DANCE TO THE MUSIC OF BLOG HITS!!!!
Did you know that you gain a whopping sixty minutes worth of hits for free in the wee hours of the morning when the clocks jump back an hour TONIGHT?
Have you thought about what those extra sixty minutes could add to your hit count each year? Are you leveraging your free hour with that perfectly-timed post that'll have all the biggies link lovin' your bloggin behind?
If not, you should be!
All you have to do to get your hour's worth of hits for free is to subscribe to the "Standard Time Hit Fandango Reminder Subscription Service" for only $19.95.. THAT'S RIGHT!!!! Only $19.95. When you register for MY service, I'll remind you around the same time next year* to blog that political post you've been saving for just the right time, that secret formula for bringing down Microsoft, or that insightful post on gender issues that's sure to pop you right to the top of the charts.
Imagine your potential gains in Technorati and Google standings! Think of the money you can rake in when Toyota decides to put their fancy new car ad on YOUR blog.
What can sixty minutes worth of gimme hits get you? Well, if you're Instapundit, probably 2.4 million additional hits!
That's right: 2.4 million additional hits!
You too can be a pundit and capitalize on this once-a-year opportunity. It doesn't matter if you're polipundit or techpundit or lawpundit or mompundit or sexpundit or dadpundit or laidoffpundit or, one near and dear to my heart, deathpundit, BIG TIME HITS ARE WAITING FOR YOU!
Don't you want to be like Instapundit???
DON'T YOU?
C'mon. You know you do.
Well then, send me $19.95.
Tonight.
*certain restrictions apply**
**offer void if I quit blogging, if I feel like not bothering, or if I simply forget.
October 25, 2003
October 24, 2003
It's funny how it happens
Does it happen to you? More and more it happens to me. Maybe because I've been blogging for a couple of years, or maybe it's a sign of the times. Too often now, I hear the coming waves before I see the cresting, the rolling down, or feel the spray.
In blogging I mean. Convergence or something like that.
It's when you start to feel a certain way about blogging, about the communities you live in online, about what's being written or not being written, and about how it feels. But you don't know why. You can't really tell anyone, not even another blogger, why you feel things getting icky, stupid, gross, exclusive, ugly, boring, monotonous, or even dark and, well, evil. You can't really point to any one thing--it's the culmination of pixels across blogs, across comments, a strong wind that smacks of something wrong.
No secret I've been feeling it this last month here. I've posted about it. And it's not just me. When I express my sadness over where I feel blogging is going, I hear from others who can't put their finger on it, who can't keystroke an answer, but who feel it too.
It takes a toll on those people. And they're not one or two. I've heard from a dozen or so.
It is about community. And it's not. Maybe it's about the organic generation that we once had here. This springing naturally from that to this from that to him to her to us to them and back and forth and look at that, holy shit, IT'S ALL CONNECTED--ORGASM!
God, those were the days. Hasn't felt like that for a long time. I guess that's why I've been nostalgic of late, reading first posts from way back when. I think I was trying to find my way back to the source that once inspired me here.
I should have left more breadcrumbs.
For a while, this place felt safe because we were real. We started out real. Remember your first post? Bare ass. "Hi. Oooo. Is this thing on? (tap tap) Hello?"
Coming to blogging forced us to get real, and real quick. That doesn't mean we didn't disagree or hurl chairs or fall down in the mud sloshing around. But somehow, when we came to the surface for air, we eyed one another, and eventually our lips curled up at the edges. Then a smile. Oh shit. I learned something. About myself. About you. Look at how that works. Look at this shit. Look at us grow. You motherfucker you. Respect.
It doesn't feel safe here anymore. It feels, well, more fake. That's the best word I can come up with. Is it me? Well part of it must be, because I'm one of the left turns out here. I've lost my way here lately. I'm thankful when I get called on it. When I lose my way, when my voice goes south, or an idea sounds fishy, either you say nothing or someone like Dean calls me on it. And when I come back home, Dean tells me so too. That's being real. That's the thing learning and growing in writing is made of.
I was writing to a blogger friend today about my week. About how Jenna has been so sick, about how we had to take her for nine shots in three days, a CT-scan of her head, chest x-rays, and four blood draws, a failed IV that sprayed salt water in her face. Tears of salt on mine.
That's been going on for a week.
And for most of the week, I spent my time here taking first posts of bloggers from my comment page and putting them neatly in a row. One at a time. Sometimes two.
Several days ago, I wrote two paragraphs in this little window about my kid, and about what I felt, about me, about her, about living and crying. And I deleted it before I ever posted it.
For the first time, I didn't come here with what I needed to say. And I didn't come here because something is wrong here. Something is so wrong. It's going the wrong way. If you have a hard time faking it, you might just as well be quiet.
All of this talk about blogging and self importance and blogs in business and bloggercons and connerblogs and look at me and look at us and link to me baby, lemme give you a blogjob if you'll just add me. For what? Voices into a canyon--nothing coming back.
No voice back at me here. Not even my own. And that means something's wrong.
My eyes tear when I feel you trying......
A village is a community, a place where isolation in adversity is simply not permitted, a place where a cry for help is answered by neighbors with open hearts......
When spirit moves under the stars, memory stirs like a rattle of snakes, like scorpions rising to the cool of night, these eyes, this love, this lifelonging taste for the beautiful terrifying edges of the world. And self is the trace it leaves passing through. No matter what......
You can only BE THE VOICE ON ONE OF THE ENDS and that's all you can ever BE. The Fact that YOU are there doesn't even MATTER. It's Your Voice at the END that you are willing to HAVE and Your willingness to LISTEN to The VOICES of OTHER ENDS......
I also had some problems climbing around the rocks, trapping my foot between two at one point and falling into a boulder. You should have heard me cuss. Boy did I cuss. Kicked the rocks, too, when I freed my foot, as if half-ton rocks that have been around forever are going to worry about the kick of a tennis-shoe clad foot attached to a cranky, middle-aged woman......
Worms on the kitchen floor. Lumbricus terrestris, last seen this closely when I dissected one in Fifth Year biology. I’ve always been fond of earthworms, with their groovy mating habits and fine work ethic. I just didn’t understand why they were now crawling out of the fridge and across the floor. While she tapped away I opened the fridge, so ancient that a springclip holds it shut. A mystery tub had lost its top. Earth and worms spilled out. The worms were jolted out of hibernation and were now making confused bids for freedom: through the vegetables, beneath the fridge, under my boots.
I see it in them. What are you trying to get good at here?
Don't forget to tell your story here.
More and more, it's big-media topics and news and politics. Why? Why do we want to replicate what we came here to escape? What are we feeding on here with aggregators and all news all the time.
We have no mandate, no laws of decorum, no way to say, Did you read him? did you read her? can you see he's hurting? Are you looking past your own post? Your own site meter? A post above or below the one you followed the link to?
We're losing one another.
Go back and read your own old posts. I've been reading your old posts all week.
I saw you there. You and you and you.
Don't forget where you came from.
And don't let me either.
In blogging I mean. Convergence or something like that.
It's when you start to feel a certain way about blogging, about the communities you live in online, about what's being written or not being written, and about how it feels. But you don't know why. You can't really tell anyone, not even another blogger, why you feel things getting icky, stupid, gross, exclusive, ugly, boring, monotonous, or even dark and, well, evil. You can't really point to any one thing--it's the culmination of pixels across blogs, across comments, a strong wind that smacks of something wrong.
No secret I've been feeling it this last month here. I've posted about it. And it's not just me. When I express my sadness over where I feel blogging is going, I hear from others who can't put their finger on it, who can't keystroke an answer, but who feel it too.
It takes a toll on those people. And they're not one or two. I've heard from a dozen or so.
It is about community. And it's not. Maybe it's about the organic generation that we once had here. This springing naturally from that to this from that to him to her to us to them and back and forth and look at that, holy shit, IT'S ALL CONNECTED--ORGASM!
God, those were the days. Hasn't felt like that for a long time. I guess that's why I've been nostalgic of late, reading first posts from way back when. I think I was trying to find my way back to the source that once inspired me here.
I should have left more breadcrumbs.
For a while, this place felt safe because we were real. We started out real. Remember your first post? Bare ass. "Hi. Oooo. Is this thing on? (tap tap) Hello?"
Coming to blogging forced us to get real, and real quick. That doesn't mean we didn't disagree or hurl chairs or fall down in the mud sloshing around. But somehow, when we came to the surface for air, we eyed one another, and eventually our lips curled up at the edges. Then a smile. Oh shit. I learned something. About myself. About you. Look at how that works. Look at this shit. Look at us grow. You motherfucker you. Respect.
It doesn't feel safe here anymore. It feels, well, more fake. That's the best word I can come up with. Is it me? Well part of it must be, because I'm one of the left turns out here. I've lost my way here lately. I'm thankful when I get called on it. When I lose my way, when my voice goes south, or an idea sounds fishy, either you say nothing or someone like Dean calls me on it. And when I come back home, Dean tells me so too. That's being real. That's the thing learning and growing in writing is made of.
I was writing to a blogger friend today about my week. About how Jenna has been so sick, about how we had to take her for nine shots in three days, a CT-scan of her head, chest x-rays, and four blood draws, a failed IV that sprayed salt water in her face. Tears of salt on mine.
That's been going on for a week.
And for most of the week, I spent my time here taking first posts of bloggers from my comment page and putting them neatly in a row. One at a time. Sometimes two.
Several days ago, I wrote two paragraphs in this little window about my kid, and about what I felt, about me, about her, about living and crying. And I deleted it before I ever posted it.
For the first time, I didn't come here with what I needed to say. And I didn't come here because something is wrong here. Something is so wrong. It's going the wrong way. If you have a hard time faking it, you might just as well be quiet.
All of this talk about blogging and self importance and blogs in business and bloggercons and connerblogs and look at me and look at us and link to me baby, lemme give you a blogjob if you'll just add me. For what? Voices into a canyon--nothing coming back.
No voice back at me here. Not even my own. And that means something's wrong.
My eyes tear when I feel you trying......
A village is a community, a place where isolation in adversity is simply not permitted, a place where a cry for help is answered by neighbors with open hearts......
When spirit moves under the stars, memory stirs like a rattle of snakes, like scorpions rising to the cool of night, these eyes, this love, this lifelonging taste for the beautiful terrifying edges of the world. And self is the trace it leaves passing through. No matter what......
You can only BE THE VOICE ON ONE OF THE ENDS and that's all you can ever BE. The Fact that YOU are there doesn't even MATTER. It's Your Voice at the END that you are willing to HAVE and Your willingness to LISTEN to The VOICES of OTHER ENDS......
I also had some problems climbing around the rocks, trapping my foot between two at one point and falling into a boulder. You should have heard me cuss. Boy did I cuss. Kicked the rocks, too, when I freed my foot, as if half-ton rocks that have been around forever are going to worry about the kick of a tennis-shoe clad foot attached to a cranky, middle-aged woman......
Worms on the kitchen floor. Lumbricus terrestris, last seen this closely when I dissected one in Fifth Year biology. I’ve always been fond of earthworms, with their groovy mating habits and fine work ethic. I just didn’t understand why they were now crawling out of the fridge and across the floor. While she tapped away I opened the fridge, so ancient that a springclip holds it shut. A mystery tub had lost its top. Earth and worms spilled out. The worms were jolted out of hibernation and were now making confused bids for freedom: through the vegetables, beneath the fridge, under my boots.
I see it in them. What are you trying to get good at here?
Don't forget to tell your story here.
More and more, it's big-media topics and news and politics. Why? Why do we want to replicate what we came here to escape? What are we feeding on here with aggregators and all news all the time.
We have no mandate, no laws of decorum, no way to say, Did you read him? did you read her? can you see he's hurting? Are you looking past your own post? Your own site meter? A post above or below the one you followed the link to?
We're losing one another.
Go back and read your own old posts. I've been reading your old posts all week.
I saw you there. You and you and you.
Don't forget where you came from.
And don't let me either.
shhhhh.
Yikes--don't tell IBM, Magnet, Digital Insight, Cingular, Nokia, AMS, Matrix, HealthTrio, Medaphis, Hyperion, Harland, Equifax, Novartis, Merial, Kodak, or any of my other past or current clients that I didn't get asked to the women and tech blog prom.
Fascinating but oddly exclusive list of technology-focused women bloggers, many of whom I respect from the standpoint of writing and technology. It will be interesting to see how this blog plays out.
Rumor has it that Shelley and I are crashing the party. Shelley will be the one in the tux.
I remember when I started a group blog or two. It never occurred to me to "select" or hand pick the participants. Of course, I've always hoped this place would be more like a party than a tech magazine. I'm so goofy that way. It keeps getting me in trouble.
Meanwhile, I gotta run and do some tech work so I can keep da lights on.
weeeeeeeeee!
;-)
Fascinating but oddly exclusive list of technology-focused women bloggers, many of whom I respect from the standpoint of writing and technology. It will be interesting to see how this blog plays out.
Rumor has it that Shelley and I are crashing the party. Shelley will be the one in the tux.
I remember when I started a group blog or two. It never occurred to me to "select" or hand pick the participants. Of course, I've always hoped this place would be more like a party than a tech magazine. I'm so goofy that way. It keeps getting me in trouble.
Meanwhile, I gotta run and do some tech work so I can keep da lights on.
weeeeeeeeee!
;-)
October 23, 2003
The Future Just Stopped By...
Holy Shit!
I'm probably the last to know. boing boing told me.
Amazon.com now has a "search inside the book" feature that lets you search within millions of real live (okay, online) pages to find matches to your search keywords.
Holy Shit!
I decided to test how it worked with an until-now very obscure reference to yours truly inside a book on uterine fibroids, a subject on which I am an unfortunate expert.
A couple of years back I was interviewed for a book on the topic. I elected to have the author use my first name only. Since not too many women (and even fewer men, I suppose) have the name jeneane spelled like my Jeneane, I did the amazon search inside the book for the word "Jeneane."
Sure enough, amazon pulled up every instance within the book where my name appears--and took me right to each page with a simple click.
What a simple-dimple way to relive my pregnancy trauma! how cool!
No, seriously. I am amazed by this capability. What an educational masterpiece this thing is. Do they never stop innovating over there? How for granted will our kids take this little invention in 3-5 years time?
Man! With this little deal, I'm going to be a pundit by Tuesday. You watch me.
Amapundit.
Thanks, Amazon.
Fucking forgettaboudit.
I'm blown away.
I'm probably the last to know. boing boing told me.
Amazon.com now has a "search inside the book" feature that lets you search within millions of real live (okay, online) pages to find matches to your search keywords.
Holy Shit!
I decided to test how it worked with an until-now very obscure reference to yours truly inside a book on uterine fibroids, a subject on which I am an unfortunate expert.
A couple of years back I was interviewed for a book on the topic. I elected to have the author use my first name only. Since not too many women (and even fewer men, I suppose) have the name jeneane spelled like my Jeneane, I did the amazon search inside the book for the word "Jeneane."
Sure enough, amazon pulled up every instance within the book where my name appears--and took me right to each page with a simple click.
What a simple-dimple way to relive my pregnancy trauma! how cool!
No, seriously. I am amazed by this capability. What an educational masterpiece this thing is. Do they never stop innovating over there? How for granted will our kids take this little invention in 3-5 years time?
Man! With this little deal, I'm going to be a pundit by Tuesday. You watch me.
Amapundit.
Thanks, Amazon.
Fucking forgettaboudit.
I'm blown away.
October 19, 2003
It's National Blog History Month!
This is by no means a complete list of my classmates/inspirations/co-conspirators, and yet, when I started snooping around, I did find enough "first posts" to warrant a celebratory yeeehaw! We've come a long way, baby....
Fishrush's Hello World: September 25, 1952 (ROTFL)
xian's Breathing Room: October 30, 1997
Lisa Williams' Cadence 90: May 31, 2000
Chris Locke's All Noise: August 5, 2000
Marek J's Soapbox: August 5, 2000
Brooke's Rivervision: November 7, 2000
Dean Landsman's DeanLand: December 17, 2000
Deb Gussman's Distracted: February 27, 2001
Michael O'Connor Clarke: March 1, 2001
Shelley Powers' BurningBird: [[April 5, 2001, after lurking for a year. Shelley's first post was on a Userland Manila site and has since disappeared. Conspiracy? TAHDW? You be the judge. Shelley has special dispensation because she is my idol. She's the only first post I'll include without a link.]]
Marc's Nexistepas: October 8, 2001
Gonzo Engaged: October 14, 2001
George Sessum's Musick: October 23, 2001
Jeneane Sessum's Allied: November 4, 2001
Gaspar Torriero: November 7, 2001
Kevin Marks Epeus' epigone: November 7, 2001
Gary Turner's* MLOD: November 14, 2001 (Gary Turner's "Inturnernet News" blog dates back to 1999.)
David Weinberger's JOHO: November 15, 2001*. (*JOHO was started in 1999, and after a two-year hiatus, re-emerged.)
Denise Howell's Bag n Baggage: November 28, 2001
Elaine's Kalilily: November 29, 2001
Jennifer Balderama's Nonsense Verse: December 7, 2001
Frank Paynter's Sandhill Trek: January 5, 2002
Halley's Commentsans: January 10, 2002
Mike Golby: Jan 11, 2002
AKMA: January 23, 2002
Tom Shugart's Insiteview: Feburary 21, 2002
Doug's The Dynamic Drivel: March 28, 2002
Jonathon Mays' Stretching Thought: April 16, 2002
Liz Lawley's Mamamusings October 22, 2002 (happy first birthday, Liz!)
I've got comments. leave a link to your first post there if you please.
It's national blog history month. take a blogger to lunch.
Fishrush's Hello World: September 25, 1952 (ROTFL)
xian's Breathing Room: October 30, 1997
Lisa Williams' Cadence 90: May 31, 2000
Chris Locke's All Noise: August 5, 2000
Marek J's Soapbox: August 5, 2000
Brooke's Rivervision: November 7, 2000
Dean Landsman's DeanLand: December 17, 2000
Deb Gussman's Distracted: February 27, 2001
Michael O'Connor Clarke: March 1, 2001
Shelley Powers' BurningBird: [[April 5, 2001, after lurking for a year. Shelley's first post was on a Userland Manila site and has since disappeared. Conspiracy? TAHDW? You be the judge. Shelley has special dispensation because she is my idol. She's the only first post I'll include without a link.]]
Marc's Nexistepas: October 8, 2001
Gonzo Engaged: October 14, 2001
George Sessum's Musick: October 23, 2001
Jeneane Sessum's Allied: November 4, 2001
Gaspar Torriero: November 7, 2001
Kevin Marks Epeus' epigone: November 7, 2001
Gary Turner's* MLOD: November 14, 2001 (Gary Turner's "Inturnernet News" blog dates back to 1999.)
David Weinberger's JOHO: November 15, 2001*. (*JOHO was started in 1999, and after a two-year hiatus, re-emerged.)
Denise Howell's Bag n Baggage: November 28, 2001
Elaine's Kalilily: November 29, 2001
Jennifer Balderama's Nonsense Verse: December 7, 2001
Frank Paynter's Sandhill Trek: January 5, 2002
Halley's Commentsans: January 10, 2002
Mike Golby: Jan 11, 2002
AKMA: January 23, 2002
Tom Shugart's Insiteview: Feburary 21, 2002
Doug's The Dynamic Drivel: March 28, 2002
Jonathon Mays' Stretching Thought: April 16, 2002
Liz Lawley's Mamamusings October 22, 2002 (happy first birthday, Liz!)
I've got comments. leave a link to your first post there if you please.
It's national blog history month. take a blogger to lunch.
October 18, 2003
start talking.
families engage in a conspiracy
of silence around death...In their efforts
to contain grief, the pain is actually
intensified as people wall off parts
of themselves. This avoidance of open,
shared grieving hasa its roots in the
losses of previous generations.
--Murray Bowen, M.D.
of silence around death...In their efforts
to contain grief, the pain is actually
intensified as people wall off parts
of themselves. This avoidance of open,
shared grieving hasa its roots in the
losses of previous generations.
--Murray Bowen, M.D.
stavros remembers
Is there a statute of limitations on mourning? Should there be? If we stop feeling that skip in the heartbeat and stab in the gut when we think of someone we loved who was killed, have we stopped caring? Should guilt then rush in? Should we try to leave behind our grief, and get on with it? What is left of the dead one, a year after they've gone, in the world? What do we learn from their lives, what can we learn? What have I learned?
And much more... Like this:
Scars were left on me in the wake of those deaths in my young life, furrows and welts in my brain some of which are even now just working their way into the light. This is as it should be. My great and abiding love for the drink, moderated and benign as it has become in my later years, as much passed on genetically and nurtured environmentally as it may be, certainly has some roots there. My fear and loathing of the very idea of having children, absolutely. My carefully-chosen expatriate existence, yearning contrapuntally as I sometimes do for the deep, cold coniferous forests of my youth. The vigour with which I counter those who I perceive to be attacking me, yes. All of these and more. I have made my peace with the ghosts, made it many years ago, and carry my wounds with awareness and a quiet understanding that what happens is good by virtue of the sheer fact that it has happened, and that to claim otherwise and rail against our experience is to refuse life, and shrink from it. To say no, rather than yes.
A wonderfully thoughtful and intensely genuine post.
Wshew.
And much more... Like this:
Scars were left on me in the wake of those deaths in my young life, furrows and welts in my brain some of which are even now just working their way into the light. This is as it should be. My great and abiding love for the drink, moderated and benign as it has become in my later years, as much passed on genetically and nurtured environmentally as it may be, certainly has some roots there. My fear and loathing of the very idea of having children, absolutely. My carefully-chosen expatriate existence, yearning contrapuntally as I sometimes do for the deep, cold coniferous forests of my youth. The vigour with which I counter those who I perceive to be attacking me, yes. All of these and more. I have made my peace with the ghosts, made it many years ago, and carry my wounds with awareness and a quiet understanding that what happens is good by virtue of the sheer fact that it has happened, and that to claim otherwise and rail against our experience is to refuse life, and shrink from it. To say no, rather than yes.
A wonderfully thoughtful and intensely genuine post.
Wshew.
New Blog Babe Magnet Revealed.
Paynter Usurps RB as Blogworld Babe Magnet, according to Betsy Devine.
Frank, you smelled blood and went right in, didn't ya. Have you no shame? ;-)
You gotta see the pic Betsy did of Frank. It's a hoot.
In other news, Frank is writing like the new babe magnet, full of love and graceful prose and open spaces. Nice.
Frank, you smelled blood and went right in, didn't ya. Have you no shame? ;-)
You gotta see the pic Betsy did of Frank. It's a hoot.
In other news, Frank is writing like the new babe magnet, full of love and graceful prose and open spaces. Nice.
the frustration of paint by numbers
surely you remember it. darling jenna is in the kitchen experiencing it with her own two paint smudged hand. Usually an able artist, she got through three "numbered" paints in this paint-by-number heart thingy with way too much detail before asking permission to abandon the numbers and mix her own colors.
I remember.
I said, "Okay."
I remember.
I said, "Okay."
i did this soooo long ago
I did this little site on good business writing eons ago. I was looking at it tonight, finding my old white paper template for a buddy, and started looking through copy I don't even remember writing. When did I do all this stuff? Am I my own ghost writer? I don't know. Weird feeling. Anyhow, in case you need some old fashioned word templates for abstracts, white papers, and the like, I figured I'd link to the old gal.
breaker break one-nine
John Markhoff: "To my mind, it's not clear yet whether blogging is anything more than CB radio."
via Halley, who proclaims these to be wise words.
I say this: Would you rather talk with the truckers on CB Radio or read the NY Times?
I think you know my preference.
Cutting you loose, good buddy. Over and out.
via Halley, who proclaims these to be wise words.
I say this: Would you rather talk with the truckers on CB Radio or read the NY Times?
I think you know my preference.
Cutting you loose, good buddy. Over and out.
October 16, 2003
attention deficit
It's been a while since I've blogged anything meaningful. So funny. When I was swamped with work, a hundred posts flooded my mind in a single day--none of them actually posted. Now that I have 20 minutes here and there to write for me n you, all I hear is wind.
damn.
And then last night, something broke loose for me. After Group. After talking with George. After a glorious late night talk with Shelley and word from Master Boy that he had phone (call him with ideas, ya'll) back for the time being.
In the space before sleep and dream, I figured something out.
I became a memory.
I'm riding the bus to school the first day back to school after my father died, wondering--consciously thinking: "how should I feel? what am I supposed to act like?" Not feeling sad, no, that wouldn't come until later, about 36 years later, no, not sad. Feeling like I should feel sad. Feeling like everyone around me is sad for me, and so I should be sad, but I don't feel sad. So what should I do? Who should I be like? I have no template for this.
I walk into class to the warm arms of my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. McKlusky, who embraces me with the tenderness of a mother, see tears in her eyes, "my poor dear." And I like it.
I like it.
I'm warm.
I'm safe.
Hug me again, Mrs. McKlusky.
Please?
The next day comes, and the next, and the next, and during those rides to school, I monitor my performance. I hear the older kids in the seat behind me, "That's the girl whose dad died. That's her." "Wow. Poor kid." "She must be so sad."
Me thinking, yes. I suppose I can pretend to be sad. Me consciously configuring a look of sad, profound depth on my five-year-old face, leaning my forehead against the up-and-down glass window of the bus, watching the fog from my breath obscure my own view of my face, rubbing it away so that I can see if I look sad enough.
Talk about me some more, kids.
Me. What about me?
What about me, who had lived for the last year in a household of death and dying, of secrecy, of hidden truths, of pretending that nothing was wrong. What about that year, which used make believe to obscure reality, like fog on the glass window of the school bus. What about knowing what was happening without permission to give voice to terror.
Things you put aside, file under "unfortunate"--those are the memories that shape your dark places.
For all of my adult life, I've sought a supporting role, hating the spotlight, hating the sound of my own voice out loud, shakey, unsure. Instead I shape my voice with words and pixels, screaming as loudly as I can in black and white.
It goes back to those rides on the bus, my teacher's arms. It goes back to me asking can I please go out and play on the day of his death, and being told no, we are in mourning, and thinking: what about me?
It's common for children to blame themselves for their parent's death. I knew of this phenomenon because so many adults asked me, "you don't feel like you caused your dad's death, right? I mean, some children feel responsible. You shouldn't feel responsible. It wasn't your fault."
Me thinking, well I DIDN'T feel responsible until the 9th adult asked me this stinking question. I didn't feel responsible. I didn't kill him.
Did you? Or you?
Not me.
But there is guilt, and I found it waiting for me in the space between sleep and dream, last night. It's the guilt of a little girl on a school bus faking sorrow to get attention. It's a little girl who knows she should feel something that everyone else is feeling, but can't. Whatever emotion this is I see around me, it seems to work for them--it seems that they can all get together and hug and cry and laugh, and they are all in on the big secret, and I'm sitting there, alone, on the bus, pretending to have my own secret. The secret of manufactured sadness. Because that's all I have.
I say I'm sorry to that little girl for making her feel guilty for so many years for wanting the attention that went to her dying father.
I say I'm sorry that you couldn't get all the attention you needed while the family circled around his dying.
I say it was okay to ask, what about me? And it still is.
And I say:
It's okay to go out and play.
It's okay to go out and play.
damn.
And then last night, something broke loose for me. After Group. After talking with George. After a glorious late night talk with Shelley and word from Master Boy that he had phone (call him with ideas, ya'll) back for the time being.
In the space before sleep and dream, I figured something out.
I became a memory.
I'm riding the bus to school the first day back to school after my father died, wondering--consciously thinking: "how should I feel? what am I supposed to act like?" Not feeling sad, no, that wouldn't come until later, about 36 years later, no, not sad. Feeling like I should feel sad. Feeling like everyone around me is sad for me, and so I should be sad, but I don't feel sad. So what should I do? Who should I be like? I have no template for this.
I walk into class to the warm arms of my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. McKlusky, who embraces me with the tenderness of a mother, see tears in her eyes, "my poor dear." And I like it.
I like it.
I'm warm.
I'm safe.
Hug me again, Mrs. McKlusky.
Please?
The next day comes, and the next, and the next, and during those rides to school, I monitor my performance. I hear the older kids in the seat behind me, "That's the girl whose dad died. That's her." "Wow. Poor kid." "She must be so sad."
Me thinking, yes. I suppose I can pretend to be sad. Me consciously configuring a look of sad, profound depth on my five-year-old face, leaning my forehead against the up-and-down glass window of the bus, watching the fog from my breath obscure my own view of my face, rubbing it away so that I can see if I look sad enough.
Talk about me some more, kids.
Me. What about me?
What about me, who had lived for the last year in a household of death and dying, of secrecy, of hidden truths, of pretending that nothing was wrong. What about that year, which used make believe to obscure reality, like fog on the glass window of the school bus. What about knowing what was happening without permission to give voice to terror.
Things you put aside, file under "unfortunate"--those are the memories that shape your dark places.
For all of my adult life, I've sought a supporting role, hating the spotlight, hating the sound of my own voice out loud, shakey, unsure. Instead I shape my voice with words and pixels, screaming as loudly as I can in black and white.
It goes back to those rides on the bus, my teacher's arms. It goes back to me asking can I please go out and play on the day of his death, and being told no, we are in mourning, and thinking: what about me?
It's common for children to blame themselves for their parent's death. I knew of this phenomenon because so many adults asked me, "you don't feel like you caused your dad's death, right? I mean, some children feel responsible. You shouldn't feel responsible. It wasn't your fault."
Me thinking, well I DIDN'T feel responsible until the 9th adult asked me this stinking question. I didn't feel responsible. I didn't kill him.
Did you? Or you?
Not me.
But there is guilt, and I found it waiting for me in the space between sleep and dream, last night. It's the guilt of a little girl on a school bus faking sorrow to get attention. It's a little girl who knows she should feel something that everyone else is feeling, but can't. Whatever emotion this is I see around me, it seems to work for them--it seems that they can all get together and hug and cry and laugh, and they are all in on the big secret, and I'm sitting there, alone, on the bus, pretending to have my own secret. The secret of manufactured sadness. Because that's all I have.
I say I'm sorry to that little girl for making her feel guilty for so many years for wanting the attention that went to her dying father.
I say I'm sorry that you couldn't get all the attention you needed while the family circled around his dying.
I say it was okay to ask, what about me? And it still is.
And I say:
It's okay to go out and play.
It's okay to go out and play.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)