i always read about these cleanses people go on, wherein they imbibe things that clean out the insides of their bodies. it works for some, and i won't knock it, but i personally figure that nature works well enough on its own.
no, my cleansing is cleansing of the household. there's a good bit of cleaning to be done, and with the day stretching like a waking cat before me, i find myself lingering in front of the computer, knowing that this is another part of my cleaning--just like restocking the paper towels in the kitchen, i need to get out on paper the little beasts that live inside my mind.
one of my housemates, a seventeen-pound mass of short white fur, gingery-tabby spots, and a rumbling purr, is trying to annex my lap. why he only wants to do this while i type is beyond me, but in deference to his random affection, i'm going to type fast and then try to fill his cuddle tank, just like i often ask dan to fill mine with an even spent leaning together on the couch.
at any rate, the carpet is vaguely crunchy and in need of vacuuming, and the kitchen is a mess. i suppose it's a cycle that will go on forever, just like the sun coming up every darn morning.
then again, i welcome the sun each day, and i suppose in the end that it's cathartic to clean up the outer areas of my existence, and do some internal straightening, too.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Monday, May 07, 2007
hair
grandma
i remember when you lost your hair
all the wispy silver twirls, whirling
at your nape.
you were scared, i think, because you thought
it signaled
the end.
my sister and i found a hat for you, blue denim.
it made your eyes
pop
out of pale face, startling and lovely.
by the time your hair grew back, the circle
was complete: your hair in pure white curls,
pressed into the pillow
as you died. quite morbid, that thought.
i'll endeavor to forget
all that hair, sprouting anew, and instead
recall the easter hat, and your smiling eyes.
***
cousin
when i was young i slept in your room, on your
waterbed, when we visited. my parents
sat outside the room, your room, which had
no door. at the table they drank black coffee and told
off-color jokes, things i shouldn't have heard. i think
they hoped i slept, or thought i did. leftover perfume
on your comforter, the steady pipe of smoke from your
mother, my aunt. it was dim in the room and i could
see little--i don't remember the color of the blanket,
or the carpeting, nothing. just the light between table legs,
and your picture, near the closet--the crinkle of smiling cheek,
the blonde feathered locks, which you'll be losing, come Monday.
***
red
when i was a child i longed
for darkest, sleekest, wavy midnight--
but it all remained, this rust.
it's thick--it always has been. things have
changed, though--names that childhood bullies chose
evolved
into red-haired woman: the stigma of passion,
desire, temper, fire.
i blame my genetics for this hair--what
else?
there is no box from which i pour this color.
as i age it fades, slowly, a dense auburn.
twined about are thick fishing lines--
bleached with age, heavier than the rest.
in time it will all wash away, and all the names
that cracked pride like dry tinder
will be forgotten, gone gray as ash.
i remember when you lost your hair
all the wispy silver twirls, whirling
at your nape.
you were scared, i think, because you thought
it signaled
the end.
my sister and i found a hat for you, blue denim.
it made your eyes
pop
out of pale face, startling and lovely.
by the time your hair grew back, the circle
was complete: your hair in pure white curls,
pressed into the pillow
as you died. quite morbid, that thought.
i'll endeavor to forget
all that hair, sprouting anew, and instead
recall the easter hat, and your smiling eyes.
***
cousin
when i was young i slept in your room, on your
waterbed, when we visited. my parents
sat outside the room, your room, which had
no door. at the table they drank black coffee and told
off-color jokes, things i shouldn't have heard. i think
they hoped i slept, or thought i did. leftover perfume
on your comforter, the steady pipe of smoke from your
mother, my aunt. it was dim in the room and i could
see little--i don't remember the color of the blanket,
or the carpeting, nothing. just the light between table legs,
and your picture, near the closet--the crinkle of smiling cheek,
the blonde feathered locks, which you'll be losing, come Monday.
***
red
when i was a child i longed
for darkest, sleekest, wavy midnight--
but it all remained, this rust.
it's thick--it always has been. things have
changed, though--names that childhood bullies chose
evolved
into red-haired woman: the stigma of passion,
desire, temper, fire.
i blame my genetics for this hair--what
else?
there is no box from which i pour this color.
as i age it fades, slowly, a dense auburn.
twined about are thick fishing lines--
bleached with age, heavier than the rest.
in time it will all wash away, and all the names
that cracked pride like dry tinder
will be forgotten, gone gray as ash.
Monday, April 30, 2007
burned
i'm a fair-skinned person. i don't tan well at all; usually i just burn. i can tell when i'm going to burn by looking at the number of freckles that appear underneath my nose. when i'm going to burn, suddenly i have a lot more freckles there, regardless of where on my body i'm burned.
in the summer, i shun the sunlight. i'll venture out in early, early morning, or dusk--but midday is poisonous. my mother's italian skin just didn't make it to me. i often wish, especially in summer, that i could have inherited her skin tone--that soft olive that tans instantly in sun, and rarely, if ever, burns.
saturday i went garage saling. i should have known better--i remembered to wear a hat, and my sunglasses, since my eyes are very light sensitive as well. (dan calls me the "movie star" because i'm always wearing my sunglasses, rain or shine.) anyway, i forgot to put on sunscreen.
this usually happens at least once at the outset of summer, before i've slapped the coppertone 60 on the counter as a reminder. and inevitably, after i burn, i get sick.
i don't know what it's called--sun poisoning? heat stroke? heat exhaustion? all i know is that i'm sick, and the burn aches. this time i've burned just the back of my neck, and part of my shoulders. it makes turning my head agony--the burn is tight across my skin, and everything that comes in contact with it feels huge and painfully scratchy.
my hair has been up since saturday; i haven't been able to take it out of a pony tail, because each little strand is like a teeny, tiny brand. yesterday i wore a tank top all day--just to avoid the agony of a collar--but today i need to take a short jaunt to walgreens for something to help with the pain, and so i am sitting uncomfortably straight in my chair, trying not to look sideways at my cats, my neck frozen as i type.
why is it that, as a child, if you stick your hand in fire and you are burned, you remember not to do it again...but if you are burned by the sun, a much further-from-you flame, you forget? from year to year, month to month? is it because it is so much farther away than a campfire?
today i'm staying home from work. my stomach is still upset with me, and my neck hurts so badly that i cannot imagine sitting at my desk and looking about. this is the last time this will happen. at least this year.
in the summer, i shun the sunlight. i'll venture out in early, early morning, or dusk--but midday is poisonous. my mother's italian skin just didn't make it to me. i often wish, especially in summer, that i could have inherited her skin tone--that soft olive that tans instantly in sun, and rarely, if ever, burns.
saturday i went garage saling. i should have known better--i remembered to wear a hat, and my sunglasses, since my eyes are very light sensitive as well. (dan calls me the "movie star" because i'm always wearing my sunglasses, rain or shine.) anyway, i forgot to put on sunscreen.
this usually happens at least once at the outset of summer, before i've slapped the coppertone 60 on the counter as a reminder. and inevitably, after i burn, i get sick.
i don't know what it's called--sun poisoning? heat stroke? heat exhaustion? all i know is that i'm sick, and the burn aches. this time i've burned just the back of my neck, and part of my shoulders. it makes turning my head agony--the burn is tight across my skin, and everything that comes in contact with it feels huge and painfully scratchy.
my hair has been up since saturday; i haven't been able to take it out of a pony tail, because each little strand is like a teeny, tiny brand. yesterday i wore a tank top all day--just to avoid the agony of a collar--but today i need to take a short jaunt to walgreens for something to help with the pain, and so i am sitting uncomfortably straight in my chair, trying not to look sideways at my cats, my neck frozen as i type.
why is it that, as a child, if you stick your hand in fire and you are burned, you remember not to do it again...but if you are burned by the sun, a much further-from-you flame, you forget? from year to year, month to month? is it because it is so much farther away than a campfire?
today i'm staying home from work. my stomach is still upset with me, and my neck hurts so badly that i cannot imagine sitting at my desk and looking about. this is the last time this will happen. at least this year.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
attack of the overzealous cleaning fairy
every month i go through a week of ups and downs. it's generally the week prior to my period, so i should have an idea of when this will occur. however, i have selective amnesia, which is a boon to my existence.
this week kicked off with the usual suspects: insomnia, a ravenous appetite, and the activation of my genetic "clean the freaking house" gene.
my mom's mom is known as "the white tornado," since she's super fast and kept her house immaculately clean, when she was still living at home. my own mom cleans every saturday morning; my sister cleans on mondays. i generally stick to the saturday or sunday morning routine--clean, clean, clean, then shower and nap, and then start the day. i know, makes your heart race, doesn't it?
anyway, thursday night i slept for shit--par for the course. after four or five hours, my brain pokes me awake and i have to get up and start the day. which i did--i was at work by 630, and home by 1230. at that point, i thought i should take a nap. but there was a cat vomit stain next to the entertainment center, and i couldn't slumber in good conscience until it was clean.
as usual, this turned into an hour-long marathon, in which i vacuumed and steam-cleaned the whole living room, took out all garbage and recycling, cleaned the cat restroom area and the human bathroom, and got the dishwasher loaded and running. by the time i was done i had to shower, but all i could think was, what else can i get done?
this will wear off shortly. but for this last week, my kitchen has been clean, and now the carpet in the living room is not covered with fine layer of shiva.
i suppose i should look on the bright side: if i do this once a month, the house will stay clean.
but it does get me thinking about cycles--the earth has a cycle, which dictates to humanity how we shape our lives. for the most part, the modern primate can live however they want to--regardless of weather, your house can be filled with light and cool, or dim and warm: it's your choice.
i think this gives humanity the false sense that they are more in control of their existence than they really are. i also think it separates us from our direct environs, which in turn can be confusing to the system in general.
anyway, this morning i woke up smelling the leftover linen refresher spray that i'd doused the bedroom drapes in yesterday, during the scouring spasm. i lay there, listening to the world wake up--the birds chirping, the random hum of a vehicle. i remembered when i was a kid, waking up in the summertime, cool air on my face, and the smell of roses blooming below the window, warm beneath my blankets, the soft snores and rustlings of my sisters melting into the coo of fifty doves on the line outside. i thought of five years ago, waking up in the little cabin and hearing my cat purr on my chest, and the loons on the lake sharing their eerie music.
i am in a different place now, a different part of the world. and yet the cycles of life--seasons, genes, my very own pair of X-chromosomes--still control the memories that are triggered, the scent of my comforter, and the cleanliness of my linoleum.
this week kicked off with the usual suspects: insomnia, a ravenous appetite, and the activation of my genetic "clean the freaking house" gene.
my mom's mom is known as "the white tornado," since she's super fast and kept her house immaculately clean, when she was still living at home. my own mom cleans every saturday morning; my sister cleans on mondays. i generally stick to the saturday or sunday morning routine--clean, clean, clean, then shower and nap, and then start the day. i know, makes your heart race, doesn't it?
anyway, thursday night i slept for shit--par for the course. after four or five hours, my brain pokes me awake and i have to get up and start the day. which i did--i was at work by 630, and home by 1230. at that point, i thought i should take a nap. but there was a cat vomit stain next to the entertainment center, and i couldn't slumber in good conscience until it was clean.
as usual, this turned into an hour-long marathon, in which i vacuumed and steam-cleaned the whole living room, took out all garbage and recycling, cleaned the cat restroom area and the human bathroom, and got the dishwasher loaded and running. by the time i was done i had to shower, but all i could think was, what else can i get done?
this will wear off shortly. but for this last week, my kitchen has been clean, and now the carpet in the living room is not covered with fine layer of shiva.
i suppose i should look on the bright side: if i do this once a month, the house will stay clean.
but it does get me thinking about cycles--the earth has a cycle, which dictates to humanity how we shape our lives. for the most part, the modern primate can live however they want to--regardless of weather, your house can be filled with light and cool, or dim and warm: it's your choice.
i think this gives humanity the false sense that they are more in control of their existence than they really are. i also think it separates us from our direct environs, which in turn can be confusing to the system in general.
anyway, this morning i woke up smelling the leftover linen refresher spray that i'd doused the bedroom drapes in yesterday, during the scouring spasm. i lay there, listening to the world wake up--the birds chirping, the random hum of a vehicle. i remembered when i was a kid, waking up in the summertime, cool air on my face, and the smell of roses blooming below the window, warm beneath my blankets, the soft snores and rustlings of my sisters melting into the coo of fifty doves on the line outside. i thought of five years ago, waking up in the little cabin and hearing my cat purr on my chest, and the loons on the lake sharing their eerie music.
i am in a different place now, a different part of the world. and yet the cycles of life--seasons, genes, my very own pair of X-chromosomes--still control the memories that are triggered, the scent of my comforter, and the cleanliness of my linoleum.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
the anatomy of pancake syrup
we have this place that we love to go to breakfast. i say "we" because it's usually me and dan. but the collective "we" also encompasses our friends with the new baby, and corpse, and eero too. pretty much anyone who sips of their delectable syrup is inducted into a select group of people who then crave said liquid from time to time in the future. we haven't indoctrinated devin yet, but judging by her enthusiastic five-month-old response and the resulting amount of drool, i'd say she's well on her way. excellent choice, little one. excellent choice.
the reason for meeting this morning was dan's big three-one birthday. we all pretty much had our usual fare: scrambled eggs, thick pepper bacon, breakfast potatoes, and something porous to sop up the syrup.
the syrup isn't sold in the cafe itself. we tried to break down the ingredients and came close to what the waitress said it was, but in reality, i doubt we'll ever replicate that same jarred bliss at home. sweet with a hint of salty; maple with a hint of praline and cream. there's just nothing like it.
they also have good coffee, which is an added bonus, and the staff is always quite friendly.
we're not there every day because then we'd get tired of the syrup. i'm sure of it. this way, imbibed infrequently, it's a treat, and stays just as miraculous with each forkful.
***
this last week has been nice to have off. we got to attend the only wild hockey game that they won in their series against anaheim--and had the best seats in the house. i'm not kidding, either--third tier, first row. the view was fantastic.
then on thursday we met a friend for a big-screen showing of "ghostbusters." it came complete with a new rendition of Ecto-1, this time in a ford crown victoria station wagon, outfitted with all the requisite flashing lights and details. the movie itself was just fun to see; i cannot count the number of times i've seen the stay-puft marshmallow man, but never that size! it made me feel like i was eight again.
then yesterday we met friends to see "hot fuzz." i probably won't be the first to say that it was brilliant, nor the last, but quite possibly the most vehement. (with the exception of dan, i'm sure...he's taller and has a deeper voice and just more resonant all around.) there were guns. there were one-liners. it's british humor; what's not to love?
i got my car cleaned out, and the garage straightened up. not swept yet, but that can wait until the wind dies down some.
i also did a TON of reading this week. i think in all i read 6 books, and just one more on the docket. today we're heading into minneapolis and braving the Big City to hit Uncle Hugo's, a used sci-fi/fantasy book store. it smells just like a book store should: fibrous.
so despite the fact that i didn't do all the things i thought i would get accomplished--mopping the kitchen floor, watching the three chick flicks that have been collecting dust on the entertainment unit, getting a haircut and a massage, steamcleaning the living room carpets, and going through the boxes of childhood memorabilia that's been stuffed into the storage unit for almost two years now--despite avoiding all that like the plague, i had a good week off.
my only gripe right now is that now that i've had a week off, i feel rested enough to actually HAVE a vacation. i'm finally unwinding, only to get all wound up again by tomorrow morning.
***
it's times like these that i dream of a day when i win the powerball and can relax for a good solid month before i get bored and have to find a job, just to keep myself occupied and out of the trap of becoming one with my computer.
or becoming one with a book. that was my biggest splurge this week: i hit half price books, unique thrift store, and the library, and i've read everything i got, already, and then some. when i read books i feel compelled to devour them, in the same two-gulp manner that my sister's dog wolfs her dinner. i sit down, i read the book, i finish and then i'm onto the next one.
during the week, when i'm back at the grind, i don't have the time or energy to devote simply to falling into the pages of a book. it's a reprieve to find that i can sit with my feet propped on the coffee table, one cat curled at my left side and one purring like a muscle car on my stomach, sipping pulpy, cold orange juice, and flipping idly through the pages.
i have another vacation coming up in july. another week off. i suppose that in the end my vacations are dispersed throughout the year much like our syrup-tastings--something to keep me moving forward through the sludge of day-to-day cubeland.
so despite the strong urge to call in tomorrow and say, "i'm taking another week off, now," i'll resist the siren song and wade back into the fray. which will make my next vacation all the lovelier.
i hope. (;
the reason for meeting this morning was dan's big three-one birthday. we all pretty much had our usual fare: scrambled eggs, thick pepper bacon, breakfast potatoes, and something porous to sop up the syrup.
the syrup isn't sold in the cafe itself. we tried to break down the ingredients and came close to what the waitress said it was, but in reality, i doubt we'll ever replicate that same jarred bliss at home. sweet with a hint of salty; maple with a hint of praline and cream. there's just nothing like it.
they also have good coffee, which is an added bonus, and the staff is always quite friendly.
we're not there every day because then we'd get tired of the syrup. i'm sure of it. this way, imbibed infrequently, it's a treat, and stays just as miraculous with each forkful.
***
this last week has been nice to have off. we got to attend the only wild hockey game that they won in their series against anaheim--and had the best seats in the house. i'm not kidding, either--third tier, first row. the view was fantastic.
then on thursday we met a friend for a big-screen showing of "ghostbusters." it came complete with a new rendition of Ecto-1, this time in a ford crown victoria station wagon, outfitted with all the requisite flashing lights and details. the movie itself was just fun to see; i cannot count the number of times i've seen the stay-puft marshmallow man, but never that size! it made me feel like i was eight again.
then yesterday we met friends to see "hot fuzz." i probably won't be the first to say that it was brilliant, nor the last, but quite possibly the most vehement. (with the exception of dan, i'm sure...he's taller and has a deeper voice and just more resonant all around.) there were guns. there were one-liners. it's british humor; what's not to love?
i got my car cleaned out, and the garage straightened up. not swept yet, but that can wait until the wind dies down some.
i also did a TON of reading this week. i think in all i read 6 books, and just one more on the docket. today we're heading into minneapolis and braving the Big City to hit Uncle Hugo's, a used sci-fi/fantasy book store. it smells just like a book store should: fibrous.
so despite the fact that i didn't do all the things i thought i would get accomplished--mopping the kitchen floor, watching the three chick flicks that have been collecting dust on the entertainment unit, getting a haircut and a massage, steamcleaning the living room carpets, and going through the boxes of childhood memorabilia that's been stuffed into the storage unit for almost two years now--despite avoiding all that like the plague, i had a good week off.
my only gripe right now is that now that i've had a week off, i feel rested enough to actually HAVE a vacation. i'm finally unwinding, only to get all wound up again by tomorrow morning.
***
it's times like these that i dream of a day when i win the powerball and can relax for a good solid month before i get bored and have to find a job, just to keep myself occupied and out of the trap of becoming one with my computer.
or becoming one with a book. that was my biggest splurge this week: i hit half price books, unique thrift store, and the library, and i've read everything i got, already, and then some. when i read books i feel compelled to devour them, in the same two-gulp manner that my sister's dog wolfs her dinner. i sit down, i read the book, i finish and then i'm onto the next one.
during the week, when i'm back at the grind, i don't have the time or energy to devote simply to falling into the pages of a book. it's a reprieve to find that i can sit with my feet propped on the coffee table, one cat curled at my left side and one purring like a muscle car on my stomach, sipping pulpy, cold orange juice, and flipping idly through the pages.
i have another vacation coming up in july. another week off. i suppose that in the end my vacations are dispersed throughout the year much like our syrup-tastings--something to keep me moving forward through the sludge of day-to-day cubeland.
so despite the strong urge to call in tomorrow and say, "i'm taking another week off, now," i'll resist the siren song and wade back into the fray. which will make my next vacation all the lovelier.
i hope. (;
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
scattered
yesterday there was a shooting; the biggest massacre in our country's history. (at least by the standards of school shootings--i am reasonably sure that other massacres have happened, undocumented and off of school grounds, perhaps even prior to the founding fathers setting foot on north american soil.)
it's something that catches people off guard. and well it should; i would hate to be so numb to these things that i didn't care. part of me is reminded of columbine; it's that time of year, so on and so forth. part of me is reminded of corey; today is the day he passed. and part of me is reminded of my own youth, spent hating school.
yes, hating. i hated school--grade school and high school, to a lesser degree. i hated it because i was one of the kids who was always bullied and teased. it bit.
i continually find it of interest the way that kids group together; is it some leftover herding instinct? like finds like, and blends in? who knows. there is inevitably a group of children in any yard at recess who are the cast-offs: for whatever reason available, the other children cut them off, don't pick them in gym, you name it. everyone in the "in" crowd is just that: in. everyone in the group to which i consistently belong was out. out of fashion, out of sorts, out of the picture. we were a solid group, a group held together by the fact that all of us were ignored for some different reason. that was what made us alike--not the same jeans, or the shirt with a certain logo on it--a feeling, an emotion.
i was always a member of this group, due to my red hair and hand-me-down clothing. i could go on and on about the hair issue--when you're older, everyone wants it, when you're a kid, it's nothing but trouble, etc--but that's another story for another day.
being part of the cast away portion of the recess crowd meant that i learned certain lessons quite early. my dad would repeat the time-old mantra: "sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me." and over time, you try to ignore the slurs and insults. you learn to be innocuous in other ways--you are quiet, you blend into a crowd, you could be anybody.
dan was one of those kids too, at our high school. his boys ran around wearing black and playing roleplaying games, and being scoffed at for those reasons. they were the "nerds"; my group of girls were just the ones who didn't wear guess jeans and couldn't afford anything from ralph lauren unless it came from a thrift store.
you make your own group, you make your own rules. but you are separated from the whole; you are scattered about, and have to take the time to come together. some people never do find that niche, even if it is the group of forgotten and teased. they prefer the army of one mentality that comes with the solidarity of self.
those kids are the scary ones, nowdays--the ones who are pushed to the side for being too intelligent, too off-mark, the ones who never find people that allow them to be who they are and allow them the acceptance they seek. they're the ones termed "loners."
a song that we sang in grade school comes to mind. it's to the tune of "glory, glory hallelujah."
glory, glory hallelujah
teacher hit me with a ruler
standing behind the door
with a loaded forty-four
and there ain't no teacher no more.
there's more on this at wikipedia, of course: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Burning_of_the_School
school violence is nothing new, i guess is what i'm saying. it's nothing to be forgotten, either. i loved kindergarten; it was the grades between then and graduation that i despised. when i got to college i fell in love with school again, because it was a place where everyone was forgotten, and your clothing ignored. everyone was on a level playing field, at least at my university.
i fear for my sister, who teaches middle school. i fear for her because no amount of protection or security can ensure that someone, somewhere, isn't hating and feeling alienated, by their peers or teachers, parents, siblings. there are any number of reasons why people do what they do, and hindsight is 20/20, and makes it seem as though these things could be prevented.
but it starts earlier than anyone remembers--it starts when you are walking to school at the age of six with your twelve year old neighbors, and suddenly you are the target.
twenty five years down the line, i can see it for what it was--children being cruel. but at that time, it was painful. it was abhorrent. it shaped the person i am now, in ways that i cannot fully explain. i'm one of the lucky ones; my father had guns in his house, but i never got to the point where i thought that was even the remotest option.
my struggles, my violence--was aimed solely at me. i can see it in the suicidal poems i wrote, and the books into which i disappeared for days.
yesterday the first footage that we saw was of people, running away, and police, closing in, on great stone-gray buildings. bodies in motion, united in a common cause.
is it only then, at those times, that the divisions of thought and action are forgotten? that you cling to whoever is closest, for support? that you forget about the barriers that have been erected, and just accept others for the sheer need of it?
it annoys me that it has to come to that; and it terrifies me that more and more often, it does.
it's something that catches people off guard. and well it should; i would hate to be so numb to these things that i didn't care. part of me is reminded of columbine; it's that time of year, so on and so forth. part of me is reminded of corey; today is the day he passed. and part of me is reminded of my own youth, spent hating school.
yes, hating. i hated school--grade school and high school, to a lesser degree. i hated it because i was one of the kids who was always bullied and teased. it bit.
i continually find it of interest the way that kids group together; is it some leftover herding instinct? like finds like, and blends in? who knows. there is inevitably a group of children in any yard at recess who are the cast-offs: for whatever reason available, the other children cut them off, don't pick them in gym, you name it. everyone in the "in" crowd is just that: in. everyone in the group to which i consistently belong was out. out of fashion, out of sorts, out of the picture. we were a solid group, a group held together by the fact that all of us were ignored for some different reason. that was what made us alike--not the same jeans, or the shirt with a certain logo on it--a feeling, an emotion.
i was always a member of this group, due to my red hair and hand-me-down clothing. i could go on and on about the hair issue--when you're older, everyone wants it, when you're a kid, it's nothing but trouble, etc--but that's another story for another day.
being part of the cast away portion of the recess crowd meant that i learned certain lessons quite early. my dad would repeat the time-old mantra: "sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me." and over time, you try to ignore the slurs and insults. you learn to be innocuous in other ways--you are quiet, you blend into a crowd, you could be anybody.
dan was one of those kids too, at our high school. his boys ran around wearing black and playing roleplaying games, and being scoffed at for those reasons. they were the "nerds"; my group of girls were just the ones who didn't wear guess jeans and couldn't afford anything from ralph lauren unless it came from a thrift store.
you make your own group, you make your own rules. but you are separated from the whole; you are scattered about, and have to take the time to come together. some people never do find that niche, even if it is the group of forgotten and teased. they prefer the army of one mentality that comes with the solidarity of self.
those kids are the scary ones, nowdays--the ones who are pushed to the side for being too intelligent, too off-mark, the ones who never find people that allow them to be who they are and allow them the acceptance they seek. they're the ones termed "loners."
a song that we sang in grade school comes to mind. it's to the tune of "glory, glory hallelujah."
glory, glory hallelujah
teacher hit me with a ruler
standing behind the door
with a loaded forty-four
and there ain't no teacher no more.
there's more on this at wikipedia, of course: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Burning_of_the_School
school violence is nothing new, i guess is what i'm saying. it's nothing to be forgotten, either. i loved kindergarten; it was the grades between then and graduation that i despised. when i got to college i fell in love with school again, because it was a place where everyone was forgotten, and your clothing ignored. everyone was on a level playing field, at least at my university.
i fear for my sister, who teaches middle school. i fear for her because no amount of protection or security can ensure that someone, somewhere, isn't hating and feeling alienated, by their peers or teachers, parents, siblings. there are any number of reasons why people do what they do, and hindsight is 20/20, and makes it seem as though these things could be prevented.
but it starts earlier than anyone remembers--it starts when you are walking to school at the age of six with your twelve year old neighbors, and suddenly you are the target.
twenty five years down the line, i can see it for what it was--children being cruel. but at that time, it was painful. it was abhorrent. it shaped the person i am now, in ways that i cannot fully explain. i'm one of the lucky ones; my father had guns in his house, but i never got to the point where i thought that was even the remotest option.
my struggles, my violence--was aimed solely at me. i can see it in the suicidal poems i wrote, and the books into which i disappeared for days.
yesterday the first footage that we saw was of people, running away, and police, closing in, on great stone-gray buildings. bodies in motion, united in a common cause.
is it only then, at those times, that the divisions of thought and action are forgotten? that you cling to whoever is closest, for support? that you forget about the barriers that have been erected, and just accept others for the sheer need of it?
it annoys me that it has to come to that; and it terrifies me that more and more often, it does.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
cousin
all around me, you falter,
you fall
leaves in autumn, drifting
in winter wind.
in the spring you are heavy
leftover snowflakes,
gathering in april descent.
i have fallen, too--many, many times,
perhaps not nearly so far. but
i know what it is like to feel
the ache in your knees, your hip
where it connected with bruised pavement.
i find as time runs hand over hand
that it is harder
to watch as
all around me, you falter.
***
my cousin donna was diagnosed with cancer about six months ago. it was right as my friends darin & cathy welcomed their new little daughter into the world. donna was being treated for a bladder infection, and when the pain got to be too much, she was flown south to larger hospitals, where it was determined that she was far gone with colon cancer. they took her uterus, part of her stomach, part of her intestines. 90% of the cancer was actually removed; she is now going through chemo.
since i seem to have either allergies or a cold that's been coming and going, i've been afraid to visit her, for fear that i'll pass along bacteria or virus. she has a caring bridge site, just like my uncle jed's, where she updates from time to time; i try to read whenever i can, as she chronicles her path.
this last round of chemo was particularly rough. she says she knows it is working. when i read what she has written i see the demoralizing aspect of medicine, how low you must go.
when you're young they don't tell you these things. how could anyone draw a map of suffering, or of comprehension? there is no outline for how to be compassionate, no directions on what joy or fear or loss feel like.
donna wrote that she could not believe the sounds that were coming out of her body, when she sobbed during treatment. there is no describing them--they are the unholy side of your self, the darker half that is hidden with makeup and a smartly matched outfit. but to each there is a balance.
sometimes it is just hard to see that balance.
i forget that the trees must lose their leaves, in order to withstand winter. i forget that fire sometimes scours the earth, burning back life only to allow room for the new. i get mired in the here and the now, the suffering of those around me, their pain. it is more difficult, i think, to watch your friends and loved ones in agony, than it is to undertake that pain yourself.
unbidden my throat tightens; if i speak now, my voice will be harsh and rough. my eyes are warm, ready to weep. the line is so fine between weeping for joy--that the chemo is working--and weeping in sorrow--that she must go through this process in the first place.
you fall
leaves in autumn, drifting
in winter wind.
in the spring you are heavy
leftover snowflakes,
gathering in april descent.
i have fallen, too--many, many times,
perhaps not nearly so far. but
i know what it is like to feel
the ache in your knees, your hip
where it connected with bruised pavement.
i find as time runs hand over hand
that it is harder
to watch as
all around me, you falter.
***
my cousin donna was diagnosed with cancer about six months ago. it was right as my friends darin & cathy welcomed their new little daughter into the world. donna was being treated for a bladder infection, and when the pain got to be too much, she was flown south to larger hospitals, where it was determined that she was far gone with colon cancer. they took her uterus, part of her stomach, part of her intestines. 90% of the cancer was actually removed; she is now going through chemo.
since i seem to have either allergies or a cold that's been coming and going, i've been afraid to visit her, for fear that i'll pass along bacteria or virus. she has a caring bridge site, just like my uncle jed's, where she updates from time to time; i try to read whenever i can, as she chronicles her path.
this last round of chemo was particularly rough. she says she knows it is working. when i read what she has written i see the demoralizing aspect of medicine, how low you must go.
when you're young they don't tell you these things. how could anyone draw a map of suffering, or of comprehension? there is no outline for how to be compassionate, no directions on what joy or fear or loss feel like.
donna wrote that she could not believe the sounds that were coming out of her body, when she sobbed during treatment. there is no describing them--they are the unholy side of your self, the darker half that is hidden with makeup and a smartly matched outfit. but to each there is a balance.
sometimes it is just hard to see that balance.
i forget that the trees must lose their leaves, in order to withstand winter. i forget that fire sometimes scours the earth, burning back life only to allow room for the new. i get mired in the here and the now, the suffering of those around me, their pain. it is more difficult, i think, to watch your friends and loved ones in agony, than it is to undertake that pain yourself.
unbidden my throat tightens; if i speak now, my voice will be harsh and rough. my eyes are warm, ready to weep. the line is so fine between weeping for joy--that the chemo is working--and weeping in sorrow--that she must go through this process in the first place.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
under the weather
yesterday i think i had a fever. (i think i had a fever because i was all hot and cold, but when i got home i just went to sleep...and was too tired to rummage around for the thermometer.) anyway, after sleeping the afternoon away and spending the night tossing and turning, i feel better. not "i'm Wonder Woman!" better. but better.
as far as the title goes--aren't we ALL under the weather? it's it kind of...above us? around us? out of our immediate control?
easter in minnesota is usually warmer; it's when you see kids running around in their easter clothes. this year it's sunny, the skys are a washed-out blue, and it's freezing cold; so over the lacy yellow dresses and little sailor outfits, i'm sure that parents will be zipping up coats and squashing hats onto heads.
ah, the frigid north. i love it. (:
april is always a touchy month, a weird time. it's a month of memory and some silent times, and also a lot of laughter. to paraphrase khalil gibran, the same thing that makes you cry, makes you smile.
april is when i remember dan's brother, corey--his birthday and his death. it's when i celebrate dan's birthday--on earth day--even though he's never been much into it, and since it's only 4 days off from when corey passed, it's hard to celebrate. i celebrate because his mom decided to have him, and raised him into the guy who made sure i ate dinner last night, when i was still feverish.
april is also the month that my uncle, jed, suffered his last stroke, the one that has incapacitated him. he clings to life with a tenacity that i cannot help but admire, even two years later.
a year ago this month, dan got his job.
happy and sad; sweet and sour.
***
i drive using things to navigate. by things, i mean points of interest--a gas station, a church spire, a strange house. my dad long ago gave up writing down directions in terms of milage, since my mom drives the same way i do. they say that it's a female tic, to navigate this way.
when i think back on my life, i have a hard time remembering what year something occurred. i have to think about what was going on at that time--where did we live, for whom did we cook dinner, what happened that year. even then, it gets blurred. memory is faulty; the memory of traumatic times, even worse.
it is strange how clear your mind can be, when remembering certain parts--but then other parts are a dream-memory, slipping out of your fingers. i remember corey's sly smile; i remember driving back to bemidji with all the leftover after-funeral cake, a box sliding around the back seat, bumping into a rubbermaid container of cold lasagna. but i cannot remember the sound of his voice.
in duluth you live under the thumb of the weather--you get lake effect snow, strange twists of temperature, and fog, thick and soft. that is what i picture, overlaid on my own mind--that heavy, touchable mist, coalesced into clouds, drifting over the ground.
***
two years ago on easter my sister and i took my grandmother to church. at the time, her meds made her lose most of her hair. beth and i found a very cute denim cap for her to wear, one that went with her outfit and brought out the blue in her eyes, so vivid. she was terrified that it would fall off during mass; we kept reassuring her that it would not. she argued that she had no hair to pin the hat down; we replied that it fit just right, she did not need pins.
all through mass i watched the dome of her head, watched her long, slender fingers fiddle with the brim. she had trouble moving it; her joints were knobby with arthritis. the church was cold and warm at the same time--the heat of bodies pressed into pews, and the breeze on ankles of a door, opened somewhere to alleviate the heat.
i remember walking outside after mass that day, and the sun beating down, hot on my skin. i remember grandma saying that she was glad for the hat, all of a sudden.
grandma didn't pass away until thanksgiving, that same year. her hair had grown back in by then, shining silver and white. but i remember her in april, when i remember all things that have lived and passed, when the weather reminds me that i am small and insignificant, and my memories, ephemeral as time.
as far as the title goes--aren't we ALL under the weather? it's it kind of...above us? around us? out of our immediate control?
easter in minnesota is usually warmer; it's when you see kids running around in their easter clothes. this year it's sunny, the skys are a washed-out blue, and it's freezing cold; so over the lacy yellow dresses and little sailor outfits, i'm sure that parents will be zipping up coats and squashing hats onto heads.
ah, the frigid north. i love it. (:
april is always a touchy month, a weird time. it's a month of memory and some silent times, and also a lot of laughter. to paraphrase khalil gibran, the same thing that makes you cry, makes you smile.
april is when i remember dan's brother, corey--his birthday and his death. it's when i celebrate dan's birthday--on earth day--even though he's never been much into it, and since it's only 4 days off from when corey passed, it's hard to celebrate. i celebrate because his mom decided to have him, and raised him into the guy who made sure i ate dinner last night, when i was still feverish.
april is also the month that my uncle, jed, suffered his last stroke, the one that has incapacitated him. he clings to life with a tenacity that i cannot help but admire, even two years later.
a year ago this month, dan got his job.
happy and sad; sweet and sour.
***
i drive using things to navigate. by things, i mean points of interest--a gas station, a church spire, a strange house. my dad long ago gave up writing down directions in terms of milage, since my mom drives the same way i do. they say that it's a female tic, to navigate this way.
when i think back on my life, i have a hard time remembering what year something occurred. i have to think about what was going on at that time--where did we live, for whom did we cook dinner, what happened that year. even then, it gets blurred. memory is faulty; the memory of traumatic times, even worse.
it is strange how clear your mind can be, when remembering certain parts--but then other parts are a dream-memory, slipping out of your fingers. i remember corey's sly smile; i remember driving back to bemidji with all the leftover after-funeral cake, a box sliding around the back seat, bumping into a rubbermaid container of cold lasagna. but i cannot remember the sound of his voice.
in duluth you live under the thumb of the weather--you get lake effect snow, strange twists of temperature, and fog, thick and soft. that is what i picture, overlaid on my own mind--that heavy, touchable mist, coalesced into clouds, drifting over the ground.
***
two years ago on easter my sister and i took my grandmother to church. at the time, her meds made her lose most of her hair. beth and i found a very cute denim cap for her to wear, one that went with her outfit and brought out the blue in her eyes, so vivid. she was terrified that it would fall off during mass; we kept reassuring her that it would not. she argued that she had no hair to pin the hat down; we replied that it fit just right, she did not need pins.
all through mass i watched the dome of her head, watched her long, slender fingers fiddle with the brim. she had trouble moving it; her joints were knobby with arthritis. the church was cold and warm at the same time--the heat of bodies pressed into pews, and the breeze on ankles of a door, opened somewhere to alleviate the heat.
i remember walking outside after mass that day, and the sun beating down, hot on my skin. i remember grandma saying that she was glad for the hat, all of a sudden.
grandma didn't pass away until thanksgiving, that same year. her hair had grown back in by then, shining silver and white. but i remember her in april, when i remember all things that have lived and passed, when the weather reminds me that i am small and insignificant, and my memories, ephemeral as time.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
christmas nougats
as usual, i'm behind the times. it's now the end of march, and i'm just now cracking open a bag of what used to be my all time favorite holiday candy, the minty christmas nougats by brachs. if you don't mind having sugary candy stuck in your teeth for a while after eating them, the peppermint taste is quite strong. again, if you like peppermint...
***
it's been nearly a year since dan started his new job. i am very, very proud of him. when i think of this pride, i have a hard time not weeping, so thankful am i. dan made a decision, at some point, to live, to try, to keep trying. i have great respect for this courage of his, the sheer tenacity of being on the bottom and crawling back up.
i think of organisms living deep in the ocean, swimming slow to the top, breaking the meniscus of water, and gulping in air.
***
in so many ways i feel that i am behind. i am late. i am slow. when i was a kid i got the turtle award for being slow. it was second grade and at the end of the year we had a picnic in a park. under the pavilion, with the taste of cheap hot dog and orange drink from mcdonalds lingering in my mouth, my hands sticky, i remember that green award. other kids got awards for being smart, or speedy, whatever. i got the turtle award.
i guess i think of it with bitterness--why would you reward someone for being slow? but then again i review in my mind the story of the tortoise and the hare--slow and steady wins the race.
my middle sister married three years ago this fall. i hear conflicting reports about how the tedium of every day life and taken for granted-ness is wearing on their union. am i glad that i have not yet made an honest man of dan? i don't know. perhaps it is fate, kismet, what have you, that we did not marry all those years ago when we first spoke of it. perhaps we needed to go through and experience what we did, find our separate selves and the full appreciation for what we have together. it is difficult to see that, when you are living in that moment.
***
with time comes perspective, objectivity even when you are reviewing your self, or at least a semblance of objectivity. yes, i may be slow. and life may not be the headlong race that i often feel i am just watching roll by me, quick and flashy. maybe i'm just running in a different race. the marathon, not the 100 meter dash.
i eat another red striped white nougat, take a long look at the mashed up green pine tree in the middle. the wrappers are a little crisp; i'm sure that they are not meant to wait four months before being used and recycled. sometimes i suppose that me being behind is unhealthy. then again, is it so horrible to be reminded of snow and wind chills and warm blankets, when the sky is low and gray and damp april is in your bones?
i know that dan gets frustrated with me because of the speed at which i manuever through life and its varied obstacles. i know that i get frustrated, with my self and my own meandering. but having been to the points that i have--watching dan grasp at life and find a hold, remembering my own struggles, and contemplating that the struggle in life is constant--at those points and at the ones i can imagine occuring--i am glad that i move slowly through the world.
the earth itself is slow--a creature out of sorts with time. it slumbers for a few months, and upon waking, takes its time to rinse sleep from its eyes. it'll rain for a few more weeks, before blooming hot and humid into the next season. probably by then i'll have eaten the rest of my leftover mints.
***
it's been nearly a year since dan started his new job. i am very, very proud of him. when i think of this pride, i have a hard time not weeping, so thankful am i. dan made a decision, at some point, to live, to try, to keep trying. i have great respect for this courage of his, the sheer tenacity of being on the bottom and crawling back up.
i think of organisms living deep in the ocean, swimming slow to the top, breaking the meniscus of water, and gulping in air.
***
in so many ways i feel that i am behind. i am late. i am slow. when i was a kid i got the turtle award for being slow. it was second grade and at the end of the year we had a picnic in a park. under the pavilion, with the taste of cheap hot dog and orange drink from mcdonalds lingering in my mouth, my hands sticky, i remember that green award. other kids got awards for being smart, or speedy, whatever. i got the turtle award.
i guess i think of it with bitterness--why would you reward someone for being slow? but then again i review in my mind the story of the tortoise and the hare--slow and steady wins the race.
my middle sister married three years ago this fall. i hear conflicting reports about how the tedium of every day life and taken for granted-ness is wearing on their union. am i glad that i have not yet made an honest man of dan? i don't know. perhaps it is fate, kismet, what have you, that we did not marry all those years ago when we first spoke of it. perhaps we needed to go through and experience what we did, find our separate selves and the full appreciation for what we have together. it is difficult to see that, when you are living in that moment.
***
with time comes perspective, objectivity even when you are reviewing your self, or at least a semblance of objectivity. yes, i may be slow. and life may not be the headlong race that i often feel i am just watching roll by me, quick and flashy. maybe i'm just running in a different race. the marathon, not the 100 meter dash.
i eat another red striped white nougat, take a long look at the mashed up green pine tree in the middle. the wrappers are a little crisp; i'm sure that they are not meant to wait four months before being used and recycled. sometimes i suppose that me being behind is unhealthy. then again, is it so horrible to be reminded of snow and wind chills and warm blankets, when the sky is low and gray and damp april is in your bones?
i know that dan gets frustrated with me because of the speed at which i manuever through life and its varied obstacles. i know that i get frustrated, with my self and my own meandering. but having been to the points that i have--watching dan grasp at life and find a hold, remembering my own struggles, and contemplating that the struggle in life is constant--at those points and at the ones i can imagine occuring--i am glad that i move slowly through the world.
the earth itself is slow--a creature out of sorts with time. it slumbers for a few months, and upon waking, takes its time to rinse sleep from its eyes. it'll rain for a few more weeks, before blooming hot and humid into the next season. probably by then i'll have eaten the rest of my leftover mints.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
the lone four leaf clover
i've spent hours of my life, short and few to be honest, squatting in a patch of clover, searching for that elusive lucky one in the middle of all the normally shaped plants. just that one--searching and searching for that one, as if the rest of them were not symbolic in their own green solidarity.
***
yesterday at this time i was getting into my car, to drive to the st pat's parade downtown st paul. my sister had the brilliant idea to march in it--all you have to do is pay twenty bucks, and make a banner, and ta-da! instant parade group.
a coworker advised me that it was an "irish" parade, which meant it was a generally unorganized crush of people. in the interest of shared genetics, i believed my sister, who told me that the twenty clamshells paid for the organizers, etc, and i figured it'd be like the parades i was in as a teenager, with our high school band: lined up people, someone telling you when to march and how far back to stay from the preceding folks.
what actually transpired was more of a chaotic shuffle of people dressed in green sequins, home-made kilts, tall hats purchased at wal-mart, and irish step dancing groups in sweat suits.
the actual parade was only about half an hour long. once we got started. my family was number 106. due to the fact that it was an irish parade, we marched between numbers 57 and 93. not that we can't count. we just don't much care for organization.
i'd spent the previous night making a banner--three hours with my glue gun and a heap of multi-colored felt swatches, which turned out better than i'd hoped, including our family name and our coat of arms. if my sister emails the pic, i'll post it...i think.
at any rate, we made it to the staging ground at around 1145. we actually started marching at 110 or so. there were about five hundred people all gathered in the shade of a five-story orange brick building, with pale green trim around the windows. in the shade, it was about 25 degrees. in the sun, about 35. the difference was sublime, once we made it into the sun. i actually had an image in my head of people bursting through the imaginary line between shadow and light, coming to life and blooming. it actually reminded me of when people finish marathons, the ones who aren't crawling to completion--these would be the ones with hair swept back in the breeze of their own making, arms flung out and back, head held high, cheeks red with accomplishment.
once we got going we marched happily for the whole half hour, finding three other parade goers who shared our last name and spontaneously joined us on the route. it was amusing to have them just step in, strangers who probably shared all the same name mishaps as we did: "no, it's not pronounced that way...switch the a and the e, and you've got it...well, that works, even though it's not really right..."
***
after wards i was exhausted; we met at my sister's house for irish stew and soda bread and coffee, all of which was quite tasty. after that, i schlepped to the mall of america and shopped for two hours, came home, and collapsed. i think i read for forty-five minutes, and then, with henry curled at my side purring, i fell asleep. i don't remember turning off the light, just that my alarm clock read 9:18 pm.
***
today my face is wind-chapped. my thighs are tired; sitting here i can feel the muscles ache, a pleasant experience that reminds me of the ground i covered yesterday.
the thing i found, amid all those people, surrounded by my family, was how alone we all really are. i usually consider that on clear winter nights, when you can see every star in the sky, and feel small and dwarfed by the universe. yesterday, though, in the crush of parade, with the hogan-logan clan singing and hoisting a st patrick statue above their heads behind us, clasping my home-made banner and trying not to shiver, all i could think was that i was alone.
in the mall, the huge gaping space reserved for capitalistic spiritualism, i rode the escaltor. behind me a mother grouped her children to her, calling names and ordering them close. i pictured geese crossing before my car, goslings cuddling up to their parents.
when does it happen, the division between being a child and being an adult? being able to travel on your own, not being afraid of the big world? when does it happen that you find yourself alone, and are just as safe and comfortable as if you held your mother's hand?
***
on my way to my parking spot there was a woman walking in front of me, probably fifteen years ahead of where i am. she sported a wedding ring and from the lines on her face and the size of her purse, i'm sure she had children somewhere--college, home, out underage drinking with friends.
my insecurity lessened as i watched her do the same things i did, unconciously and conciously scanning the parking garage for potential attackers, clasping keys so that they could be used as a weapon.
from the sea of bodies we'd left behind, we separate out, we become individuals, we get into our own cars and lock the doors. the herd thins, parts, and i escape into anonymity.
***
yesterday at this time i was getting into my car, to drive to the st pat's parade downtown st paul. my sister had the brilliant idea to march in it--all you have to do is pay twenty bucks, and make a banner, and ta-da! instant parade group.
a coworker advised me that it was an "irish" parade, which meant it was a generally unorganized crush of people. in the interest of shared genetics, i believed my sister, who told me that the twenty clamshells paid for the organizers, etc, and i figured it'd be like the parades i was in as a teenager, with our high school band: lined up people, someone telling you when to march and how far back to stay from the preceding folks.
what actually transpired was more of a chaotic shuffle of people dressed in green sequins, home-made kilts, tall hats purchased at wal-mart, and irish step dancing groups in sweat suits.
the actual parade was only about half an hour long. once we got started. my family was number 106. due to the fact that it was an irish parade, we marched between numbers 57 and 93. not that we can't count. we just don't much care for organization.
i'd spent the previous night making a banner--three hours with my glue gun and a heap of multi-colored felt swatches, which turned out better than i'd hoped, including our family name and our coat of arms. if my sister emails the pic, i'll post it...i think.
at any rate, we made it to the staging ground at around 1145. we actually started marching at 110 or so. there were about five hundred people all gathered in the shade of a five-story orange brick building, with pale green trim around the windows. in the shade, it was about 25 degrees. in the sun, about 35. the difference was sublime, once we made it into the sun. i actually had an image in my head of people bursting through the imaginary line between shadow and light, coming to life and blooming. it actually reminded me of when people finish marathons, the ones who aren't crawling to completion--these would be the ones with hair swept back in the breeze of their own making, arms flung out and back, head held high, cheeks red with accomplishment.
once we got going we marched happily for the whole half hour, finding three other parade goers who shared our last name and spontaneously joined us on the route. it was amusing to have them just step in, strangers who probably shared all the same name mishaps as we did: "no, it's not pronounced that way...switch the a and the e, and you've got it...well, that works, even though it's not really right..."
***
after wards i was exhausted; we met at my sister's house for irish stew and soda bread and coffee, all of which was quite tasty. after that, i schlepped to the mall of america and shopped for two hours, came home, and collapsed. i think i read for forty-five minutes, and then, with henry curled at my side purring, i fell asleep. i don't remember turning off the light, just that my alarm clock read 9:18 pm.
***
today my face is wind-chapped. my thighs are tired; sitting here i can feel the muscles ache, a pleasant experience that reminds me of the ground i covered yesterday.
the thing i found, amid all those people, surrounded by my family, was how alone we all really are. i usually consider that on clear winter nights, when you can see every star in the sky, and feel small and dwarfed by the universe. yesterday, though, in the crush of parade, with the hogan-logan clan singing and hoisting a st patrick statue above their heads behind us, clasping my home-made banner and trying not to shiver, all i could think was that i was alone.
in the mall, the huge gaping space reserved for capitalistic spiritualism, i rode the escaltor. behind me a mother grouped her children to her, calling names and ordering them close. i pictured geese crossing before my car, goslings cuddling up to their parents.
when does it happen, the division between being a child and being an adult? being able to travel on your own, not being afraid of the big world? when does it happen that you find yourself alone, and are just as safe and comfortable as if you held your mother's hand?
***
on my way to my parking spot there was a woman walking in front of me, probably fifteen years ahead of where i am. she sported a wedding ring and from the lines on her face and the size of her purse, i'm sure she had children somewhere--college, home, out underage drinking with friends.
my insecurity lessened as i watched her do the same things i did, unconciously and conciously scanning the parking garage for potential attackers, clasping keys so that they could be used as a weapon.
from the sea of bodies we'd left behind, we separate out, we become individuals, we get into our own cars and lock the doors. the herd thins, parts, and i escape into anonymity.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
slouching
the chair i have at work routinely rotates down. today i noticed that it'd done it again. i get so used to having to reach the keyboard in a weird manner that it becomes second nature. i wonder in the mornings why my neck hurts, or my shoulders.
i'm slouching.
at work i slouch because my chair is sneaky about swivelling down. at home i slouch on the sofa, i slouch while doing a crossword before bed, i slouch as i type this. when i slouch my back bows out, backward, and i hunch up a bit.
i feel a lot of the time that that's how i go through life. i'm permanently huddled a little lower, stomach too lazy to lift up my rib cage. or perhaps it's just my abdominal muscles, waving the white flag. or my vertebrae, loose links in their bone chain.
i'm not getting anywhere, at my job. i'm not getting anywhere with my writing, with anything.
when i was seeing my therapist, helene, i felt this guilt to move forward. and when i started to take my meds, and remembered to exercise and watch what i was eating, i felt as if i could move forward. the sun sinks south for winter and i lag--email unchecked, games unplayed, people ignored.
slouching is malicious, i've concluded. if i wasn't slouching my back probably wouldn't hurt, i'd write more often and maybe get published, perhaps i'd be in touch with more people.
it's all a big bottle of What If. i can get stuck in that miasma for days. in fact, i have been.
whenever i drink from that bottle, my slouch deepens. i compare myself to other people in my life--my sister, friends--and i find myself lacking.
and the slouch deepens--it's despair, and it tugs me down quite faithfully.
dan wrote in his blog that he thinks of serena, often, and it keeps him awake. i do too--probably more often than i need to. it's the what if of where she is at--is she "better" in some way, better than i am? better off, better emotionally, not such a mess?
does she slouch, thousands of miles west?
i wonder this about many many many things. does my sister have time to slouch? my homeowning friends? or is it just me, tripped up and spineless?
i feel like an invertebrate--perhaps an amoeba--that's been reformed into this human self, propped upright around a skeleton. my amoeboid nature wants to slouch, and there is more of it than the bony structure upon which it's been molded.
and i slouch.
i'm slouching.
at work i slouch because my chair is sneaky about swivelling down. at home i slouch on the sofa, i slouch while doing a crossword before bed, i slouch as i type this. when i slouch my back bows out, backward, and i hunch up a bit.
i feel a lot of the time that that's how i go through life. i'm permanently huddled a little lower, stomach too lazy to lift up my rib cage. or perhaps it's just my abdominal muscles, waving the white flag. or my vertebrae, loose links in their bone chain.
i'm not getting anywhere, at my job. i'm not getting anywhere with my writing, with anything.
when i was seeing my therapist, helene, i felt this guilt to move forward. and when i started to take my meds, and remembered to exercise and watch what i was eating, i felt as if i could move forward. the sun sinks south for winter and i lag--email unchecked, games unplayed, people ignored.
slouching is malicious, i've concluded. if i wasn't slouching my back probably wouldn't hurt, i'd write more often and maybe get published, perhaps i'd be in touch with more people.
it's all a big bottle of What If. i can get stuck in that miasma for days. in fact, i have been.
whenever i drink from that bottle, my slouch deepens. i compare myself to other people in my life--my sister, friends--and i find myself lacking.
and the slouch deepens--it's despair, and it tugs me down quite faithfully.
dan wrote in his blog that he thinks of serena, often, and it keeps him awake. i do too--probably more often than i need to. it's the what if of where she is at--is she "better" in some way, better than i am? better off, better emotionally, not such a mess?
does she slouch, thousands of miles west?
i wonder this about many many many things. does my sister have time to slouch? my homeowning friends? or is it just me, tripped up and spineless?
i feel like an invertebrate--perhaps an amoeba--that's been reformed into this human self, propped upright around a skeleton. my amoeboid nature wants to slouch, and there is more of it than the bony structure upon which it's been molded.
and i slouch.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
snow and little sneezes
it finally snowed! now, keep in mind that i never think it can snow enough, so despite the fact that we have a good solid 6-8 on the ground, i'm up for another foot or two. can't help it. i love snow.
last night we braved the weather and drove over to visit darin and cathy and their new little one, who's almost 3 months old now. devin's got a cold and sneezed a few times--these cute little baby sneezes that expelled more baby crap than i thought possible. the sneeze sounded so...small. and yet...large ew. who knew.
i find it interesting that there are some things that stay the same and some things that change, as you move along. the constant is my love of winter--i have an inane need to be buried under 3 feet of snow. i love the feel of the wind crisping my cheeks and the tiny flakes kissing my eyelids. it's beautiful, it's clean, it's cold.
the thing that has changed, with time, is my gross-out factor. i used to have a problem with people puking--i was a sympathetic puker. over time the reflex has died down some; the odor will still provoke a reaction, but it's manageable. snot has ALWAYS been repulsive to me--mine, anyone's. doesn't matter.
last night while holding small devin she heaved up a good sneeze on my face. i was lucky that there wasn't much in it; but what was in it ended up on my chin. i heard dan say, "kim can't stand mucus; i don't know why she wanted to hold the baby now." but i didn't have that first reaction of: drop baby and leap for shower.
i calmly reached over and selected a tissue, and wiped off my face and hers.
***
when i was a kid i didn't like a lot of things. i was honestly a horrid hypochondriac--i thought i had aids, i thought i had leprosy, i wouldn't drink from a soda can in the family car on road trips unless i drank first. i've always had a horrible fear of bees--that heavy hum--and centipedes.
i know i can handle these things logically--i know that i am thousands of times the size of a bug, i know that i haven't fondled any armadillos lately to infect myself and get shipped to a leper colony. is it maturity that allows you to take a step back and say, this is not a Big Thing.
the Big Things in life come at you like the jack in the box of a child--you open the box hoping for chocolate, and you get the four horsemen: pestilence, war, death and famine.
those are the Big Things. when i was young my mom used to tell me that i was "making mountains out of molehills" -- her way of telling me that i was overreacting. when i was seven or so i had a habit of hyperventilating when i was nervous. mom would hand me a paper bag and say, just breathe.
***
i'm still a bit of a germ fiend--i'm constantly after dan to wash his hands--but it's toned down enough that i'm not a fanatic about it. and i will freely admit that i tense up when i hear a bee--but i no longer run off screaming and waving my arms around wildly.
it is of interest to me that the constants in your life can be good and bad--helpful and detrimental, etc. this morning i'll put on my boots and tromp around outside until my nose is so cold that i cannot feel it. i'll make a snow angel, i'll leave some kim-sized footprints roaming around the townhouse area, i'll probably bring my younger cat, henry, outside and put his small pink toes in the snow, since he seems to want to explore so badly.
how does time soften the fear, but not the eagerness? logically i'm old enough to wonder why i have this obsession with snow and this season in general. logically, it's not one of the Big Things, so i put that fear aside--what will people say, what if they laugh and point at the grown woman grinning at suspended water.
the same way that i set aside my disgust of mucus and hold the baby close, hear her heart beat and smell her soft hair--she herself is one of the Big Things in life; her little sneezes are just that: little.
last night we braved the weather and drove over to visit darin and cathy and their new little one, who's almost 3 months old now. devin's got a cold and sneezed a few times--these cute little baby sneezes that expelled more baby crap than i thought possible. the sneeze sounded so...small. and yet...large ew. who knew.
i find it interesting that there are some things that stay the same and some things that change, as you move along. the constant is my love of winter--i have an inane need to be buried under 3 feet of snow. i love the feel of the wind crisping my cheeks and the tiny flakes kissing my eyelids. it's beautiful, it's clean, it's cold.
the thing that has changed, with time, is my gross-out factor. i used to have a problem with people puking--i was a sympathetic puker. over time the reflex has died down some; the odor will still provoke a reaction, but it's manageable. snot has ALWAYS been repulsive to me--mine, anyone's. doesn't matter.
last night while holding small devin she heaved up a good sneeze on my face. i was lucky that there wasn't much in it; but what was in it ended up on my chin. i heard dan say, "kim can't stand mucus; i don't know why she wanted to hold the baby now." but i didn't have that first reaction of: drop baby and leap for shower.
i calmly reached over and selected a tissue, and wiped off my face and hers.
***
when i was a kid i didn't like a lot of things. i was honestly a horrid hypochondriac--i thought i had aids, i thought i had leprosy, i wouldn't drink from a soda can in the family car on road trips unless i drank first. i've always had a horrible fear of bees--that heavy hum--and centipedes.
i know i can handle these things logically--i know that i am thousands of times the size of a bug, i know that i haven't fondled any armadillos lately to infect myself and get shipped to a leper colony. is it maturity that allows you to take a step back and say, this is not a Big Thing.
the Big Things in life come at you like the jack in the box of a child--you open the box hoping for chocolate, and you get the four horsemen: pestilence, war, death and famine.
those are the Big Things. when i was young my mom used to tell me that i was "making mountains out of molehills" -- her way of telling me that i was overreacting. when i was seven or so i had a habit of hyperventilating when i was nervous. mom would hand me a paper bag and say, just breathe.
***
i'm still a bit of a germ fiend--i'm constantly after dan to wash his hands--but it's toned down enough that i'm not a fanatic about it. and i will freely admit that i tense up when i hear a bee--but i no longer run off screaming and waving my arms around wildly.
it is of interest to me that the constants in your life can be good and bad--helpful and detrimental, etc. this morning i'll put on my boots and tromp around outside until my nose is so cold that i cannot feel it. i'll make a snow angel, i'll leave some kim-sized footprints roaming around the townhouse area, i'll probably bring my younger cat, henry, outside and put his small pink toes in the snow, since he seems to want to explore so badly.
how does time soften the fear, but not the eagerness? logically i'm old enough to wonder why i have this obsession with snow and this season in general. logically, it's not one of the Big Things, so i put that fear aside--what will people say, what if they laugh and point at the grown woman grinning at suspended water.
the same way that i set aside my disgust of mucus and hold the baby close, hear her heart beat and smell her soft hair--she herself is one of the Big Things in life; her little sneezes are just that: little.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
tuesday
tuesday night was the memorial service for the mother of one of my coworkers. i felt compelled, for whatever reason, to attend, even though my coworker is very new to the office. it was just niggling at the edge of my mind--go, go, go.
so i went. the church was packed; one other coworker, a supervisor, showed up, and we sat on creaking, cold metal folding chairs at the back. our coworker spoke, her voice cracking a bit--to be expected.
three years ago, my friend cari's mom was killed in a car accident; she was about the same age as my coworker's mom--early 50s--and people said things about this other woman that applied to vickie very, very much.
i teared up during the service, but it was when i got in the car afterwards that it struck me that i felt as if i had finally attended the service for cari's mom. i think it was when they said that she invited strangers home, and made everyone feel comfortable.
i remember when i met vickie the first time--we played taboo late into the night, with her sister and brother in law, then a version of scrabble that i'd never seen. she was so ready to laugh, to hug--to embrace life, in general.
the pastor said, during his sermon, that it was a break from the day, that this woman's death offered us. a chance to review and breathe.
in the dark of the car, i thought of vickie, i thought of cari and her "god-bubble" that protected her that first year. i thought about how much i had wanted to be there--and yet, i had no idea of what to do.
i suppose that is always true, with grief, that it is as different as the weather. sometimes i think that depression, at least in my case, is like grief, unspecified. a general sadness about my life. can you grieve over your own life? is that what this is, this malaise that settles on me now and again?
even with the little pills i swallow each night, i still ride that wave, fluctuating between dark and light, between drenched and drought. perhaps others find the happy medium; they surf along, falling only when specified by some life occurance. for me it is not happenstance, to slide into the darkness, and climb out again.
i could see grief on many faces, on tuesday past, a group of people gathered to show support. i didn't know my coworker's mother. i was not there to grieve over her; i was there to hug her daughter, the living embodiment of how wonderful a being she herself had been.
the pastor was right; i needed that break in the day. i needed to remember vickie, i needed to cry and attend some kind of service.
sometimes the need to weep builds up within, the urge to sob, to hear my voice crack and gasp, to stretch my lips across my teeth as i keen, until they are swollen. it rises the same way that laughter rises.
i've been going through a dim area again. i remind myself that it is my lapse into depression. but really, is it a lapse, or just a change of the clouds that hang above? is it unnatural, to feel grief? who says that i must be joyful at all times?
dan read a book called lincoln's melancholy, a while back. the book talked about how in his day, lincoln's depression was accepted as just another part and parcel of his self. now a days, it is supposed to be quarantined to a tuesday night.
i suppose it is always tuesday night, somewhere within me.
so i went. the church was packed; one other coworker, a supervisor, showed up, and we sat on creaking, cold metal folding chairs at the back. our coworker spoke, her voice cracking a bit--to be expected.
three years ago, my friend cari's mom was killed in a car accident; she was about the same age as my coworker's mom--early 50s--and people said things about this other woman that applied to vickie very, very much.
i teared up during the service, but it was when i got in the car afterwards that it struck me that i felt as if i had finally attended the service for cari's mom. i think it was when they said that she invited strangers home, and made everyone feel comfortable.
i remember when i met vickie the first time--we played taboo late into the night, with her sister and brother in law, then a version of scrabble that i'd never seen. she was so ready to laugh, to hug--to embrace life, in general.
the pastor said, during his sermon, that it was a break from the day, that this woman's death offered us. a chance to review and breathe.
in the dark of the car, i thought of vickie, i thought of cari and her "god-bubble" that protected her that first year. i thought about how much i had wanted to be there--and yet, i had no idea of what to do.
i suppose that is always true, with grief, that it is as different as the weather. sometimes i think that depression, at least in my case, is like grief, unspecified. a general sadness about my life. can you grieve over your own life? is that what this is, this malaise that settles on me now and again?
even with the little pills i swallow each night, i still ride that wave, fluctuating between dark and light, between drenched and drought. perhaps others find the happy medium; they surf along, falling only when specified by some life occurance. for me it is not happenstance, to slide into the darkness, and climb out again.
i could see grief on many faces, on tuesday past, a group of people gathered to show support. i didn't know my coworker's mother. i was not there to grieve over her; i was there to hug her daughter, the living embodiment of how wonderful a being she herself had been.
the pastor was right; i needed that break in the day. i needed to remember vickie, i needed to cry and attend some kind of service.
sometimes the need to weep builds up within, the urge to sob, to hear my voice crack and gasp, to stretch my lips across my teeth as i keen, until they are swollen. it rises the same way that laughter rises.
i've been going through a dim area again. i remind myself that it is my lapse into depression. but really, is it a lapse, or just a change of the clouds that hang above? is it unnatural, to feel grief? who says that i must be joyful at all times?
dan read a book called lincoln's melancholy, a while back. the book talked about how in his day, lincoln's depression was accepted as just another part and parcel of his self. now a days, it is supposed to be quarantined to a tuesday night.
i suppose it is always tuesday night, somewhere within me.
Monday, February 19, 2007
breaking down
as in a car, folks. no worries.
yes, this weekend was The Weekend of the Car. or perhaps, The Weekend of Kim Being Late. Or maybe even The Weekend of Things Breaking. your choice, really.
friday's office party went well--which was good because i was one of the organizers. then saturday i got up, cleaned up after my pukey and poopy cats, and packed. dan and i ran to target for some last minute items, and then had breakfast, and then i was off on the road north for girly weekend in bemidji.
halfway between home and st cloud, i realized that i'd left my shirts--for that night's festivities, and for sunday's drive home--hanging on the back of the door. great.
then in st cloud, at the first stoplight, i glanced at the instrument panel. all good...except for the temperature guage, which was buried in HOT HOT HOT. i thought, oh, that's not good. then i looked up and saw smoke pouring from beneath my hood. even worse. i pulled into the nearest parking lot and called my dad.
dad called my brother, who rolled up a few moments later and looked at the car. his diagnosis was radiator hose leak. dad arrived, with my sister. it was like a family reunion in the grocery store parking lot. then we ran to the store for antifreeze, filled up the car, and drove it to my parents' house. ran it for an hour and nothing overeheated, however dad didn't want me driving so i borrowed my sister's car and drove north.
later than late--dinner was supposed to be at 6, but luckily the girls pushed it back to 730. it was a most excellent evening--all dressed to the nines, dinner at a fantastic italian restaurant, then drinks next door at the pub. my dear friend amanda rented a limo--for 4 girls in a town of 10,000. it was fabulous! we got chauffered to the next bar, had a few drinks and chatted, and then back into the limo for the final bar.
the last bar was a real winner--out in the middle of nowhere, and late enough that all patrons were one of two states: sobie-cab sober, or drunker than a skunk.
one of the skunks cornered me and cari at the bar and made conversation. it was all quite nice and good. then his three friends moseyed over, and the most foxed one, a guy named lee, was at the huggy stage. "jus a hug, plllllllleeease." "can i have anudder hug? just one more?" dear lord preserve me. he went on to tell us that his wife was actually Satan, which i'm sure may come as a shock to her, and that he was "like snowflakes," complete with a fluttery finger motion remniscent of snow falling, if snow could be drunk and clumsy.
sunday i drove back to st cloud. had dinner with the parents, chit chat with my sister. i broke a glass, whoops. dad showed me how to fill up the antifreeze if needed, and i started up the car.
then my sister backed her car up and planted her right front fender underneath my dad's truck's front fender. lovely!
luckily, getting out of the car to assess the damage allowed my mom to point out that my car was once again smoking and smelled like burning antifreeze.
thus, i am ensconced in my parent's den, typing this post as i await the call from the radiator shoppe, who will probably tell me that i need to replace my radiator, and that the bill comes to $8000.00 with tax.
*le sigh*
at any rate, dad's home, so i'm going to hang with my papa and wait for news. hugs all. (;
yes, this weekend was The Weekend of the Car. or perhaps, The Weekend of Kim Being Late. Or maybe even The Weekend of Things Breaking. your choice, really.
friday's office party went well--which was good because i was one of the organizers. then saturday i got up, cleaned up after my pukey and poopy cats, and packed. dan and i ran to target for some last minute items, and then had breakfast, and then i was off on the road north for girly weekend in bemidji.
halfway between home and st cloud, i realized that i'd left my shirts--for that night's festivities, and for sunday's drive home--hanging on the back of the door. great.
then in st cloud, at the first stoplight, i glanced at the instrument panel. all good...except for the temperature guage, which was buried in HOT HOT HOT. i thought, oh, that's not good. then i looked up and saw smoke pouring from beneath my hood. even worse. i pulled into the nearest parking lot and called my dad.
dad called my brother, who rolled up a few moments later and looked at the car. his diagnosis was radiator hose leak. dad arrived, with my sister. it was like a family reunion in the grocery store parking lot. then we ran to the store for antifreeze, filled up the car, and drove it to my parents' house. ran it for an hour and nothing overeheated, however dad didn't want me driving so i borrowed my sister's car and drove north.
later than late--dinner was supposed to be at 6, but luckily the girls pushed it back to 730. it was a most excellent evening--all dressed to the nines, dinner at a fantastic italian restaurant, then drinks next door at the pub. my dear friend amanda rented a limo--for 4 girls in a town of 10,000. it was fabulous! we got chauffered to the next bar, had a few drinks and chatted, and then back into the limo for the final bar.
the last bar was a real winner--out in the middle of nowhere, and late enough that all patrons were one of two states: sobie-cab sober, or drunker than a skunk.
one of the skunks cornered me and cari at the bar and made conversation. it was all quite nice and good. then his three friends moseyed over, and the most foxed one, a guy named lee, was at the huggy stage. "jus a hug, plllllllleeease." "can i have anudder hug? just one more?" dear lord preserve me. he went on to tell us that his wife was actually Satan, which i'm sure may come as a shock to her, and that he was "like snowflakes," complete with a fluttery finger motion remniscent of snow falling, if snow could be drunk and clumsy.
sunday i drove back to st cloud. had dinner with the parents, chit chat with my sister. i broke a glass, whoops. dad showed me how to fill up the antifreeze if needed, and i started up the car.
then my sister backed her car up and planted her right front fender underneath my dad's truck's front fender. lovely!
luckily, getting out of the car to assess the damage allowed my mom to point out that my car was once again smoking and smelled like burning antifreeze.
thus, i am ensconced in my parent's den, typing this post as i await the call from the radiator shoppe, who will probably tell me that i need to replace my radiator, and that the bill comes to $8000.00 with tax.
*le sigh*
at any rate, dad's home, so i'm going to hang with my papa and wait for news. hugs all. (;
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
danger, will robinson! danger!
i want one of those robots. no matter how cheesy, it'd be nice to have. people might point and laugh at my robot. but i'd be warned about things, before harm could befall me.
so here's your warning. you just have to follow these rules:
1. put your arms out at your sides, raise them over your head, jiggling them as if you are swatting at fifteen angry bees.
2. yell, "danger, dear reader! danger!"
3. and if you're feeling lucky, punk, keep reading.
i had a bad day at work. i find it no coincidence that it happens on a day of the year wherein we are celebrating the death of a saint, a guy who went against the grain and lost his head for it.
yes, valentine. he was jailed for being a bad boy, at least in claudius' eyes. during his time in the pokey, it's said that he wrote love letters to the jailor's daughter, with whom he was in love. and that is why kids hand out little cards with cartoon characters on them, and share chocolate, etc.
when i was a kid i hated valentine's day. in school, we always had to exchange cards. i always got the least cards. it's left me somewhat jaded towards the holiday. that and learning about the apparent progenitor of the day himself. who knows. i'm bitter, and it's leftover from 20 years ago.
i'm lucky that dan likes the day. he found the sweetest cards, and got me the special dread pirate roberts version of the princess bride. he makes it less icky, and over the years, it's grown on me, a bit.
today, though, was one of those days where i was glad i got to come home.
i'm a firm believer in the trickle down effect--the one that says that the shit rolls downhill. so those of us at the bottom of the office chain receive the crappy leftover bits of attention, and that only when the people higher up the stairs are prodded to action.
it just seems like the trickle is always dripping on my head; and then there is this sense of wonder from above, that i could possibly be annoyed by said drip. *sigh*
all in all, it's a much easier life i lead than that of some of my primate relatives. i don't have to club my dinner before eating. i don't have to wrap up in fur to keep warm. i don't have to fear lions, tigers or bears. i've got it better than valentine ever did--my head is still square on my shoulders, and that's an upgrade from his standpoint, i'm sure.
i just have this feeling of anger, twitching along my nerves like the shivers when you're chilled. the day started out so nicely--dan's cards, purring cats, a warm car. about an hour into work there was the first email--one accusing me of something that i don't remember doing, and can't imagine that i would have done, anyway.
this afternoon, it was the approach of my manager. "i have a question about the process..."
and then another email: "this is going to be a mess, if this client isn't happy."
first of all, i didn't do what i was accused of doing. second of all, the process is fine--it just needs to be a tad more flexible, because you're working with human beings, and they're not made of obsidian. and third, and probably most important, if it's going to be a mess, perhaps the client could have gotten her butt in gear last week, when the pressure was on, and not this week, when the office is winched tight enough to produce diamonds from pencil lead.
this, right now--this is when i need that robot with the flailing arms. this is when i need the robot with blinking lights and strident voice--"danger, kim, danger!"
or perhaps just some yellow "caution" tape would do. i'm not high maintenance, really.
you can't go through your life with a safety harness attached, or a life raft at the ready. there's just some days when it seems like it would be prudent to have some kind of warning system. brace yourself, bridget--that sort of thing.
today i was caught unawares. i was floating along, content and peaceful. i don't like to make waves--usually i do whatever it is in my power to avoid being at the epicenter, to keep all ships on top of the water and safe.
right now, i feel as if that is the problem--i am so busy trying to keep everyone else's ships secure that mine is suddenly sinking.
so here's your warning. you just have to follow these rules:
1. put your arms out at your sides, raise them over your head, jiggling them as if you are swatting at fifteen angry bees.
2. yell, "danger, dear reader! danger!"
3. and if you're feeling lucky, punk, keep reading.
i had a bad day at work. i find it no coincidence that it happens on a day of the year wherein we are celebrating the death of a saint, a guy who went against the grain and lost his head for it.
yes, valentine. he was jailed for being a bad boy, at least in claudius' eyes. during his time in the pokey, it's said that he wrote love letters to the jailor's daughter, with whom he was in love. and that is why kids hand out little cards with cartoon characters on them, and share chocolate, etc.
when i was a kid i hated valentine's day. in school, we always had to exchange cards. i always got the least cards. it's left me somewhat jaded towards the holiday. that and learning about the apparent progenitor of the day himself. who knows. i'm bitter, and it's leftover from 20 years ago.
i'm lucky that dan likes the day. he found the sweetest cards, and got me the special dread pirate roberts version of the princess bride. he makes it less icky, and over the years, it's grown on me, a bit.
today, though, was one of those days where i was glad i got to come home.
i'm a firm believer in the trickle down effect--the one that says that the shit rolls downhill. so those of us at the bottom of the office chain receive the crappy leftover bits of attention, and that only when the people higher up the stairs are prodded to action.
it just seems like the trickle is always dripping on my head; and then there is this sense of wonder from above, that i could possibly be annoyed by said drip. *sigh*
all in all, it's a much easier life i lead than that of some of my primate relatives. i don't have to club my dinner before eating. i don't have to wrap up in fur to keep warm. i don't have to fear lions, tigers or bears. i've got it better than valentine ever did--my head is still square on my shoulders, and that's an upgrade from his standpoint, i'm sure.
i just have this feeling of anger, twitching along my nerves like the shivers when you're chilled. the day started out so nicely--dan's cards, purring cats, a warm car. about an hour into work there was the first email--one accusing me of something that i don't remember doing, and can't imagine that i would have done, anyway.
this afternoon, it was the approach of my manager. "i have a question about the process..."
and then another email: "this is going to be a mess, if this client isn't happy."
first of all, i didn't do what i was accused of doing. second of all, the process is fine--it just needs to be a tad more flexible, because you're working with human beings, and they're not made of obsidian. and third, and probably most important, if it's going to be a mess, perhaps the client could have gotten her butt in gear last week, when the pressure was on, and not this week, when the office is winched tight enough to produce diamonds from pencil lead.
this, right now--this is when i need that robot with the flailing arms. this is when i need the robot with blinking lights and strident voice--"danger, kim, danger!"
or perhaps just some yellow "caution" tape would do. i'm not high maintenance, really.
you can't go through your life with a safety harness attached, or a life raft at the ready. there's just some days when it seems like it would be prudent to have some kind of warning system. brace yourself, bridget--that sort of thing.
today i was caught unawares. i was floating along, content and peaceful. i don't like to make waves--usually i do whatever it is in my power to avoid being at the epicenter, to keep all ships on top of the water and safe.
right now, i feel as if that is the problem--i am so busy trying to keep everyone else's ships secure that mine is suddenly sinking.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
the bottomless pit
it's almost february; outside, it's chilled and pale, sky milky with scattered clouds. my inner writer has been nagging me for weeks now: "sit down, you fool, and type!" but i'm on a reading kick, and apparently my inner reader needs to be fed.
i don't know how i would describe these rushes of feeling--cravings, perhaps? the ravenous urge for prose, tripping along the page. i sneak up on it like a predator, i hang round its known watering holes--the library, half-price books, barnes and noble. and then, when i'm not sure i can take the suspense any longer, i pounce.
last night we watched "muppets take manhattan." i hadn't seen it in years; it brought me back to my young days of pink and yellow footed pajamas, with the slippery white padding on the soles of the feet. my mom always cut those off--the feet, i mean--and i don't know why. perhaps she knew that her offspring would have a propensity for wearing nothing on their feet that might constrict their toes. who knows.
anyway, it solidified something in my mind that's been rattling around for the better part of a week: i'm hungry for youth.
not in the perverted sense, mind you. just hungry for that endless, bottomless curiosity, and the energy to satisfy it at any given moment. as i get older, i find that apathy sets in--i'm still curious, but i don't seek it out like i once did.
perhaps it is knowledge that propels? when i was young i read books the same way i do now: i eat them, tear out their innards and savor. i think i read them for a different reason, though. when i was a kid i read to broaden my base of knowledge--what is it like to fall in love? what is it like to have leprosy? what is it like to...be an adult.
now i am an adult. i still fall back into my own personal classics--the 101 dalmations, by dodie smith. charlie and the chocolate factory, by roald dahl. go dog go, by pd eastman.
my childhood friend, rachel, and i used to read large books, just to say that we had read them. we'd closet ourselves in our separate homes for a competitive reading weekend. (i know, how nerdy were we?) this was in sixth grade, i think, when we were about 12 or 13 or whatever age you are at that time. her favorite book was "gone with the wind." i read it just because it was a big book. we came in on monday and i remember she had read the book like 11 times or something. it's a big book; i look at it now and find it daunting. but we were so enamored of that open door--what is beyond this little realm of classrooms, barbie dolls, and the embarrassed pre-puberty showers after gym class?
before that, i'd read michener--chesapeake, alaska, and the omni-present hawaii. that last i found in the basement, along the wall with the few books my parents owned. i read it obsessively; it was a buffet of nouns and verbs, actions and romance, violence, history. i can't say that it set the tune for the rest of my reading diet, but it certainly set the tone for the next few years, during which most of my contemporaries were reading "sweet valley high" and such.
boooooooor-ing. who cares which cheerleader the quarterback dates? puh-lease. not my style.
when i was in 8th grade, i had a crush on one of the kids in my math class: sam. *insert dreamy sigh here* sam'd read during class, while the math teacher droned on about, horror of horrors, fractions. he was reading piers anthony, "a spell for chameleon."
of course i just had to go out and find it. that summer i remember taking the bus downtown to the library, alone, and finding a whole new section: fantasy and sci-fi.
the library was a dream, and being set free in it, with no time limits and a library card, was nirvana.
i think of stopping in the grocery store on the weekend, when they're handing out samples, and that is what i associate with the library: many different options, and you can choose to taste what you like. a smorgasboard of delights.
***
my mom would make new foods for us, when we were young, and my father would intone, above our heads at the dinner table: "try it; you'll like it."
for the most part i try, very hard, to be open to what is being tossed my way. yeah, i'm not perfect--i'm well aware of that. reading is a safe hobby; it's traveling across stormy oceans while sipping cocoa, exploring greenland from the security of my sofa and blankets, soaring through the cosmos and touching stars while my cats are curled at my feet.
i might not be the most adventuresome woman alive, but i certainly hope that my appetite for writing--both reading and creating--is never satiated.
i don't know how i would describe these rushes of feeling--cravings, perhaps? the ravenous urge for prose, tripping along the page. i sneak up on it like a predator, i hang round its known watering holes--the library, half-price books, barnes and noble. and then, when i'm not sure i can take the suspense any longer, i pounce.
last night we watched "muppets take manhattan." i hadn't seen it in years; it brought me back to my young days of pink and yellow footed pajamas, with the slippery white padding on the soles of the feet. my mom always cut those off--the feet, i mean--and i don't know why. perhaps she knew that her offspring would have a propensity for wearing nothing on their feet that might constrict their toes. who knows.
anyway, it solidified something in my mind that's been rattling around for the better part of a week: i'm hungry for youth.
not in the perverted sense, mind you. just hungry for that endless, bottomless curiosity, and the energy to satisfy it at any given moment. as i get older, i find that apathy sets in--i'm still curious, but i don't seek it out like i once did.
perhaps it is knowledge that propels? when i was young i read books the same way i do now: i eat them, tear out their innards and savor. i think i read them for a different reason, though. when i was a kid i read to broaden my base of knowledge--what is it like to fall in love? what is it like to have leprosy? what is it like to...be an adult.
now i am an adult. i still fall back into my own personal classics--the 101 dalmations, by dodie smith. charlie and the chocolate factory, by roald dahl. go dog go, by pd eastman.
my childhood friend, rachel, and i used to read large books, just to say that we had read them. we'd closet ourselves in our separate homes for a competitive reading weekend. (i know, how nerdy were we?) this was in sixth grade, i think, when we were about 12 or 13 or whatever age you are at that time. her favorite book was "gone with the wind." i read it just because it was a big book. we came in on monday and i remember she had read the book like 11 times or something. it's a big book; i look at it now and find it daunting. but we were so enamored of that open door--what is beyond this little realm of classrooms, barbie dolls, and the embarrassed pre-puberty showers after gym class?
before that, i'd read michener--chesapeake, alaska, and the omni-present hawaii. that last i found in the basement, along the wall with the few books my parents owned. i read it obsessively; it was a buffet of nouns and verbs, actions and romance, violence, history. i can't say that it set the tune for the rest of my reading diet, but it certainly set the tone for the next few years, during which most of my contemporaries were reading "sweet valley high" and such.
boooooooor-ing. who cares which cheerleader the quarterback dates? puh-lease. not my style.
when i was in 8th grade, i had a crush on one of the kids in my math class: sam. *insert dreamy sigh here* sam'd read during class, while the math teacher droned on about, horror of horrors, fractions. he was reading piers anthony, "a spell for chameleon."
of course i just had to go out and find it. that summer i remember taking the bus downtown to the library, alone, and finding a whole new section: fantasy and sci-fi.
the library was a dream, and being set free in it, with no time limits and a library card, was nirvana.
i think of stopping in the grocery store on the weekend, when they're handing out samples, and that is what i associate with the library: many different options, and you can choose to taste what you like. a smorgasboard of delights.
***
my mom would make new foods for us, when we were young, and my father would intone, above our heads at the dinner table: "try it; you'll like it."
for the most part i try, very hard, to be open to what is being tossed my way. yeah, i'm not perfect--i'm well aware of that. reading is a safe hobby; it's traveling across stormy oceans while sipping cocoa, exploring greenland from the security of my sofa and blankets, soaring through the cosmos and touching stars while my cats are curled at my feet.
i might not be the most adventuresome woman alive, but i certainly hope that my appetite for writing--both reading and creating--is never satiated.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
got the time
this time of year is always busy for me, what with work and all. i took on an additional responsibility at work, helping plan the year end party (which we have at the end of january, since that's when the busiest time of the year is over, when you work with taxes and W2s, at least.)
anyway, after i typed my last post i got in the car and drove to wal-mart. en route, i called dan to let him know i'd be late. while on the phone, i got to witness a three-car accident. no one was hurt (except for a goose-egg on the offending driver, and a 10-year-old scared witless), although the cars involved were no doubt totaled.
the whole moment was so surreal--i can remember the first thought i had, after one car mangled another: "i've never seen an airbag go off before." metal crumpled like paper; cars swerved and brakes squealed. i stopped and gave my phone number to police, in case they would need a witness, and then went to wal-mart, and then went home.
it's odd when you see how fortunate you truly are. usually at intersections, when i need to make a left turn, i pull out far enough so that if the light turns red, i can still squeak through. the only reason that my car was not the folded bits of steel that the others were is because i was slow to react, and chatting with dan. a few more feet forward and it would have been my car, my body.
there have been many times in my life where i wanted to end it--it being my life--myself. by whatever means came to mind--i find i cannot type it here. there have been times that i have been so sick that i thought, "perhaps i am dying, right now." and i know that each step i take is another towards the inevitable, that i have only a certain amount of time allotted to this conglomeration of cells i call "me."
perhaps that accident was a reminder, in a strange way. a reminder that it is not entirely up to me--it is in the hands of the fates, of chance, of serendipity.
***
yesterday i had lunch with my sister; then we shopped and had dinner at her house, prepared by her husband. this morning i remember the topic of conversation, the one that shook me the most, at least, was my dad.
when i was a kid my dad had stock phrases that he kept in the wings. things like: "stop crying, or i'll give you something to cry about." or "if you had a brain cell, you'd be dangerous." for many years he's been much better--he doesn't stress out about everything, and he's much more open with his feelings.
lately, though, since he's been retired, he's been leaning back to being a powder keg again.
when my sister was talking about his behavior during their last visit, i realized that i was clamming up, inside. we talked a bit about how dad's attitude affected us when we were young, and about how we wished that he would see a therapist now. there's a lot on his mind; i know, because i think like my dad. he's probably worried about retirement, finances and his uncle paul, who just had a stroke; paul's the last of his generation, on my dad's side. dad's concerned with his brother, jed, who's in a care facility in palm springs, ca, after his own massive series of strokes. there's the entire country of vietnam, with all its memories, sitting in his head too. dad gets consumed by worry.
i've had a hard time coming to terms with the fear that i felt, when i was a kid. it was not the imminent threat of physical harm. it was the feeling of uncertainty around my father. i love my dad dearly, and he's a very, very good man. but his temper has always been shaky. i think of zeus, tossing lightning bolts around heaven, and i think of my father.
***
it has snowed, since my last post. and it's snowing this morning too, myriad white flakes drifting down.
i think of metal wrinkled like bedsheets. i think of that stab of fear i had, sitting in my sister's basement, hearing about my father's temper. i think about how they say you marry your father, or mother, whatever. i know that for many years our relationship, dan's and mine, was that same type--mental and emotional mines, planted below the surface, just waiting to be touched. lots of them were not even planted by us; they were planted by our parents, unknowingly.
i think about how much change has gone on, in the last few years: difficult, more difficult, most difficult. i think of the father and son, standing next to their rumpled cars; the son has pulled on a gray sweatshirt, stained with dark spots of cola. i hear the father say, we are safe.
i dislike comparing life to that car wreck, but in truth, it often seems that way. you survive the car wreck, or whatever disaster is on the menu, and then you take that moment and you file it away and you move forward. that father and son took something different away from that accident than i did, sitting in the periphery.
can i honestly say i am glad to have seen it? nope. can i say that i'm glad that my dad's got a bad temper? not really. can i say that i am happy about the way the last few years tossed me around, a fish between sharks? not especially.
can i say that i am glad to be here? today, yes. today i know dan will wake up and we will smile together, and he won't be afraid to share his emotions, doled out like small precious bits of treasure. or perhaps that is how i feel--that i can share my self with him again, and in that sharing, there is a strength that would not be here, had i not experienced what i have.
i haven't got all the time in the world; and yet i do.
anyway, after i typed my last post i got in the car and drove to wal-mart. en route, i called dan to let him know i'd be late. while on the phone, i got to witness a three-car accident. no one was hurt (except for a goose-egg on the offending driver, and a 10-year-old scared witless), although the cars involved were no doubt totaled.
the whole moment was so surreal--i can remember the first thought i had, after one car mangled another: "i've never seen an airbag go off before." metal crumpled like paper; cars swerved and brakes squealed. i stopped and gave my phone number to police, in case they would need a witness, and then went to wal-mart, and then went home.
it's odd when you see how fortunate you truly are. usually at intersections, when i need to make a left turn, i pull out far enough so that if the light turns red, i can still squeak through. the only reason that my car was not the folded bits of steel that the others were is because i was slow to react, and chatting with dan. a few more feet forward and it would have been my car, my body.
there have been many times in my life where i wanted to end it--it being my life--myself. by whatever means came to mind--i find i cannot type it here. there have been times that i have been so sick that i thought, "perhaps i am dying, right now." and i know that each step i take is another towards the inevitable, that i have only a certain amount of time allotted to this conglomeration of cells i call "me."
perhaps that accident was a reminder, in a strange way. a reminder that it is not entirely up to me--it is in the hands of the fates, of chance, of serendipity.
***
yesterday i had lunch with my sister; then we shopped and had dinner at her house, prepared by her husband. this morning i remember the topic of conversation, the one that shook me the most, at least, was my dad.
when i was a kid my dad had stock phrases that he kept in the wings. things like: "stop crying, or i'll give you something to cry about." or "if you had a brain cell, you'd be dangerous." for many years he's been much better--he doesn't stress out about everything, and he's much more open with his feelings.
lately, though, since he's been retired, he's been leaning back to being a powder keg again.
when my sister was talking about his behavior during their last visit, i realized that i was clamming up, inside. we talked a bit about how dad's attitude affected us when we were young, and about how we wished that he would see a therapist now. there's a lot on his mind; i know, because i think like my dad. he's probably worried about retirement, finances and his uncle paul, who just had a stroke; paul's the last of his generation, on my dad's side. dad's concerned with his brother, jed, who's in a care facility in palm springs, ca, after his own massive series of strokes. there's the entire country of vietnam, with all its memories, sitting in his head too. dad gets consumed by worry.
i've had a hard time coming to terms with the fear that i felt, when i was a kid. it was not the imminent threat of physical harm. it was the feeling of uncertainty around my father. i love my dad dearly, and he's a very, very good man. but his temper has always been shaky. i think of zeus, tossing lightning bolts around heaven, and i think of my father.
***
it has snowed, since my last post. and it's snowing this morning too, myriad white flakes drifting down.
i think of metal wrinkled like bedsheets. i think of that stab of fear i had, sitting in my sister's basement, hearing about my father's temper. i think about how they say you marry your father, or mother, whatever. i know that for many years our relationship, dan's and mine, was that same type--mental and emotional mines, planted below the surface, just waiting to be touched. lots of them were not even planted by us; they were planted by our parents, unknowingly.
i think about how much change has gone on, in the last few years: difficult, more difficult, most difficult. i think of the father and son, standing next to their rumpled cars; the son has pulled on a gray sweatshirt, stained with dark spots of cola. i hear the father say, we are safe.
i dislike comparing life to that car wreck, but in truth, it often seems that way. you survive the car wreck, or whatever disaster is on the menu, and then you take that moment and you file it away and you move forward. that father and son took something different away from that accident than i did, sitting in the periphery.
can i honestly say i am glad to have seen it? nope. can i say that i'm glad that my dad's got a bad temper? not really. can i say that i am happy about the way the last few years tossed me around, a fish between sharks? not especially.
can i say that i am glad to be here? today, yes. today i know dan will wake up and we will smile together, and he won't be afraid to share his emotions, doled out like small precious bits of treasure. or perhaps that is how i feel--that i can share my self with him again, and in that sharing, there is a strength that would not be here, had i not experienced what i have.
i haven't got all the time in the world; and yet i do.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
741 post merdian
it's now 741 on my monitor screen. i just logged out of my system and am going to be heading home. after, of course, a stop at wal-mart.
why, i am asking myself, do i need to stop there, when i have this nagging head-ache that i think is brought on due to the overhead lights and eye strain with the computer?
because, i'll answer...i'm out of underwear.
year end at work is always sucky. no matter how you slice it. some days are short because you're caught up and can sneak out the door on time. other days sneak up and beat you over the head. if you've never been assaulted by your job, just imagine a few reams of paper hanging over your head and then dropping suddenly. it's kind of like the coyote-roadrunner fights, with the coyote mashed under the anvil.
at any rate, i have this nagging headache. i'm going to start calling it my 741 headache because it is at this point in the day where i wave the white flag and do one of the following:
1. crawl into bed
2. slither into the shower
3. start doing head rolls that would make ichabod crane shiver
and it's that time, today. and i'm still at work. and if i don't stop at wal-mart, tomorrow i will be going commando. and that, my friends, is just all wrong. (;
why, i am asking myself, do i need to stop there, when i have this nagging head-ache that i think is brought on due to the overhead lights and eye strain with the computer?
because, i'll answer...i'm out of underwear.
year end at work is always sucky. no matter how you slice it. some days are short because you're caught up and can sneak out the door on time. other days sneak up and beat you over the head. if you've never been assaulted by your job, just imagine a few reams of paper hanging over your head and then dropping suddenly. it's kind of like the coyote-roadrunner fights, with the coyote mashed under the anvil.
at any rate, i have this nagging headache. i'm going to start calling it my 741 headache because it is at this point in the day where i wave the white flag and do one of the following:
1. crawl into bed
2. slither into the shower
3. start doing head rolls that would make ichabod crane shiver
and it's that time, today. and i'm still at work. and if i don't stop at wal-mart, tomorrow i will be going commando. and that, my friends, is just all wrong. (;
Saturday, January 06, 2007
let me count the ways
i've never been a math-alete. i can scrape by in percentages, but don't ask about fractions or ratios or *shudder* geometry. word problems were continually the bane of my existence, during school. for as many years as i've been employed, however, i've been put in situations where i am forced to do math, mainly bookkeeping, or in the case of my present job, figuring out where numbers come from or where they went.
in some ways i look at this as a mystery, waiting to be solved, and that makes it easier to swallow. however i'm still jaded about word problems. for instance:
question: A pool is filling with water at the rate of 1/2 gallon per minute. It is emptying at one gallon an hour. How long until the pool is filled?
answer: PLUG THE FRICKING LEAK.
i get disgruntled, quickly.
this week has been a reminder of how far i have come, mathematically speaking. in my new position i just do a lot of checking off of lists, etc, versus my old position, where i assisted clients with their taxes and deductions and why something was not figuring correctly. at any rate, people still come to me for help with figuring out things that they cannot figure themselves. and not to toot my own horn, but usually i can solve them.
in fact, at one point, someone actually said that i was LOGICAL.
huh? me, logical? not usually! then again, perhaps i am more logical than i think, but less so than say, spock.
i think the problem i usually have with math is that i hare off on a different topic before i can complete the current function. therefore when i come back to it, i don't know what i just did, and voila! i'm lost.
i don't know what the difference is at work, where suddenly i become the Inspector Poirot of Numerical Crap.
it does give me pause.
why? because there are many, many things that i never thought i could do, but i have done. i remember when i was first learning to drive, and i had a moment of hesitation about stepping on the gas pedal. in fact i was such a cautious driver that i did not think i would ever drive in a big city.
scoot fifteen years down the line, and i love driving in the cities. driving itself is second nature.
and the same thing is true when i consider math.
i don't think that i will ever overcome my fear of math, my loathing for imaginary numbers. (if they are imaginary, does that mean that i can imagine that they're simply gone? hm?) i think that, like many other things, i have become accustomed to dealing with it.
i cannot count the number of things that i have encountered with fear, and now live with on a daily basis. but if i think of those things, even just a few, it makes me feel strong enough to handle the next one, or just continue to live with the fears i do have.
my fear of math, in the scheme of things, is small. i have much greater fears--losing loved ones, for example--but i have lost loved ones, and i know that life goes on, whether i will it or no.
when i was a young child and my parents yelled at me, i would do one of two things: hide in the back corner of my closet, or any dark small space, or go outside and run over to the park, and pretend that i was elsewhere on the planet.
when i was in my teens, my dad used to get frustrated with my math skills, or lack thereof. he would rail and shout at me, until he gave up and walked away. my reaction was generally to sit and try not to cry, because then i'd hear that wonderful phrase: "stop crying or i'll give you something to cry about." when he finally would storm off, i would give in and sniffle through the math problems myself, and then content myself with walking into the woods behind our house, alone, and trying to make the feelings go away.
it's something i carried, along with all those basic habits you pick up as a kid. when something happens that makes me want to cry, my first instinct is to run off somewhere and curl up, that if i make myself a small enough target, i will be forgotten and will forget.
it's something that i have to face, every day. my mother always said you have to pick your battles. i understand now that it's not only the battles you have with other people; more important are the battles we wage against our selves.
the truth of the matter is understanding that there really is no battle, just a simple question to be asked of your self. the question varies, as will your answer. it is the pause that is important, the pause where you question your behavior or action or thought, and hold it up and consider it, no matter how briefly. my therapist calls this "coginitive therapy."
whatever you call it, it does slow down the world a little. the questions i pose to myself are my own inner negotiator, feeling out reactions.
i cannot count the number of times that i have filed my nails; nor can i count the number of fears that i have come to live with, the number of times i have fought to a truce with my own thought process.
but if i think about it in the smallest of ways--my hidden math abilities, say--then it becomes more realistic, for everything else i face.
in some ways i look at this as a mystery, waiting to be solved, and that makes it easier to swallow. however i'm still jaded about word problems. for instance:
question: A pool is filling with water at the rate of 1/2 gallon per minute. It is emptying at one gallon an hour. How long until the pool is filled?
answer: PLUG THE FRICKING LEAK.
i get disgruntled, quickly.
this week has been a reminder of how far i have come, mathematically speaking. in my new position i just do a lot of checking off of lists, etc, versus my old position, where i assisted clients with their taxes and deductions and why something was not figuring correctly. at any rate, people still come to me for help with figuring out things that they cannot figure themselves. and not to toot my own horn, but usually i can solve them.
in fact, at one point, someone actually said that i was LOGICAL.
huh? me, logical? not usually! then again, perhaps i am more logical than i think, but less so than say, spock.
i think the problem i usually have with math is that i hare off on a different topic before i can complete the current function. therefore when i come back to it, i don't know what i just did, and voila! i'm lost.
i don't know what the difference is at work, where suddenly i become the Inspector Poirot of Numerical Crap.
it does give me pause.
why? because there are many, many things that i never thought i could do, but i have done. i remember when i was first learning to drive, and i had a moment of hesitation about stepping on the gas pedal. in fact i was such a cautious driver that i did not think i would ever drive in a big city.
scoot fifteen years down the line, and i love driving in the cities. driving itself is second nature.
and the same thing is true when i consider math.
i don't think that i will ever overcome my fear of math, my loathing for imaginary numbers. (if they are imaginary, does that mean that i can imagine that they're simply gone? hm?) i think that, like many other things, i have become accustomed to dealing with it.
i cannot count the number of things that i have encountered with fear, and now live with on a daily basis. but if i think of those things, even just a few, it makes me feel strong enough to handle the next one, or just continue to live with the fears i do have.
my fear of math, in the scheme of things, is small. i have much greater fears--losing loved ones, for example--but i have lost loved ones, and i know that life goes on, whether i will it or no.
when i was a young child and my parents yelled at me, i would do one of two things: hide in the back corner of my closet, or any dark small space, or go outside and run over to the park, and pretend that i was elsewhere on the planet.
when i was in my teens, my dad used to get frustrated with my math skills, or lack thereof. he would rail and shout at me, until he gave up and walked away. my reaction was generally to sit and try not to cry, because then i'd hear that wonderful phrase: "stop crying or i'll give you something to cry about." when he finally would storm off, i would give in and sniffle through the math problems myself, and then content myself with walking into the woods behind our house, alone, and trying to make the feelings go away.
it's something i carried, along with all those basic habits you pick up as a kid. when something happens that makes me want to cry, my first instinct is to run off somewhere and curl up, that if i make myself a small enough target, i will be forgotten and will forget.
it's something that i have to face, every day. my mother always said you have to pick your battles. i understand now that it's not only the battles you have with other people; more important are the battles we wage against our selves.
the truth of the matter is understanding that there really is no battle, just a simple question to be asked of your self. the question varies, as will your answer. it is the pause that is important, the pause where you question your behavior or action or thought, and hold it up and consider it, no matter how briefly. my therapist calls this "coginitive therapy."
whatever you call it, it does slow down the world a little. the questions i pose to myself are my own inner negotiator, feeling out reactions.
i cannot count the number of times that i have filed my nails; nor can i count the number of fears that i have come to live with, the number of times i have fought to a truce with my own thought process.
but if i think about it in the smallest of ways--my hidden math abilities, say--then it becomes more realistic, for everything else i face.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
i'm dreaming of a hypocritical christmas.
i'm feeling a bit jaded. so take this with two advil and comment later. (;
it's minnesota. it's two days from two-thousand-seven, and the grass outside my patio has the temerity to be GREEN.
we've had a few days of icy windshields, and some frosty lawns, and even some large, fluffy, beautiful snowflakes.
but the weather is being pretty damn hypocritical for a minnesota winter, and withholding the cold and snow that makes me love the state.
of course, being a minnesotan, i can glance outside, sigh, and continue with my day, because that's what being minnesotan is all about. usually.
and if any of the rest of this post makes any coherent sense, let me know. my man dan made me some kickin' coffee this morning and i'm kind of punchy. (;
***
perhaps i get frustrated this time of year because my workplace celebrates the holiday with wild abandon--cookies and gift exchanges, toasts of non-alcoholic bubbly--all while taking phone calls from the most ungrateful, ill-mannered group of public i've ever encountered.
for almost three years at work the holidays have been a time of overtime with a thin veneer of joy. here's why:
people forget that they are speaking to other people.
other people who are working double time and triple time, staying later than late trying to patch up a human error committed by one of their teammates, who probably ran out of coffee and wasn't able to run for a refill. other people who arrive at work three hours early, other people who are trying to make ends meet. other people that you probably brushed elbows with, at wal-mart, while edging in for the same cabbage patch doll.
i'm in a different position now; i no longer have to assist people on the phone who preach the Golden Rule to their kids but don't practice it with the rest of the planet. i still work a ton (workspeak: sixty hours or so) during year end (workspeak: December 15th through January 30th, no time off and weekends optional) and i help out a lot with my client service coworkers, because i cannot stand to see someone go without assistance. props and thanks to my mom and dad, who would give their last shirt to their neighbor.
at any rate, most of the people in my exceedingly short-handed office don't see their family a lot during the time of year when family is touted as the focus of the season. if our customers knew what the stress level was like in our office, would they take pity? would they not raise their voices, when they call about a problem that can be fixed? would they edit the swear words from their vocabulary, and perhaps treat their fellow humans with a bit of respect?
yesterday, at the height of the week's strife, i turned a corner to run into one of our managers, heidi. she was carrying a sheaf of files and paper, and from her direction, had been in a meeting with some irate client.
i'd never seen this bubbly girl cry. and i suddenly also knew what the term "big, fat tears" defined. i stopped in my tracks and asked if she was okay, if there was anything i could do. she shook her head and choked out no, she'd be fine.
the problems that cause people to explode like this, they are minor. the compassion that the season preaches gets lost.
my rule of dealing with an angry client is to remember that there are worse things that could have happened than the post office losing their payroll package.
i think of dan's brother, corey, and having lost him is much, much more terrible. it's not that i do not treat my clients with respect; it's just my way of keeping a calm head, when dealing with a ready-to-detonate person.
***
on top of the stress of work and being home long enough each day to shower and make sure the cats have kibble, my mom had a cancer scare, which has since been alleviated and found to be a fatty deposit. thank heavens for fat. never thought i'd say that again, except when i slip and hit the ice and then am thankful for the deposits on my ass, which protect said tailbone.
however one of my cousins is still in hospital, after a week and a half. she was being treated for an infection, and when rushed from the northern hinterlands to the Big City, it was found that she had cancer. they removed part of her stomach, her uterus, a lot of her colon. there are still three more tumors there. she's not much older than me; it's kind of scary, and it's much worse than anything that happens at work.
it's not that i don't care about my fellow man. i do. i have been in those shoes before, so frustrated that i can't do anything other than search for my tissues and a hershey's bar for solace.
i guess it just bothers me that halloween has passed and yet people wear the same hypocritical mask: love thy brother, love thy church, love thy family, but do not spare the verbage when you're angry.
my parents always used to preach the whole "do unto others" policy. dan's mom had a little plaque on her wall about not bitching about someone else until you have walked a mile in their moccasins. there's the wiccan rede: do unto others, an it harm none. the three-fold law: what you mete to others will return to you three-fold.
it's all the same message, backed by a god or quip-creator.
i'm not pissed off at the people who call and whose invoices pay my salary; i'm annoyed with their behavior. in therapy we talked about that difference, how you sometimes have to separate behavior and being.
i'm going to generalize here: everyone on this planet has the capacity and the ability to be hypocritical. and if they haven't been, yet, they will be, at some point, about something.
i know i have. i know i will, in future. it's inevitable. it's the two-faced nature of humanity, the yin and yang, night and day. if you walk far enough in one direction, there is the chance that you will meet your self, coming the other way. you might not recognize your own face, but it's you, meeting in the middle.
and if that is the case, i'd hope to meet me with open arms, and not show the same hypocrisy for which there is the potential.
it's minnesota. it's two days from two-thousand-seven, and the grass outside my patio has the temerity to be GREEN.
we've had a few days of icy windshields, and some frosty lawns, and even some large, fluffy, beautiful snowflakes.
but the weather is being pretty damn hypocritical for a minnesota winter, and withholding the cold and snow that makes me love the state.
of course, being a minnesotan, i can glance outside, sigh, and continue with my day, because that's what being minnesotan is all about. usually.
and if any of the rest of this post makes any coherent sense, let me know. my man dan made me some kickin' coffee this morning and i'm kind of punchy. (;
***
perhaps i get frustrated this time of year because my workplace celebrates the holiday with wild abandon--cookies and gift exchanges, toasts of non-alcoholic bubbly--all while taking phone calls from the most ungrateful, ill-mannered group of public i've ever encountered.
for almost three years at work the holidays have been a time of overtime with a thin veneer of joy. here's why:
people forget that they are speaking to other people.
other people who are working double time and triple time, staying later than late trying to patch up a human error committed by one of their teammates, who probably ran out of coffee and wasn't able to run for a refill. other people who arrive at work three hours early, other people who are trying to make ends meet. other people that you probably brushed elbows with, at wal-mart, while edging in for the same cabbage patch doll.
i'm in a different position now; i no longer have to assist people on the phone who preach the Golden Rule to their kids but don't practice it with the rest of the planet. i still work a ton (workspeak: sixty hours or so) during year end (workspeak: December 15th through January 30th, no time off and weekends optional) and i help out a lot with my client service coworkers, because i cannot stand to see someone go without assistance. props and thanks to my mom and dad, who would give their last shirt to their neighbor.
at any rate, most of the people in my exceedingly short-handed office don't see their family a lot during the time of year when family is touted as the focus of the season. if our customers knew what the stress level was like in our office, would they take pity? would they not raise their voices, when they call about a problem that can be fixed? would they edit the swear words from their vocabulary, and perhaps treat their fellow humans with a bit of respect?
yesterday, at the height of the week's strife, i turned a corner to run into one of our managers, heidi. she was carrying a sheaf of files and paper, and from her direction, had been in a meeting with some irate client.
i'd never seen this bubbly girl cry. and i suddenly also knew what the term "big, fat tears" defined. i stopped in my tracks and asked if she was okay, if there was anything i could do. she shook her head and choked out no, she'd be fine.
the problems that cause people to explode like this, they are minor. the compassion that the season preaches gets lost.
my rule of dealing with an angry client is to remember that there are worse things that could have happened than the post office losing their payroll package.
i think of dan's brother, corey, and having lost him is much, much more terrible. it's not that i do not treat my clients with respect; it's just my way of keeping a calm head, when dealing with a ready-to-detonate person.
***
on top of the stress of work and being home long enough each day to shower and make sure the cats have kibble, my mom had a cancer scare, which has since been alleviated and found to be a fatty deposit. thank heavens for fat. never thought i'd say that again, except when i slip and hit the ice and then am thankful for the deposits on my ass, which protect said tailbone.
however one of my cousins is still in hospital, after a week and a half. she was being treated for an infection, and when rushed from the northern hinterlands to the Big City, it was found that she had cancer. they removed part of her stomach, her uterus, a lot of her colon. there are still three more tumors there. she's not much older than me; it's kind of scary, and it's much worse than anything that happens at work.
it's not that i don't care about my fellow man. i do. i have been in those shoes before, so frustrated that i can't do anything other than search for my tissues and a hershey's bar for solace.
i guess it just bothers me that halloween has passed and yet people wear the same hypocritical mask: love thy brother, love thy church, love thy family, but do not spare the verbage when you're angry.
my parents always used to preach the whole "do unto others" policy. dan's mom had a little plaque on her wall about not bitching about someone else until you have walked a mile in their moccasins. there's the wiccan rede: do unto others, an it harm none. the three-fold law: what you mete to others will return to you three-fold.
it's all the same message, backed by a god or quip-creator.
i'm not pissed off at the people who call and whose invoices pay my salary; i'm annoyed with their behavior. in therapy we talked about that difference, how you sometimes have to separate behavior and being.
i'm going to generalize here: everyone on this planet has the capacity and the ability to be hypocritical. and if they haven't been, yet, they will be, at some point, about something.
i know i have. i know i will, in future. it's inevitable. it's the two-faced nature of humanity, the yin and yang, night and day. if you walk far enough in one direction, there is the chance that you will meet your self, coming the other way. you might not recognize your own face, but it's you, meeting in the middle.
and if that is the case, i'd hope to meet me with open arms, and not show the same hypocrisy for which there is the potential.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)