..." just go to sessum.com. That's what I say. I tell them to go there.
Let's see. There's me looking all teenage mosaic-like, George in his locks. There's a click through to our rather demanding five-year-old child. There's plenty of mentions that George is in Europe, which means I'm here doing what-------taking care of our five-year-old child. There's this caption: we live online and it shows. OH yah, there's my portfolio link and testimonials, and of course links to our various blogs.
Blogs where we talk about some, um, unseemly things sometimes.
There's this blog, for example.
Not only is allied linked pretty prominently off sessum.com, the place I'm sending clients, but it's also the primary search result of the 7,000 hits that come up on Google for my name.
I've been thinking a lot lately about blogs as calling cards. About when you're out on your own freelancing, mostly people search you up on google, mostly what they find is: me here. being who I am.
Zoinks!
Is that good? Is it bad? Does it matter? It could. But so far, I'm doing what I do anyway, even though the things I write here wouldn't exactly be what I'd say in an email to a prospective client or in a job interview.
Some recent quips of mine from this very blog demonstrate the edge I think I'm walking in talking about myself outloud. And yet, although I wouldn't say these things directly to a prospective client or employer, should I care if they read them in this venue--a venue very different from an interview setting? Should I care if they read things like:
"I have this tendency, being pretty smart, of having little to no common sense at times. I tend to do six things fast and almost perfect rather than plan, think, do it once the right way. tomato sauce cans and stuff."
"I have a fucking voice mail in the middle of the road!"
"And that is where survival turns to damage, where screams dream about crackling silence, where cameleon changes are practiced and honed. That is where I lost myself to her mirror."
"I really need to make a lot of money because I'm pretty sure I could do without this whole work-a-day world altogether."
"I am sorry I do not have a penis."
"It's been a while since I've attended an actual in-person, around-the-table meeting. I wonder what people's eyes look like that close up? Do they still blink?"
"Clindimycin smells exactly, and I mean exactly, like cat shit."
"I'm not sure if this is the 16th or 17th time the ambulance has come for our next door neighbor."
"Jenna started throwing up again, fever back up to 103..."
"I still haven't washed off the last throw up yet."
"suppository where it's supposed to be. all is right with the world."
"I shared it with my therapist via email, who I was supposed to see today except that strep intercepted me."
"I say now, more and more, you know what? Fuck off."
Whatever else, this is me. This is my voice home.
It's not exactly the best first impression I could make in all settings. And I'm pretty sure it will turn some people off. But today, when corporate loyalty to employees is at an all time low, I think the biggest risk for bloggers is in *not* being ourselves out here. I don't want to work with anyone who comes to me, to my business, expecting me to be someone I'm not: a color-phobic conservative, for example. I'm not. And maybe it can save a lot of interpersonal hoopla for that to show right up front. Don't care to work for that type. Might as well bill myself as such.
So maybe blogging helps us select clients--and clients select us--based on something more honest, more risky, and ultimately more meaningful than a job interview.
It's one thing to lose a piece of business or a client. It's another thing altogether to lose oneself.
So here I am.
Come and get me.
I say, "If you want to view my portfolio..." or "If you can't remember my number..." just go to sessum.com. That's what I say. I tell them to go there.
Let's see. There's me looking all teenage mosaic-like, George in his locks. There's a click through to our rather demanding five-year-old child. There's plenty of mentions that George is in Europe, which means I'm here doing what-------taking care of our five-year-old child. There's this caption: we live online and it shows. OH yah, there's my portfolio link and testimonials, and of course links to our various blogs.
Blogs where we talk about some, um, unseemly things sometimes.
There's this blog, for example.
Not only is allied linked pretty prominently off sessum.com, the place I'm sending clients, but it's also the primary search result of the 7,000 hits that come up on Google for my name.
I've been thinking a lot lately about blogs as calling cards. About when you're out on your own freelancing, mostly people search you up on google, mostly what they find is: me here. being who I am.
Zoinks!
Is that good? Is it bad? Does it matter? It could. But so far, I'm doing what I do anyway, even though the things I write here wouldn't exactly be what I'd say in an email to a prospective client or in a job interview.
Some recent quips of mine from this very blog demonstrate the edge I think I'm walking in talking about myself outloud. And yet, although I wouldn't say these things directly to a prospective client or employer, should I care if they read them in this venue--a venue very different from an interview setting? Should I care if they read things like:
"I have this tendency, being pretty smart, of having little to no common sense at times. I tend to do six things fast and almost perfect rather than plan, think, do it once the right way. tomato sauce cans and stuff."
"I have a fucking voice mail in the middle of the road!"
"And that is where survival turns to damage, where screams dream about crackling silence, where cameleon changes are practiced and honed. That is where I lost myself to her mirror."
"I really need to make a lot of money because I'm pretty sure I could do without this whole work-a-day world altogether."
"I am sorry I do not have a penis."
"It's been a while since I've attended an actual in-person, around-the-table meeting. I wonder what people's eyes look like that close up? Do they still blink?"
"Clindimycin smells exactly, and I mean exactly, like cat shit."
"I'm not sure if this is the 16th or 17th time the ambulance has come for our next door neighbor."
"Jenna started throwing up again, fever back up to 103..."
"I still haven't washed off the last throw up yet."
"suppository where it's supposed to be. all is right with the world."
"I shared it with my therapist via email, who I was supposed to see today except that strep intercepted me."
"I say now, more and more, you know what? Fuck off."
Whatever else, this is me. This is my voice home.
It's not exactly the best first impression I could make in all settings. And I'm pretty sure it will turn some people off. But today, when corporate loyalty to employees is at an all time low, I think the biggest risk for bloggers is in *not* being ourselves out here. I don't want to work with anyone who comes to me, to my business, expecting me to be someone I'm not: a color-phobic conservative, for example. I'm not. And maybe it can save a lot of interpersonal hoopla for that to show right up front. Don't care to work for that type. Might as well bill myself as such.
So maybe blogging helps us select clients--and clients select us--based on something more honest, more risky, and ultimately more meaningful than a job interview.
It's one thing to lose a piece of business or a client. It's another thing altogether to lose oneself.
So here I am.
Come and get me.
Tomato Sauce Can Head
quick notes--been busy and sicky. and you? OH good. that's good to know.
Here's the thing. People who know me really well will tell you that I'll be the death of me yet. Huh? No really. I have this tendency, being pretty smart, of having little to no common sense at times. I tend to do six things fast and almost perfect rather than plan, think, do it once the right way. tomato sauce cans and stuff. that was the day, when I explained to a friend how I nearly killed myself by reaching up with a wooden spoon to knock a 64 oz mother can of all tomato paste off the top cupboard shelf and into my waiting arms. Except it missed. My arms. And it missed my temple by maybe an inch. I was writing headlines in my head: New York Woman Killed By Can of Contadina. Duh. All I had to do was take the time to pull the chair over and climb up to get it. But the spoon was there. And so was I. Next thing I knew kabloooie.
With that in mind, it might not surprise you to learn that I often leave things on the roof of my van. Ask Jenna. Ask George. How many times I've been half way down the street when I hear the crash of another coffee mug hitting the pavement, crash, "Oh mama! Not again!" the five year old says. I think she will never make that mistake. Do as I'd like to do, not as I do.
We've lost lots of mugs that way. One time a bag of prescriptions, which a neighbor found in the street, and because they had our name and address on them, kindly brought them by.
jeesh.
With that in mind, it might also not surprise you, or maybe it will, that on the way home from Jenna's pre-K graduation last night, we'd traveled about 12 miles, sometimes at 45-50 miles an hour, up hill, down hill, and as we rounded the corner off the main drag where we live, I heard the kathunk. kathunk, slap.
"What was that?" Jenna and I said at once.
And then it hit me.
Oh no.
I remembered me outside of her pre-k graduation, I remembered opening my purse, putting her graduation certificate in the car, pulling out my T-Mobile Sidekick, and, are you ready, yes you're right, putting the Sidekick on the roof of the van.
"Oh Jenna! You know my phone? I think I left it on top of the car!"
"Oh mommy!"
Oh dear.
We turned the car around on a side street, and drove back to the intersection where we witnessed the kathunk heard round the world.
I'm scanning the pavement of the main road, the side road, see cups, lids, straws--was it my diet coke or someone else's that landed there from the roof? where, where, where is it!? Is it crushed? And why did Danger make that Sidekick the color of pavement? Didn't they KNOW?
Then I see it. Sitting there. In the road. Oh no. Cars. Oh no. Traffic.
"Jenna, wait here!"
"Do you see it mama?"
"I think I see it."
Nobody behind me, so I park, jump out, dance into the road where I see the little gray square I think is my sidekick. Feeling sick, I edge closer, drivers now looking at me suspiciously.
Right at the edge of the road, right in the path of turning tires, but *just* off to the left, yes. That's it. Oh no--the screen is flipped open. closer. OH NO Its face down. closer. OH NO, I pick it up.
The seam where the unit snaps together is wedged apart, and I instinctively squeeze it together until I hear a snap. I slowly turn it over to look at the display, not wanting to, headed back to the van, can't wait to know, flip, IT'S STILL ON! IT'S NOT SHATTERED! My voicemail is open. I have a voice mail.
I have a fucking voice mail in the middle of the road!
Back in the drivers seat, I'm turning it over this way and that way, left and right, over and under. Looking at all the scuffs and scrapes.
"Is it broken, Mommy?"
"I don't know yet. I don't think so. Not really bad. Beaten up, but I think it's still working."
I call voice mail. The phone works. There's a message. I listen to it. It's a call from a potential client asking if I can come in to meet with them the next day about a project.
And I'm laughing at the absurdity of it all.
I would have never gotten the message if that Sidekick wasn't made to take a licking.
And I mean a LICKING!
You've got mail.
Email's working. It's coming in, little pre-messages scrolling across the top of the display.
Oh thank you thank you--IT'S STILL WORKING! IT'S STILL WORKING!
So, my Sidekick is now officially beat to shit, scraped, scuffed, and not completely joined at the seam anymore. But, more importantly than any of that, it's still working and delivering what I need REALLY REALLY when I need it.
wshew.
I'd like to say my tomato sauce can days are over. I'd like to say I couldn't have easily been run over retreiving the sidekick. Leaving Jenna in her seat, watching in horror as her mom is wiped out by a passing semi. I'd like to say I'll start listening to the little voice in my head that suggests, quite often, "Don't do that. Just don't do that."
I'd really like to.
Maybe I've learned.
Maybe.
Here's the thing. People who know me really well will tell you that I'll be the death of me yet. Huh? No really. I have this tendency, being pretty smart, of having little to no common sense at times. I tend to do six things fast and almost perfect rather than plan, think, do it once the right way. tomato sauce cans and stuff. that was the day, when I explained to a friend how I nearly killed myself by reaching up with a wooden spoon to knock a 64 oz mother can of all tomato paste off the top cupboard shelf and into my waiting arms. Except it missed. My arms. And it missed my temple by maybe an inch. I was writing headlines in my head: New York Woman Killed By Can of Contadina. Duh. All I had to do was take the time to pull the chair over and climb up to get it. But the spoon was there. And so was I. Next thing I knew kabloooie.
With that in mind, it might not surprise you to learn that I often leave things on the roof of my van. Ask Jenna. Ask George. How many times I've been half way down the street when I hear the crash of another coffee mug hitting the pavement, crash, "Oh mama! Not again!" the five year old says. I think she will never make that mistake. Do as I'd like to do, not as I do.
We've lost lots of mugs that way. One time a bag of prescriptions, which a neighbor found in the street, and because they had our name and address on them, kindly brought them by.
jeesh.
With that in mind, it might also not surprise you, or maybe it will, that on the way home from Jenna's pre-K graduation last night, we'd traveled about 12 miles, sometimes at 45-50 miles an hour, up hill, down hill, and as we rounded the corner off the main drag where we live, I heard the kathunk. kathunk, slap.
"What was that?" Jenna and I said at once.
And then it hit me.
Oh no.
I remembered me outside of her pre-k graduation, I remembered opening my purse, putting her graduation certificate in the car, pulling out my T-Mobile Sidekick, and, are you ready, yes you're right, putting the Sidekick on the roof of the van.
"Oh Jenna! You know my phone? I think I left it on top of the car!"
"Oh mommy!"
Oh dear.
We turned the car around on a side street, and drove back to the intersection where we witnessed the kathunk heard round the world.
I'm scanning the pavement of the main road, the side road, see cups, lids, straws--was it my diet coke or someone else's that landed there from the roof? where, where, where is it!? Is it crushed? And why did Danger make that Sidekick the color of pavement? Didn't they KNOW?
Then I see it. Sitting there. In the road. Oh no. Cars. Oh no. Traffic.
"Jenna, wait here!"
"Do you see it mama?"
"I think I see it."
Nobody behind me, so I park, jump out, dance into the road where I see the little gray square I think is my sidekick. Feeling sick, I edge closer, drivers now looking at me suspiciously.
Right at the edge of the road, right in the path of turning tires, but *just* off to the left, yes. That's it. Oh no--the screen is flipped open. closer. OH NO Its face down. closer. OH NO, I pick it up.
The seam where the unit snaps together is wedged apart, and I instinctively squeeze it together until I hear a snap. I slowly turn it over to look at the display, not wanting to, headed back to the van, can't wait to know, flip, IT'S STILL ON! IT'S NOT SHATTERED! My voicemail is open. I have a voice mail.
I have a fucking voice mail in the middle of the road!
Back in the drivers seat, I'm turning it over this way and that way, left and right, over and under. Looking at all the scuffs and scrapes.
"Is it broken, Mommy?"
"I don't know yet. I don't think so. Not really bad. Beaten up, but I think it's still working."
I call voice mail. The phone works. There's a message. I listen to it. It's a call from a potential client asking if I can come in to meet with them the next day about a project.
And I'm laughing at the absurdity of it all.
I would have never gotten the message if that Sidekick wasn't made to take a licking.
And I mean a LICKING!
You've got mail.
Email's working. It's coming in, little pre-messages scrolling across the top of the display.
Oh thank you thank you--IT'S STILL WORKING! IT'S STILL WORKING!
So, my Sidekick is now officially beat to shit, scraped, scuffed, and not completely joined at the seam anymore. But, more importantly than any of that, it's still working and delivering what I need REALLY REALLY when I need it.
wshew.
I'd like to say my tomato sauce can days are over. I'd like to say I couldn't have easily been run over retreiving the sidekick. Leaving Jenna in her seat, watching in horror as her mom is wiped out by a passing semi. I'd like to say I'll start listening to the little voice in my head that suggests, quite often, "Don't do that. Just don't do that."
I'd really like to.
Maybe I've learned.
Maybe.
May 21, 2003
maybe i need to post
my blog has been acting kinda flukey. i dunno. i upgraded to blogspot 25. maybe i'm somehow in progress of being migrated here or there or nowhere.
is anyone having trouble getting this blog to come up? I was all yesterday.
okay, off to take jenna to school. we are late. big surprise. medicines have been taken. we're outta here. more later.
i think i'm getting sick.
i had a massage yesterday.
purging.
more later.
is anyone having trouble getting this blog to come up? I was all yesterday.
okay, off to take jenna to school. we are late. big surprise. medicines have been taken. we're outta here. more later.
i think i'm getting sick.
i had a massage yesterday.
purging.
more later.
May 19, 2003
step down
You have to understand that my mother does love me.
And I love her.
Everything in between is where we went wrong.
Not everything. That's not right at all.
Because different days I tell myself different stories, and sometimes within the same day I tell my self seven or eight or seventy eight stories. The place of story diversions today, the place where what I think the problem comes to rest, you know, this spot, no that spot, no over there, is the effect my father's death had on us all. That's the place I've hung my hat for a very long time. Today I was thinking about that hat hook again. Most of the day.
And why not. It's a big hook, the death of your parent--her spouse--a large ripe hook on which to hang a hat. Only recently, this year, did it even occur to me to look backward and forward from that hook, to look at the hook closely first, to notice how tarnished the brass was, take the hat off, turn the hat over, look at the brim, the underside, the smooth spots your thumb makes, rubbing cotton to a shine lifting it on and off your head.
And then I look at the wall that holds the hook, not just the scuff mark, but the wall, and then the adjacent door, and what about the light on the ceiling, look at the globe, and that bulb, I didn't see that before, and before long you're inspecting the entire house, room by room, looking for you're not sure what. The last thing you knew you were hanging a hat on the hook. And a voice says:
Don't forget the basement.
That's what I stepped down into this year.
Lots of reasons why. And none. All at once. Why would anyone choose step down? It's not something one chooses to do. Usually. We spend a lifetime looking up, climbing up, that's what we're supposed to do: up is good, down is bad, up is heaven, down is hell, like that.
But what no one ever told me was the secret of stepping down, not until Helene Cixous and her three steps which go not up, but down, because down to, coming to that place and then taking another step still downward, into excruciating pain, into shards of what you thought was so, to watch it all disolve, to marvel at the colors pooling from the slick that was all your life counted on--that's it. That's the place. And you can marvel at it. The magenta, the turqoise, and the deep deep black of it. There is beauty in it. If you live through it.
There's only one direction in the faces that I see
It's upward to the ceiling, where the chamber's said to be
Like the forest fight for sunlight, that takes root in every tree
They are pulled up by the magnet, believing they're free
The carpet crawlers heed their callers:
"We've got to get in to get out
We've got to get in to get out
We've got to get in to get out"
--Genesis
So back to the hat on the hook. I bought a book today called The Loss that Is Forever: The Lifelong Impact of the Early Death of a Mother or Father and how happy was I to see the title of the first chapter, The Language of Loss, and Maxine Harris' immediate leap into language--into a child being, first and foremost, "at a loss for words," when confronted with a shock so earth shattering that aftershocks ripple across the tundra of the psyche evermore.
I'd like to tell you more about the book, but I just got it. I've only started it. But I will tell you. Later.
That's not exactly where I meant to go, to my father; it's habit you know. I meant to go to my mother just now. About how that moment changed her. About how the sudden and unexpected death of her own father just three weeks after my father's was a thunderbolt of damage she never--not really--grieved, she never--not even now--recovered from. How none of that was her fault. How hard she worked to raise the three of us in the aftermath of tragedy.
I wanted to tell you those things. About how she was, you understand, my everything once our world exploded. My life depended on her.
And hers mine. Breath, words, and being. Everything.
And that is where survival turns to damage, where screams dream about crackling silence, where cameleon changes are practiced and honed.
That is where I lost myself to her mirror
And I lost me.
Okay, not lost really.
I've been waiting in the basement all this time.
"You've got to get in to get out."
And I love her.
Everything in between is where we went wrong.
Not everything. That's not right at all.
Because different days I tell myself different stories, and sometimes within the same day I tell my self seven or eight or seventy eight stories. The place of story diversions today, the place where what I think the problem comes to rest, you know, this spot, no that spot, no over there, is the effect my father's death had on us all. That's the place I've hung my hat for a very long time. Today I was thinking about that hat hook again. Most of the day.
And why not. It's a big hook, the death of your parent--her spouse--a large ripe hook on which to hang a hat. Only recently, this year, did it even occur to me to look backward and forward from that hook, to look at the hook closely first, to notice how tarnished the brass was, take the hat off, turn the hat over, look at the brim, the underside, the smooth spots your thumb makes, rubbing cotton to a shine lifting it on and off your head.
And then I look at the wall that holds the hook, not just the scuff mark, but the wall, and then the adjacent door, and what about the light on the ceiling, look at the globe, and that bulb, I didn't see that before, and before long you're inspecting the entire house, room by room, looking for you're not sure what. The last thing you knew you were hanging a hat on the hook. And a voice says:
Don't forget the basement.
That's what I stepped down into this year.
Lots of reasons why. And none. All at once. Why would anyone choose step down? It's not something one chooses to do. Usually. We spend a lifetime looking up, climbing up, that's what we're supposed to do: up is good, down is bad, up is heaven, down is hell, like that.
But what no one ever told me was the secret of stepping down, not until Helene Cixous and her three steps which go not up, but down, because down to, coming to that place and then taking another step still downward, into excruciating pain, into shards of what you thought was so, to watch it all disolve, to marvel at the colors pooling from the slick that was all your life counted on--that's it. That's the place. And you can marvel at it. The magenta, the turqoise, and the deep deep black of it. There is beauty in it. If you live through it.
There's only one direction in the faces that I see
It's upward to the ceiling, where the chamber's said to be
Like the forest fight for sunlight, that takes root in every tree
They are pulled up by the magnet, believing they're free
The carpet crawlers heed their callers:
"We've got to get in to get out
We've got to get in to get out
We've got to get in to get out"
--Genesis
So back to the hat on the hook. I bought a book today called The Loss that Is Forever: The Lifelong Impact of the Early Death of a Mother or Father and how happy was I to see the title of the first chapter, The Language of Loss, and Maxine Harris' immediate leap into language--into a child being, first and foremost, "at a loss for words," when confronted with a shock so earth shattering that aftershocks ripple across the tundra of the psyche evermore.
I'd like to tell you more about the book, but I just got it. I've only started it. But I will tell you. Later.
That's not exactly where I meant to go, to my father; it's habit you know. I meant to go to my mother just now. About how that moment changed her. About how the sudden and unexpected death of her own father just three weeks after my father's was a thunderbolt of damage she never--not really--grieved, she never--not even now--recovered from. How none of that was her fault. How hard she worked to raise the three of us in the aftermath of tragedy.
I wanted to tell you those things. About how she was, you understand, my everything once our world exploded. My life depended on her.
And hers mine. Breath, words, and being. Everything.
And that is where survival turns to damage, where screams dream about crackling silence, where cameleon changes are practiced and honed.
That is where I lost myself to her mirror
And I lost me.
Okay, not lost really.
I've been waiting in the basement all this time.
"You've got to get in to get out."
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