When you've struggled to make ends meet or to throw together some semblance of normalcy, little victories are of the utmost importance and gravity. Moments when you realize you're okay, you're doing this thing yourself, god damn it, and that you're standing strong enough that the next wind won't blow you over. You've got roots in the ground. Upright. A human.
There are moments of ridiculous pride that I keep to myself. For example, I refrain from busting into the bedroom where my love is napping, to scream, "LOOK! I MADE A SANDWICH!" Lots of people make sandwiches all of the time. Hell, I made them for a living for four years to get myself through undergrad. But this sandwich, this sandwich I made at home, with meat and cheese from a deli counter that my living wage allows me to buy. I spread hummus on the bread, too.
All I'm saying is, it's a far cry from last year when I ate one meal a day, at work, because it was free. And I didn't turn my heat on because it was too expensive.
And I just made an awesome sandwich.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
We watched a documentary tonight, No Impact Man. It is about a writer who, along with his wife and daughter, sets out to live a full year without creating trash, without causing carbon emissions, etc. They compost, they bike, they make their own soap. They eat locally grown foods. The project itself is daunting and impressive if not impractical for most people, and the family is unwittingly bourgie at best and obliviously pretentious at worst. At the end of the film the two things that stayed with me were, I suppose, not really the "take aways" the project had intended. Alas, these were mine.
There is a scene in the film that is so touching. Tonight was the second time I've seen the film, and it still struck something inside of me; the first time, I teared up. For those of you who know me, you know this is rare. I don't cry during movies, especially if the scene involves humans. If a dog dies, forget it, I'm done for, but otherwise, I can appreciate it, aloof and unaffected. Yet something about this scene stays with me. It is toward the end of the film, the wife is burned out on the project, all of her creature comforts, and what most Americans have come to regard as basic needs, taken from her or greatly modified. She hears her husband and their toddler daughter in the bathroom, making a lot of noise. She's rolling her eyes, exhausted, and shuffles into the bathroom, to find them standing in a bath tub full of home made laundry soap and clothes, stomping on them to wash them. At first her face reads, "I'm going to kill you for putting me through this" ...then, something changes. She gets in the tub with them and they're all stomping, and they start giggling, and there is this amazing moment where the husband and wife lok at one another over their daughter's head and laugh, kiss, and share those eyes that only a couple that has been together a while shares.
When I first saw this film, I was going through my divorce. I think I was longing for connection, for family, for a sense of stability, and that scene spoke to that for me. I missed looking into someone's eyes and knowing what their eyes were saying. I missed being pissed off about small things and then being reminded that they don't matter because at the end of the day, I have this amazing human being who I stomp on laundry with, who also chooses to come home every night to stomp on laundry with me. He chose me! A person you think the world of thinks the same of you. Incredible.
Of course, that wasn't what had been happening in my marriage, or it wouldn't have ended. I was getting pissed, and staying pissed, at the beginning and the end of the day. I had convinced myself that most people felt that way. But then I kept seeing evidence to the contrary: my fathers who have been together for 25 years this October and are so in love with one another it is tangible in their home; my mother and stepfather who move around one another in the kitchen as if it is some ancient tribal dance that they've been doing their entire lives; and, this couple, pants rolled up and kissing in a bath full of dirty laundry and Borax. I wanted that. I felt cheated because hadn't I gone through all the motions? Met a boy, loved him, married him? I had done these things yet never felt that joy. I wanted that joy so badly.
Tonight, of course, there is no pretty bow to tie this up with, no "And this time while watching it, I did have that sort of joy!" I do have joy, and love. I love a man and he loves me, and it baffles me; not in a self-deprecating way, but in that awe of my luck, that someone I find so endlessly fascinating chooses to spend a majority of his time around me. This is a happy surprise. This is a welcomed development. And while we're not stomping laundry together quite yet, or sharing a look that is fueled by years of tears and fears and broken promises and perfect brithday gifts, there is an understanding of that feeling, a kernel, if just the simple knowledge that yes, love is joyful.
Toward the end of the film, the man is talking about the community garden he took part in. He talks about the project coming to the end of its year, and how amazing it has been to be more connected to the earth, and really seeing the seasons change. I think of all the markers of the seasons: Halloween candy out? It must be late September! Christmas decorations? Probably end of October. Et cetera. But for a year he saw what the earth would yield at different times for him to eat, and he appreciated it in a new way.
This time last year began it all. It was this time last year that I was spiraling desperately, so sad I couldn't breathe under it all, and I decided the best thing for both of us was to let it go. I wrote about it, and in one of the many poems I wrote, I spoke of the flowers that come this time of year. I had spent a lot of time walking the dogs to get out of the house. I would notice the tiny Chicago yards and gardens on these long walks. Last August, I was particularly taken with sunflowers and black-eyed susans. I started doing some writing exercises, and one of them was a free association word game. I chose these two flowers. From sunflower I got buxom, ripe, full, knowledgable, alive, laughter, wise. For black-eyed susans, I got young, petite, inquisitive, giggle, innocent. I think the similarity in color and the vast difference in size helped to set up this dichotomy, this yin and yang for me.
After an interesting year, I am reminded of last August, one year ago, as I saw my first sunflower of the season today. I had been seeing black-eyed susans for a month or so, and I kept holding my breath, waiting for the sunflowers. Here they are. They are blooming again, it is August again, and I am alright, I made it, I saw the earth turn. I saw myself turn.
I'm feeling the incredible impact.
There is a scene in the film that is so touching. Tonight was the second time I've seen the film, and it still struck something inside of me; the first time, I teared up. For those of you who know me, you know this is rare. I don't cry during movies, especially if the scene involves humans. If a dog dies, forget it, I'm done for, but otherwise, I can appreciate it, aloof and unaffected. Yet something about this scene stays with me. It is toward the end of the film, the wife is burned out on the project, all of her creature comforts, and what most Americans have come to regard as basic needs, taken from her or greatly modified. She hears her husband and their toddler daughter in the bathroom, making a lot of noise. She's rolling her eyes, exhausted, and shuffles into the bathroom, to find them standing in a bath tub full of home made laundry soap and clothes, stomping on them to wash them. At first her face reads, "I'm going to kill you for putting me through this" ...then, something changes. She gets in the tub with them and they're all stomping, and they start giggling, and there is this amazing moment where the husband and wife lok at one another over their daughter's head and laugh, kiss, and share those eyes that only a couple that has been together a while shares.
When I first saw this film, I was going through my divorce. I think I was longing for connection, for family, for a sense of stability, and that scene spoke to that for me. I missed looking into someone's eyes and knowing what their eyes were saying. I missed being pissed off about small things and then being reminded that they don't matter because at the end of the day, I have this amazing human being who I stomp on laundry with, who also chooses to come home every night to stomp on laundry with me. He chose me! A person you think the world of thinks the same of you. Incredible.
Of course, that wasn't what had been happening in my marriage, or it wouldn't have ended. I was getting pissed, and staying pissed, at the beginning and the end of the day. I had convinced myself that most people felt that way. But then I kept seeing evidence to the contrary: my fathers who have been together for 25 years this October and are so in love with one another it is tangible in their home; my mother and stepfather who move around one another in the kitchen as if it is some ancient tribal dance that they've been doing their entire lives; and, this couple, pants rolled up and kissing in a bath full of dirty laundry and Borax. I wanted that. I felt cheated because hadn't I gone through all the motions? Met a boy, loved him, married him? I had done these things yet never felt that joy. I wanted that joy so badly.
Tonight, of course, there is no pretty bow to tie this up with, no "And this time while watching it, I did have that sort of joy!" I do have joy, and love. I love a man and he loves me, and it baffles me; not in a self-deprecating way, but in that awe of my luck, that someone I find so endlessly fascinating chooses to spend a majority of his time around me. This is a happy surprise. This is a welcomed development. And while we're not stomping laundry together quite yet, or sharing a look that is fueled by years of tears and fears and broken promises and perfect brithday gifts, there is an understanding of that feeling, a kernel, if just the simple knowledge that yes, love is joyful.
Toward the end of the film, the man is talking about the community garden he took part in. He talks about the project coming to the end of its year, and how amazing it has been to be more connected to the earth, and really seeing the seasons change. I think of all the markers of the seasons: Halloween candy out? It must be late September! Christmas decorations? Probably end of October. Et cetera. But for a year he saw what the earth would yield at different times for him to eat, and he appreciated it in a new way.
This time last year began it all. It was this time last year that I was spiraling desperately, so sad I couldn't breathe under it all, and I decided the best thing for both of us was to let it go. I wrote about it, and in one of the many poems I wrote, I spoke of the flowers that come this time of year. I had spent a lot of time walking the dogs to get out of the house. I would notice the tiny Chicago yards and gardens on these long walks. Last August, I was particularly taken with sunflowers and black-eyed susans. I started doing some writing exercises, and one of them was a free association word game. I chose these two flowers. From sunflower I got buxom, ripe, full, knowledgable, alive, laughter, wise. For black-eyed susans, I got young, petite, inquisitive, giggle, innocent. I think the similarity in color and the vast difference in size helped to set up this dichotomy, this yin and yang for me.
After an interesting year, I am reminded of last August, one year ago, as I saw my first sunflower of the season today. I had been seeing black-eyed susans for a month or so, and I kept holding my breath, waiting for the sunflowers. Here they are. They are blooming again, it is August again, and I am alright, I made it, I saw the earth turn. I saw myself turn.
I'm feeling the incredible impact.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
I love going to Planned Parenthood on protest days. Now, before you all peg me for someone who just likes to stir up trouble, as someone just looking for confrontation, let me explain myself.
I work nights. I usually get home around 2 in the morning, 1:30 if the public transit gods are working in my favor, but, since most transit systems seem to be designed by the minions of The Evil One, this rarely happens. Especially if I'm sick, if I know the dog desperately needs to go outside, if it's raining, snowing, or if there is a cute boy waiting for me at home. The minions know, and they laugh from their home in the tunnels of the subway, and in the folds of the accordion bus connecters.
Of course last night I was in no big hurry to get home, but I arrived rather quickly. But, I couldn't sleep. I usually go to bed around 3AM, but at 5, I was still rattling around the house, making to-do lists in my head, reflecting on the last six months of my life...?! Whatever. It began to stress me out though, as I had to get up and get to Planned Parenthood in the morning to pick up my birth control pills.
First, I know that I can go to a pharmacy and get this prescription. But, I believe in Planned Parenthood and want to support them. I used to work for them, don't have much money to donate to them, so I figure I might as well give them my money via Blue Cross/Blue Shield.
I dragged myself out of bed on very little sleep and realized, Shit, it's an AB day. An "AB Day" is a day on which the clinic, if it provides them at all at that location, performs abortion services. It doesn't usually produce longer wait times for supply pick-up as there is a separate waiting area and all, but to get into the facility, you have to cross a line of protesters. Flash forward about an hour and I am there, waiting to cross the street, seeing the protesters. I've been a clinic escort, a clinic assistant, an HIV test counselor, a sex educator. I know this scenario well. But something about it every time makes my heart race. There weren't many people today doing the Lord's work, just a few people praying, and a few people holding signs. There were the clinic escorts in their chartreuse vests to open the door for me, to shield me from the protesters. I felt safe.
I walk toward the door and there is a guy holding a sign that says, and I am not making this up, "What if YOU'RE mom was pro-choice" 1) Your, not "you're;" 2)if she was, she'd probably be attending pro-choice actions with me. A lot of pro-choice women are mothers. This just in!
Excuse me for fixating on the sign. It's just that it was the last thing I saw, this glaring grammar error, before it started flying toward my face, ending in a good smack. Right. I got smacked in the face with bad grammar and misguided information. It wasn't hard, or on purpose, Dude just turned and didn't see my tiny ass there.
As I reflected on this, I really have to say, it's good for me to go there on AB days. It's good to be reminded that while my generation takes for granted access to contraception and abortion, we shouldn't. I was going to pick up a prescribed medication, one that I take for two reasons: for a health concern, and for contraception. I am treating a condition and being responsible. You can't block my access to abortion, birth control, and accurate sex education. By blocking the latter two, you are helping to create more of the former. And, though it wasn't intentional, I still got hit in the face for trying to pick up a medication. That is ludicrous. And sure, I know I choose to go there instead of a pharmacy where it might not happen. But, there have been many reports of pharmacists refusing to fill a BC prescription for "moral" objections; I know that won't happen at Planned Parenthood. Also, it's a health center. I should not be confronted at a health center, no matter the services people seek there. It's a health center, and my health is not your business.
But, to end on a happy note, once I got into the center, they asked what I was there for and they comped my pills as "sample" packs because they felt so badly! :o) To quote the always hilarious and brilliant boyfriend, "Poor Jesus people. They wanted to stop sex and instead they gave it to you for three free months!"
Thank you, Jesus! :o)
I work nights. I usually get home around 2 in the morning, 1:30 if the public transit gods are working in my favor, but, since most transit systems seem to be designed by the minions of The Evil One, this rarely happens. Especially if I'm sick, if I know the dog desperately needs to go outside, if it's raining, snowing, or if there is a cute boy waiting for me at home. The minions know, and they laugh from their home in the tunnels of the subway, and in the folds of the accordion bus connecters.
Of course last night I was in no big hurry to get home, but I arrived rather quickly. But, I couldn't sleep. I usually go to bed around 3AM, but at 5, I was still rattling around the house, making to-do lists in my head, reflecting on the last six months of my life...?! Whatever. It began to stress me out though, as I had to get up and get to Planned Parenthood in the morning to pick up my birth control pills.
First, I know that I can go to a pharmacy and get this prescription. But, I believe in Planned Parenthood and want to support them. I used to work for them, don't have much money to donate to them, so I figure I might as well give them my money via Blue Cross/Blue Shield.
I dragged myself out of bed on very little sleep and realized, Shit, it's an AB day. An "AB Day" is a day on which the clinic, if it provides them at all at that location, performs abortion services. It doesn't usually produce longer wait times for supply pick-up as there is a separate waiting area and all, but to get into the facility, you have to cross a line of protesters. Flash forward about an hour and I am there, waiting to cross the street, seeing the protesters. I've been a clinic escort, a clinic assistant, an HIV test counselor, a sex educator. I know this scenario well. But something about it every time makes my heart race. There weren't many people today doing the Lord's work, just a few people praying, and a few people holding signs. There were the clinic escorts in their chartreuse vests to open the door for me, to shield me from the protesters. I felt safe.
I walk toward the door and there is a guy holding a sign that says, and I am not making this up, "What if YOU'RE mom was pro-choice" 1) Your, not "you're;" 2)if she was, she'd probably be attending pro-choice actions with me. A lot of pro-choice women are mothers. This just in!
Excuse me for fixating on the sign. It's just that it was the last thing I saw, this glaring grammar error, before it started flying toward my face, ending in a good smack. Right. I got smacked in the face with bad grammar and misguided information. It wasn't hard, or on purpose, Dude just turned and didn't see my tiny ass there.
As I reflected on this, I really have to say, it's good for me to go there on AB days. It's good to be reminded that while my generation takes for granted access to contraception and abortion, we shouldn't. I was going to pick up a prescribed medication, one that I take for two reasons: for a health concern, and for contraception. I am treating a condition and being responsible. You can't block my access to abortion, birth control, and accurate sex education. By blocking the latter two, you are helping to create more of the former. And, though it wasn't intentional, I still got hit in the face for trying to pick up a medication. That is ludicrous. And sure, I know I choose to go there instead of a pharmacy where it might not happen. But, there have been many reports of pharmacists refusing to fill a BC prescription for "moral" objections; I know that won't happen at Planned Parenthood. Also, it's a health center. I should not be confronted at a health center, no matter the services people seek there. It's a health center, and my health is not your business.
But, to end on a happy note, once I got into the center, they asked what I was there for and they comped my pills as "sample" packs because they felt so badly! :o) To quote the always hilarious and brilliant boyfriend, "Poor Jesus people. They wanted to stop sex and instead they gave it to you for three free months!"
Thank you, Jesus! :o)
Thursday, June 17, 2010
"The universe works on a math equation that never even ever really even ends in the end..."
--lyrics from "Never Ending Math Equation," Modest Mouse (1998)
Since moving out on my own at age seventeen, life has been, as it is for most adults, a balancing act of income versus expenditures. Last fall, this rose to a frenzied level as my husband moved out, and I took on the mortgage and everything else all on my own. Life was a "never ending math equation." It came down to the pennies, and I recorded every cent I spent and made in a Word document, my account balances always at the front of my brain. This caused an obscene amount of stress that I could feel, physically, and that others could see. I got down to 98 pounds, and the fact that I had little money to eat didn't help.
But things are better now. Much better. Life is startlingly wonderful, and it's almost hard to remember the woman I was in those months. Almost. I hope I don't ever forget, as I learned more about myself during this time than I ever have. Aside from mushy, touchy-feely new age knowledge of "the self," I also gained an immense understanding of the way to move forward, especially financially.
I still find myself tripping over math problems, every sojourn to the grocery store incomplete without a calculator. I won't buy anything that isn't on sale. I check my bank account daily. I still keep that Word document budget. And even with my paychecks from my new job that pays so much better, I panic, thinking, I need more. I need more money. I don't. But I'm so used to existing in panic mode, that I can't relax and enjoy a modest, but normal, financial life. I am going on vacation this summer, I bought some new clothes for the new office job, and I signed up for an aerial arts class. I'm doing some fun things. But, not without fear. It was sudden, plunge into not having enough was shocking. It really was.
I'm hoping to find a balance. I'm hoping to always remember how hard it was.
Since moving out on my own at age seventeen, life has been, as it is for most adults, a balancing act of income versus expenditures. Last fall, this rose to a frenzied level as my husband moved out, and I took on the mortgage and everything else all on my own. Life was a "never ending math equation." It came down to the pennies, and I recorded every cent I spent and made in a Word document, my account balances always at the front of my brain. This caused an obscene amount of stress that I could feel, physically, and that others could see. I got down to 98 pounds, and the fact that I had little money to eat didn't help.
But things are better now. Much better. Life is startlingly wonderful, and it's almost hard to remember the woman I was in those months. Almost. I hope I don't ever forget, as I learned more about myself during this time than I ever have. Aside from mushy, touchy-feely new age knowledge of "the self," I also gained an immense understanding of the way to move forward, especially financially.
I still find myself tripping over math problems, every sojourn to the grocery store incomplete without a calculator. I won't buy anything that isn't on sale. I check my bank account daily. I still keep that Word document budget. And even with my paychecks from my new job that pays so much better, I panic, thinking, I need more. I need more money. I don't. But I'm so used to existing in panic mode, that I can't relax and enjoy a modest, but normal, financial life. I am going on vacation this summer, I bought some new clothes for the new office job, and I signed up for an aerial arts class. I'm doing some fun things. But, not without fear. It was sudden, plunge into not having enough was shocking. It really was.
I'm hoping to find a balance. I'm hoping to always remember how hard it was.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
It's one of those nights when I can't shut my brain off, can't keep myself from reflecting, even when I know some of the trails my mind is due to wander down are not good for me. I know it, yet, tonight, it seems as if it's the only way. Shall we?
Five years ago today, I graduated from high school. I stood outside my high school for the last time with my high school boyfriend, said good-bye to my first real boyfriend, and was waved at by my estranged best friend's family from their mini-van. Wow, I had thought to myself. Things have certainly changed.
There is a quote from one of my favorite writers, Thomas Lynch. He is reflecting on life, on the had-I -known-then-what-I-know-now moments. He says, "In my fifties, I imagine the man in his twenties, who never could have imagined me." That quote makes me feel two things. First, I feel hopeful. I think about being fifty, and how wonderful I might be, how great life might have turned out, and how I can't imagine it now, in my twenties. I hope the fifty year old Mar is saying to twenty-something Mar, Just around the corner is something wonderful, if you could just wait long enough.
But then I think, what if I don't become a wonderful person by my fifties? What if I look back on my twenties thinking, What happened to her...? I can't bear that. I can't. So I guess I'll go about the business of creating the former.
Life is so good right now. But, in typical Catholic Irish fashion, that just means I'm waiting for the inevitable horror, the tragedy to ruin it all. The longer I go without that happening, the higher the stakes, the scarier the downfall. Perhaps it's scarier, this time, coming from what felt like rock bottom to me. August-February were the hardest months of my life. I don't think I have ever felt so many things at once, to such staggering extremes, for so long. It really was painful. My entire life changed. Now that things are evening out, I can breathe a sigh of relief, but also fear a return to the bottom. I don't want to go back. I don't want to feel hopeless like that again.
Positive changes, as of late: I met one of the most amazing men, and, oddly, he enjoys my company too. I'm not offering that as a happy ending, a Cinderella moment, but, as a happy beginning, as an acknowledgement that yes, fine, I will concede that not all humans are awful and that I want to be in close proximity to some of them. I welcome it. In other more life-changing, and I mean that, banter, I got a new job that pays, literally, twice what I made at my last job. This means paying all of the bills, and on time, and not having to sell my home, which was about to happen. It means keeping my dog, feeding him and myself, and having a little extra money to enjoy life too. I am sticking my toe in the water, trying new things. I'm smiling a lot.
I'm remembering that evening, five years ago, when I couldn't possibly imagine that five years from that very moment the high school boyfriend next to me would be my ex-husband; that my mother and I would actually have a relationship; that I would be a single woman who owns her own home in Chicago, filling it with books and dog hair and attempts at cooking. I couldn't imagine feeling the sadness I just overcame, nor the strange freedom and elation I feel now.
I would have been shocked to know what friends stuck with me through it all. People I would have guaranteed to have been there are not, and people who were mere acquaintances, or not even known to me yet, have carried me through. I blink. I stare. I blink again. Is this my life? Is this me? Is this the woman in her twenties, imagining the girl in her teens, who never could have imagined me?
I guess it is. Here I am.
Five years ago today, I graduated from high school. I stood outside my high school for the last time with my high school boyfriend, said good-bye to my first real boyfriend, and was waved at by my estranged best friend's family from their mini-van. Wow, I had thought to myself. Things have certainly changed.
There is a quote from one of my favorite writers, Thomas Lynch. He is reflecting on life, on the had-I -known-then-what-I-know-now moments. He says, "In my fifties, I imagine the man in his twenties, who never could have imagined me." That quote makes me feel two things. First, I feel hopeful. I think about being fifty, and how wonderful I might be, how great life might have turned out, and how I can't imagine it now, in my twenties. I hope the fifty year old Mar is saying to twenty-something Mar, Just around the corner is something wonderful, if you could just wait long enough.
But then I think, what if I don't become a wonderful person by my fifties? What if I look back on my twenties thinking, What happened to her...? I can't bear that. I can't. So I guess I'll go about the business of creating the former.
Life is so good right now. But, in typical Catholic Irish fashion, that just means I'm waiting for the inevitable horror, the tragedy to ruin it all. The longer I go without that happening, the higher the stakes, the scarier the downfall. Perhaps it's scarier, this time, coming from what felt like rock bottom to me. August-February were the hardest months of my life. I don't think I have ever felt so many things at once, to such staggering extremes, for so long. It really was painful. My entire life changed. Now that things are evening out, I can breathe a sigh of relief, but also fear a return to the bottom. I don't want to go back. I don't want to feel hopeless like that again.
Positive changes, as of late: I met one of the most amazing men, and, oddly, he enjoys my company too. I'm not offering that as a happy ending, a Cinderella moment, but, as a happy beginning, as an acknowledgement that yes, fine, I will concede that not all humans are awful and that I want to be in close proximity to some of them. I welcome it. In other more life-changing, and I mean that, banter, I got a new job that pays, literally, twice what I made at my last job. This means paying all of the bills, and on time, and not having to sell my home, which was about to happen. It means keeping my dog, feeding him and myself, and having a little extra money to enjoy life too. I am sticking my toe in the water, trying new things. I'm smiling a lot.
I'm remembering that evening, five years ago, when I couldn't possibly imagine that five years from that very moment the high school boyfriend next to me would be my ex-husband; that my mother and I would actually have a relationship; that I would be a single woman who owns her own home in Chicago, filling it with books and dog hair and attempts at cooking. I couldn't imagine feeling the sadness I just overcame, nor the strange freedom and elation I feel now.
I would have been shocked to know what friends stuck with me through it all. People I would have guaranteed to have been there are not, and people who were mere acquaintances, or not even known to me yet, have carried me through. I blink. I stare. I blink again. Is this my life? Is this me? Is this the woman in her twenties, imagining the girl in her teens, who never could have imagined me?
I guess it is. Here I am.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
"And I know it's best that in this empty heart of mine is where I begin the movin' on..."
I feel like I can finally catch my breath.
The past eight months have been a blur of every imaginable emotion. I’ve exclaimed, during the same day, or perhaps even in the same hour-long period, that I’d never been happier, but also that I’d never been more lost. These things were both true.
I left a relationship I had been in for five and a half years. Sure, relative to my pending lifespan (fingers crossed, I suppose!), that is a blip on the radar. But at 23, it’s significant.
In the past eight months I have tried to make a marriage work, failed, sought a divorce; lost my in-laws, whom I loved more than I can ever convey; taken on a mortgage and bills on my own; started a new job; fallen in love, poured the entirety of myself into a relationship that was more about commensalism than mutualism, and then watched that relationship end in what can only be described as a spiraling mind fuck that left me sleeping abut two hours a night, not eating, and missing class and work. Over the course of the eight months, I’ve lost 22 pounds and while I’ve been healthier in the last month, still can’t seem to gain it back. I’ve listened to copious amounts of sad music, feeling sixteen again, lying in my bed crying, identifying with trite song lyrics. I’ve ignored my friends except for when I needed them and called them in hysterics.
I don’t like that person. I don’t. So I’m quitting that.
In February, I decided I’d had enough. One can only be sad for so long. One can only live dishonestly for so long. I thought I had learned, and heeded the lesson, back in August, but it has taken more heart breaking tutorials. I’ve observed who has stuck by me, who has listened to me cry about the same things time and again. Several people have driven to Chicago just to spend the night with me. As it turns out, my mother is incredible. These are things you miss when life is going your way. Friends are fun, mothers are obnoxious and overbearing.
Throw a divorce, a dysfunctional new relationship, and a loved one’s suicide attempt in the mix, and you understand what friends and family are really here for. It becomes real clear.
I feel myself bouncing back. With the spring, I am happier, I am smiling, I am laughing. I’m surrounding myself with positive people. I will finish applying to grad school, finish books I could never concentrate on, commit to laughing more than crying. I’m listening to more happy music. I’m seeing the light. I’m feeling the breeze.
I hope I can trust again, love again, and find myself again. I am laughing again, which is a good first step.
The past eight months have been a blur of every imaginable emotion. I’ve exclaimed, during the same day, or perhaps even in the same hour-long period, that I’d never been happier, but also that I’d never been more lost. These things were both true.
I left a relationship I had been in for five and a half years. Sure, relative to my pending lifespan (fingers crossed, I suppose!), that is a blip on the radar. But at 23, it’s significant.
In the past eight months I have tried to make a marriage work, failed, sought a divorce; lost my in-laws, whom I loved more than I can ever convey; taken on a mortgage and bills on my own; started a new job; fallen in love, poured the entirety of myself into a relationship that was more about commensalism than mutualism, and then watched that relationship end in what can only be described as a spiraling mind fuck that left me sleeping abut two hours a night, not eating, and missing class and work. Over the course of the eight months, I’ve lost 22 pounds and while I’ve been healthier in the last month, still can’t seem to gain it back. I’ve listened to copious amounts of sad music, feeling sixteen again, lying in my bed crying, identifying with trite song lyrics. I’ve ignored my friends except for when I needed them and called them in hysterics.
I don’t like that person. I don’t. So I’m quitting that.
In February, I decided I’d had enough. One can only be sad for so long. One can only live dishonestly for so long. I thought I had learned, and heeded the lesson, back in August, but it has taken more heart breaking tutorials. I’ve observed who has stuck by me, who has listened to me cry about the same things time and again. Several people have driven to Chicago just to spend the night with me. As it turns out, my mother is incredible. These are things you miss when life is going your way. Friends are fun, mothers are obnoxious and overbearing.
Throw a divorce, a dysfunctional new relationship, and a loved one’s suicide attempt in the mix, and you understand what friends and family are really here for. It becomes real clear.
I feel myself bouncing back. With the spring, I am happier, I am smiling, I am laughing. I’m surrounding myself with positive people. I will finish applying to grad school, finish books I could never concentrate on, commit to laughing more than crying. I’m listening to more happy music. I’m seeing the light. I’m feeling the breeze.
I hope I can trust again, love again, and find myself again. I am laughing again, which is a good first step.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
falling in love
I had a moment tonight when I fell in love, all over again, with my city, and my dog, and my life.
Really, perhaps, I was falling in love for the first time.
Life is so different now. Everything is different. It's funny; you change one component, albeit a rather significant one, and all the others seems to look different, feel different, smell different, sound different. Walking on the east side of Winthrop Avenue, my street, heading north, I passed the small playlot where David and I would take Jake to run off-leash the first winter after we had adopted him. It was cold and clear and snow was on the ground, on our boots, in Jakes paws. We laughed. David and I hadn't laughed or smiled like that for some time. Winter in Chicago wears on people, you know.
It was the winter, I always told myself. Or the summer, or the spring, or the autumn. It was always something.
He moved out three months ago. And this place looks so different. Thanks to two best friends who, in conjunction with their ability to listen to me cry on the phone at odd times of the night about the same thing I cried about the last time I called, are incredible artists. The condo feels like mine, and not ours. It helped me move on. They helped me move on.
I haven't written about this yet, really, because I don't believe in blogs being tools for unearthing thoughts, be they negative or positive, about others. My divorce, the end of my marriage, the end to six years with someone, is not anyone else's business. But I write. It's how I express myself best, it's how I deal with things. I am attempting, now, to deal.
Bear with me.
He did nothing wrong. I don't hate him. I love him. And for all the laughter and good memories and photos of us smiling... in Jamaica, Charleston, South Carolina, duckpin bowling, and, yes, of course, at our wedding... for all of those millions of moments that only we shared, or those that were captured on film... for all of those millions of moments there are millions of tears and millions of regrets and millions of moments when my breath catches and I know I'll never breathe again.
But then I do. And I'm not sure how or why.
But tonight after work I fell in love. It was late and my street was deserted. The street lights lit up the snow and the cars and Christmas trees, which usually make me sad, peered out at me in a friendly way from my neighbors windows. Jake skipped happily ahead of me at the end of the leash. My street wears winter well. It looks good covered in snow and ice. And as I passed the playlot I remembered laughing in the snow and taking photos of Jake doing just about everything those first few days, and I remembered sharing that with David. I remembered. And somehow I was still able to be happy, to smile, snow blowing in off the lake into my eyes and fogging up my glasses. I smiled at Jake and the thought of myself, alone.
I came home and cried all night. One should never rummage through forgotten drawers alone, especially when emotionally precarious. But I did, and I cried, and called in the aid of a good friend, yet again. And by the end of the night, too too late to be awake, I am alright again, and perhaps I can even fall in love again with this new life of mine. I don't think the occasional crying jag means that I can't. I think it means I am, for once, not the strong one, not the one others come to, but the one that needs her friends desperately. It's uncomfortable being that person suddenly. Perhaps this is part of my new life, and a facet of myself with which I must fall in love.
Really, perhaps, I was falling in love for the first time.
Life is so different now. Everything is different. It's funny; you change one component, albeit a rather significant one, and all the others seems to look different, feel different, smell different, sound different. Walking on the east side of Winthrop Avenue, my street, heading north, I passed the small playlot where David and I would take Jake to run off-leash the first winter after we had adopted him. It was cold and clear and snow was on the ground, on our boots, in Jakes paws. We laughed. David and I hadn't laughed or smiled like that for some time. Winter in Chicago wears on people, you know.
It was the winter, I always told myself. Or the summer, or the spring, or the autumn. It was always something.
He moved out three months ago. And this place looks so different. Thanks to two best friends who, in conjunction with their ability to listen to me cry on the phone at odd times of the night about the same thing I cried about the last time I called, are incredible artists. The condo feels like mine, and not ours. It helped me move on. They helped me move on.
I haven't written about this yet, really, because I don't believe in blogs being tools for unearthing thoughts, be they negative or positive, about others. My divorce, the end of my marriage, the end to six years with someone, is not anyone else's business. But I write. It's how I express myself best, it's how I deal with things. I am attempting, now, to deal.
Bear with me.
He did nothing wrong. I don't hate him. I love him. And for all the laughter and good memories and photos of us smiling... in Jamaica, Charleston, South Carolina, duckpin bowling, and, yes, of course, at our wedding... for all of those millions of moments that only we shared, or those that were captured on film... for all of those millions of moments there are millions of tears and millions of regrets and millions of moments when my breath catches and I know I'll never breathe again.
But then I do. And I'm not sure how or why.
But tonight after work I fell in love. It was late and my street was deserted. The street lights lit up the snow and the cars and Christmas trees, which usually make me sad, peered out at me in a friendly way from my neighbors windows. Jake skipped happily ahead of me at the end of the leash. My street wears winter well. It looks good covered in snow and ice. And as I passed the playlot I remembered laughing in the snow and taking photos of Jake doing just about everything those first few days, and I remembered sharing that with David. I remembered. And somehow I was still able to be happy, to smile, snow blowing in off the lake into my eyes and fogging up my glasses. I smiled at Jake and the thought of myself, alone.
I came home and cried all night. One should never rummage through forgotten drawers alone, especially when emotionally precarious. But I did, and I cried, and called in the aid of a good friend, yet again. And by the end of the night, too too late to be awake, I am alright again, and perhaps I can even fall in love again with this new life of mine. I don't think the occasional crying jag means that I can't. I think it means I am, for once, not the strong one, not the one others come to, but the one that needs her friends desperately. It's uncomfortable being that person suddenly. Perhaps this is part of my new life, and a facet of myself with which I must fall in love.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Sunbeam Mixmaster
My mother inherited
an old stand mixer.
The kind
that swirls
and grinds
and blends
seemingly unrelated matter into
warm scones and soda bread.
It was not her mother's
but my father's mother's---
it was white and black and chrome
and, aged at least 40 years it would still groan
churning
turning
on yet another kitchen countertop.
It is some nonspecific day
in the specific 1940s
and there is a war
and there are ration cards
and there is not enough to eat
when there was already not enough to eat since the 1920s
(before they stopped roaring).
My father has a number pinned inside his clothes.
If the Germans
or the Japanese
or the Italians
invade, this number will help account for my father.
All children have a number.
It is eerily similar to children
in concentration camps.
But instead of wooden, flea-infested bunks
no food
no clothes,
my father sleeps on a cleaner bed---
not clean, but cleaner, as clean as can be managed---
behind blackout curtains
his stomach is mostly quiet
and he has clothes. But they are embarrassing.
His mother spends hours
throwing things into pots and pans
and the mixer
and hoping that whatever comes of the blend
will be enough to feed her family.
She is glad for potatoes and their heartiness.
The mixer also cradles seaweeds,
sent to her illegally from Ireland
so she might make some sort of living.
She makes toothpaste and other apothecary items.
She is the midwife in their small New Jersey Irish community.
Balms and candles
soothing women as they bring another being
to soothe and number
into this unreal world.
I often wonder if my Irish Catholic grandmother
made abortifacients
not because she was "pro-choice"
but because she knew her world
and because she knew the hardships of relying on a
stand mixer
to pay the rent
to feed the children
to be.
It is a specific day in
a specific time
in a specific suburban kitchen of my youth.
1995. My first Communion.
My father is already dead
my mother is thinking about that today,
she wishes he could have seen this milestone
which makes me regretful now,
the adult atheist daughter,
that day meant so much to her.
We spent the morning baking.
The tradition in her family,
a cake shaped like a lamb,
is failing like my Catholicism eventually would.
The head falls off
we prop it up with tooth picks and
use icing as glue
and we try desperately to hide our
desperate efforts
which
of course
makes it look all the more desperate.
Yet this mixer has seen desperation before
and if it were to personify
would likely explain to my mother
myself, and my godmother
that desperation does not come on days
that also see expensive white dresses
clean, flowing curls on
little girls
and a buffet spread out on an oak dining table.
These are not desperate times.
I,
my grandmother's stand mixer would say,
have seen desperate times.
But this is me.
I am this queer amalgamation
of a desperate woman
grinding seaweed so she might buy clothes for her son
in which she will pin his identification number
in case evil men on another continent---
her home continent---
get it in their minds to blow his limbs across the Hudson;
I am also
of a desperate woman
grinding flour and eggs
grinding an axe,
as it were,
with her god.
"I am desperate. This is desperation,"
she might reply to the personified mixer.
"I have a little girl
who has no father.
I have love
and no lover.
Don't let the oak dining table
or the crisp white dress this May morning
fool you.
This is desperate."
The amalgamation,
Myself,
I sit in yet another specific time
and specifically recall the way
I came
to be,
through the women in my life.
And I think about the man
my father
who bridged the gap between those
differing desperations,
three women, all desperate
all tightly wound and all
regrets.
A stand mixer;
the common thread.
Maggie, desperate to make a living
Carol Ann, desperate to find a way to keep living
Mary-Margaret, desperate for that stand mixer that no longer works.
Finally.
After about a 50 year run.
And I am desperate to display it on a shelf
to tell it's story and be near it
to remember it in the well-appointed suburban homes of my youth
and to imagine it in the ascetic tenements of my father's youth
and to cling to it,
desperately,
as those who have touched it age
leave
and live only through
my poetic personifications.
an old stand mixer.
The kind
that swirls
and grinds
and blends
seemingly unrelated matter into
warm scones and soda bread.
It was not her mother's
but my father's mother's---
it was white and black and chrome
and, aged at least 40 years it would still groan
churning
turning
on yet another kitchen countertop.
It is some nonspecific day
in the specific 1940s
and there is a war
and there are ration cards
and there is not enough to eat
when there was already not enough to eat since the 1920s
(before they stopped roaring).
My father has a number pinned inside his clothes.
If the Germans
or the Japanese
or the Italians
invade, this number will help account for my father.
All children have a number.
It is eerily similar to children
in concentration camps.
But instead of wooden, flea-infested bunks
no food
no clothes,
my father sleeps on a cleaner bed---
not clean, but cleaner, as clean as can be managed---
behind blackout curtains
his stomach is mostly quiet
and he has clothes. But they are embarrassing.
His mother spends hours
throwing things into pots and pans
and the mixer
and hoping that whatever comes of the blend
will be enough to feed her family.
She is glad for potatoes and their heartiness.
The mixer also cradles seaweeds,
sent to her illegally from Ireland
so she might make some sort of living.
She makes toothpaste and other apothecary items.
She is the midwife in their small New Jersey Irish community.
Balms and candles
soothing women as they bring another being
to soothe and number
into this unreal world.
I often wonder if my Irish Catholic grandmother
made abortifacients
not because she was "pro-choice"
but because she knew her world
and because she knew the hardships of relying on a
stand mixer
to pay the rent
to feed the children
to be.
It is a specific day in
a specific time
in a specific suburban kitchen of my youth.
1995. My first Communion.
My father is already dead
my mother is thinking about that today,
she wishes he could have seen this milestone
which makes me regretful now,
the adult atheist daughter,
that day meant so much to her.
We spent the morning baking.
The tradition in her family,
a cake shaped like a lamb,
is failing like my Catholicism eventually would.
The head falls off
we prop it up with tooth picks and
use icing as glue
and we try desperately to hide our
desperate efforts
which
of course
makes it look all the more desperate.
Yet this mixer has seen desperation before
and if it were to personify
would likely explain to my mother
myself, and my godmother
that desperation does not come on days
that also see expensive white dresses
clean, flowing curls on
little girls
and a buffet spread out on an oak dining table.
These are not desperate times.
I,
my grandmother's stand mixer would say,
have seen desperate times.
But this is me.
I am this queer amalgamation
of a desperate woman
grinding seaweed so she might buy clothes for her son
in which she will pin his identification number
in case evil men on another continent---
her home continent---
get it in their minds to blow his limbs across the Hudson;
I am also
of a desperate woman
grinding flour and eggs
grinding an axe,
as it were,
with her god.
"I am desperate. This is desperation,"
she might reply to the personified mixer.
"I have a little girl
who has no father.
I have love
and no lover.
Don't let the oak dining table
or the crisp white dress this May morning
fool you.
This is desperate."
The amalgamation,
Myself,
I sit in yet another specific time
and specifically recall the way
I came
to be,
through the women in my life.
And I think about the man
my father
who bridged the gap between those
differing desperations,
three women, all desperate
all tightly wound and all
regrets.
A stand mixer;
the common thread.
Maggie, desperate to make a living
Carol Ann, desperate to find a way to keep living
Mary-Margaret, desperate for that stand mixer that no longer works.
Finally.
After about a 50 year run.
And I am desperate to display it on a shelf
to tell it's story and be near it
to remember it in the well-appointed suburban homes of my youth
and to imagine it in the ascetic tenements of my father's youth
and to cling to it,
desperately,
as those who have touched it age
leave
and live only through
my poetic personifications.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
A little slow on the uptake...
I love music. Admittedly, I don't know much about it, and don't know any new artists. At all. Since I don't own a car, I don't putter around town listening to the radio as I run errands. I know "modern" folks have these little boxes o' sound called MP3 players, and I have one that doesn't work too well from several years ago that I no longer use. If I wasn't going through a divorce and suddenly having to pay the mortgage all by myself, along with every other expense you don't realize you have until you examine them all, I'd probably by an iPod. But, alas.
I am proud to report though that I joined the modern people in some small sense yesterday. I bought something from iTunes for the first time! But don't get too excited... I bought an album from 2003 that I just discovered this week. Damien Rices "O." I LOVE it! Here is my favorite song. These lyrics kill me. KILL. ME.
"Cannonball"
There’s still a little bit of your taste in my mouth
There’s still a little bit of you laced with my doubt
It’s still a little hard to say what's going on
There’s still a little bit of your ghost your witness
There’s still a little bit of your face i haven't kissed
You step a little closer each day
That I can´t say what´s going on
Stones taught me to fly
Love, it taught me to lie
Life, it taught me to die
So it's not hard to fall
When you float like a cannonball
There’s still a little bit of your song in my ear
There’s still a little bit of your words i long to hear
You step a little closer to me
So close that I can´t see what´s going on
Stones taught me to fly
Love taught me to lie
Life taught me to die
So its not hard to fall
When you float like a cannon.
Stones taught me to fly
Love, it taught me to cry
So come on courage, teach me to be shy
'Cause its not hard to fall,
And I don't want to scare her
Its not hard to fall
And i don't want to lose
Its not hard to grow
When you know that you just don't know
I am proud to report though that I joined the modern people in some small sense yesterday. I bought something from iTunes for the first time! But don't get too excited... I bought an album from 2003 that I just discovered this week. Damien Rices "O." I LOVE it! Here is my favorite song. These lyrics kill me. KILL. ME.
"Cannonball"
There’s still a little bit of your taste in my mouth
There’s still a little bit of you laced with my doubt
It’s still a little hard to say what's going on
There’s still a little bit of your ghost your witness
There’s still a little bit of your face i haven't kissed
You step a little closer each day
That I can´t say what´s going on
Stones taught me to fly
Love, it taught me to lie
Life, it taught me to die
So it's not hard to fall
When you float like a cannonball
There’s still a little bit of your song in my ear
There’s still a little bit of your words i long to hear
You step a little closer to me
So close that I can´t see what´s going on
Stones taught me to fly
Love taught me to lie
Life taught me to die
So its not hard to fall
When you float like a cannon.
Stones taught me to fly
Love, it taught me to cry
So come on courage, teach me to be shy
'Cause its not hard to fall,
And I don't want to scare her
Its not hard to fall
And i don't want to lose
Its not hard to grow
When you know that you just don't know
Friday, September 11, 2009
"afraid"
In the spirit of my last post, I am going to do, or notice, something each day that I am afraid to do...and do it anyway. This could be fear, like being scared to be hurt, or fear of just failing.
Yesterday I went to the hardware store, picked out paint, carried it home, carried the ladder up from the basement, stood on a ladder and painted. I would usually rely on my S.O. for this. I couldn't. So I didn't. And I did just fine. I didn't fall off the ladder, die, only to be discovered 5 days later when a neighbor calls about a smell coming from upstairs. So that's good.
Today, I walked the dogs by myself at night.
Yesterday I went to the hardware store, picked out paint, carried it home, carried the ladder up from the basement, stood on a ladder and painted. I would usually rely on my S.O. for this. I couldn't. So I didn't. And I did just fine. I didn't fall off the ladder, die, only to be discovered 5 days later when a neighbor calls about a smell coming from upstairs. So that's good.
Today, I walked the dogs by myself at night.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Fear.
"As a girl, she dreamed about having a silent home, just to herself, the way other women dreamed of their weddings. Instead of collecting lace and linen for her trousseau, the young woman buys old things from the thrift stores on grimy Milwaukee Avenue for her future house-of-her-own---faded quilts, cracked vases, chipped saucers, lamps in need of love.
"...The daughter claimed that she had been taught that a writer needs quiet, privacy, and long stretches of solitude to think. The father decided too much college and too much gringo friends had ruined her. In a way he was right. In a way she was right. When she thinks to herself in her father's language, she knows sons and daughters don't leave their parents' house until they marry. When she thinks in English, she knows she should've been on her own since eighteen.
"...At the end of the evening she finds herself searching for a ride home. She came on the bus and [he] offers to give her a lift home. But she's not going home, she's got her heart set on a movie that's showing only tonight. She's afraid of going to the movies alone, and that's why she's decided to go. Because she's afraid.
"...What is the woman in the photograph afraid of? She's afraid of walking from her parked car to her apartment in the dark. She's afraid of the scuffling sounds in the walls. She's afraid she'll fall in love and get stuck living in Chicago. She's afraid of ghosts, deep water, rodents, night, things that move too fast---cars, airplanes, her life. She's afraid she'll have to move back home again if she isn't brave enough to live alone.
"...I meet Norma Alarcon. She is to become one of my earliest publishers and my lifetime friend. The first time she walks through the rooms of [my] apartment on North Paulina, she notices the quiet rooms, the collection of typewriters, the books and Japanese figurines, the windows with the view of freeway and sky. She walks as if on tiptoe, peering into every room, even the pantry and closet as if looking for something. 'You live here...' she asks, 'alone?'
'Yes.'
'So...' she pauses, 'How did yo do it?'
Norma, I did it by doing the things I was afraid of doing so that I would no longer be afraid. Moving away to go to graduate school. Traveling abroad alone. Earning my own money and living by myself. Posing as an author when I was afraid, just as I posed in that photo you used on the first cover of Third Woman. "
---Sandra Cisneros, from the introduction to the 25th Anniversary edition of her book, The House on Mango Street.
"...The daughter claimed that she had been taught that a writer needs quiet, privacy, and long stretches of solitude to think. The father decided too much college and too much gringo friends had ruined her. In a way he was right. In a way she was right. When she thinks to herself in her father's language, she knows sons and daughters don't leave their parents' house until they marry. When she thinks in English, she knows she should've been on her own since eighteen.
"...At the end of the evening she finds herself searching for a ride home. She came on the bus and [he] offers to give her a lift home. But she's not going home, she's got her heart set on a movie that's showing only tonight. She's afraid of going to the movies alone, and that's why she's decided to go. Because she's afraid.
"...What is the woman in the photograph afraid of? She's afraid of walking from her parked car to her apartment in the dark. She's afraid of the scuffling sounds in the walls. She's afraid she'll fall in love and get stuck living in Chicago. She's afraid of ghosts, deep water, rodents, night, things that move too fast---cars, airplanes, her life. She's afraid she'll have to move back home again if she isn't brave enough to live alone.
"...I meet Norma Alarcon. She is to become one of my earliest publishers and my lifetime friend. The first time she walks through the rooms of [my] apartment on North Paulina, she notices the quiet rooms, the collection of typewriters, the books and Japanese figurines, the windows with the view of freeway and sky. She walks as if on tiptoe, peering into every room, even the pantry and closet as if looking for something. 'You live here...' she asks, 'alone?'
'Yes.'
'So...' she pauses, 'How did yo do it?'
Norma, I did it by doing the things I was afraid of doing so that I would no longer be afraid. Moving away to go to graduate school. Traveling abroad alone. Earning my own money and living by myself. Posing as an author when I was afraid, just as I posed in that photo you used on the first cover of Third Woman. "
---Sandra Cisneros, from the introduction to the 25th Anniversary edition of her book, The House on Mango Street.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
700 W. Bittersweet Place
Buxom sunflowers
and
nervous black-eyes susans:
the nursing mother
and
the sweet clumsy virgin.
Perhaps I am both on days like today
---all teacher,
and,
all protege.
But what woman is not possessive
of both
swelled breasts of dependence
and
tightly wound flesh untouched?
So,
we proceed.
I
am both
the abject,
the never-enough.
Yet here perfection is achieved
In submission to learned August rain.
and
nervous black-eyes susans:
the nursing mother
and
the sweet clumsy virgin.
Perhaps I am both on days like today
---all teacher,
and,
all protege.
But what woman is not possessive
of both
swelled breasts of dependence
and
tightly wound flesh untouched?
So,
we proceed.
I
am both
the abject,
the never-enough.
Yet here perfection is achieved
In submission to learned August rain.
Friday, August 14, 2009
23rd Street Runs into Heaven
By Kenneth Patchen
You stand near the window as lights wink
On along the street. Somewhere a trolley, taking
Shop-girls and clerks home, clatters through
This before-supper Sabbath. An alley cat cries
To find the garbage cans sealed; newsboys
Begin their murder-into-pennies round.
We are shut in, secure for a little, safe until
Tomorrow. You slip your dress off, roll down
Your stockings, careful against runs. Naked now,
With soft light on soft flesh, you pause
For a moment; turn and face me -
Smile in a way that only women know
Who have lain long with their lover
And are made more virginal.
Our supper is plain but we are very wonderful.
You stand near the window as lights wink
On along the street. Somewhere a trolley, taking
Shop-girls and clerks home, clatters through
This before-supper Sabbath. An alley cat cries
To find the garbage cans sealed; newsboys
Begin their murder-into-pennies round.
We are shut in, secure for a little, safe until
Tomorrow. You slip your dress off, roll down
Your stockings, careful against runs. Naked now,
With soft light on soft flesh, you pause
For a moment; turn and face me -
Smile in a way that only women know
Who have lain long with their lover
And are made more virginal.
Our supper is plain but we are very wonderful.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Today was the most amazing day. It started out with me sick in bed, coughing so hard that my sides hurt, my brain hurt, and the dogs weren't even willing to share a sleeping space with me. All in all, disgusting.
But then I started cleaning, and feeling a little better. I still made it to the show tonight, Spring Awakening. It's been a long time since I've seen live theatre, especially a musical. And, for a musical, it was good. It was just nice to be out and about, a night on the town. All by myself.
When I got home, I had a mountain of packages waiting for me. Most of them were books for the semester and, finally, my dream came true! One of the used books I bought was an old library book! The musty, ragged cover, the card pocket still inside.
I am a whore for old, creaky bindings and pages scented with the kiss of other books and fingers.
One package was from a catalogue. I ordered a hilarious tshirt, and two pairs of pants... THAT FIT REALLY WELL! This never happens.
Okay. The pants were vain. But seriously, 5'2" biatches around the world will allow me this. It is damn hard to find pants that fit when you're the height of a middle schooler with the hips and ass of a normal woman.
But then I started cleaning, and feeling a little better. I still made it to the show tonight, Spring Awakening. It's been a long time since I've seen live theatre, especially a musical. And, for a musical, it was good. It was just nice to be out and about, a night on the town. All by myself.
When I got home, I had a mountain of packages waiting for me. Most of them were books for the semester and, finally, my dream came true! One of the used books I bought was an old library book! The musty, ragged cover, the card pocket still inside.
I am a whore for old, creaky bindings and pages scented with the kiss of other books and fingers.
One package was from a catalogue. I ordered a hilarious tshirt, and two pairs of pants... THAT FIT REALLY WELL! This never happens.
Okay. The pants were vain. But seriously, 5'2" biatches around the world will allow me this. It is damn hard to find pants that fit when you're the height of a middle schooler with the hips and ass of a normal woman.
Monday, August 10, 2009
"Wild Things in Captivity" (D.H. Lawrence)
Wild things in captivity
while they keep their own wild purity
won't breed, they mope, they die.
All men are in captivity,
Active with captive activity,
and the best won't breed, though they don't know why.
The great cage of our domesticity
kills sex in a man, the simplicity
of desire is distorted and twisted awry.
And so, with bitter perversity,
gritting against the great adversity,
the young ones copulate, hate it, anf want to cry.
Sex is a state of grace.
In a cage it can't take place.
Break the cage then, start in and try.
while they keep their own wild purity
won't breed, they mope, they die.
All men are in captivity,
Active with captive activity,
and the best won't breed, though they don't know why.
The great cage of our domesticity
kills sex in a man, the simplicity
of desire is distorted and twisted awry.
And so, with bitter perversity,
gritting against the great adversity,
the young ones copulate, hate it, anf want to cry.
Sex is a state of grace.
In a cage it can't take place.
Break the cage then, start in and try.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
"Hey little freak with the lunch pail purse/Underneath the paint you're just a little girl" --Tom Petty and the Hearbreakers, "Zombie Zoo"
I cleaned my bookshelf today. It was a general reorganization, dusting, and reevaluation of the books I wanted to keep and those I could muster the strength to part with.
Name a point in my life. A momentous occasion of considerable import, or a random Tuesday in 1998. I can probably tell you what book I was reading. I associate times in my life with what I was reading during that time. I held A Tree Grows in Brooklyn a little longer than the rest of the books as I dusted, remembering the ten consecutive years I have read and re-read it. I passed off Fear of Falling as quickly as possible, because it was the book I was reading when attacked on a bus in 2008. When I had finally worked my way down to the most neglected and chaotic mess, the bottom shelf of old theatre books and scripts, I found a book so special that I felt compelled to share it.
This is a notebook I bought in Broad Ripple (an area on the north side of Indianapolis, that used to be cool and funky). It was from a store that smelled strongly of Patchouli, and they sold long, flowy skirts, candles, and things made out of recycled items. I bought this notebook there to hold my acting notes; things I learned in Saturday morning classes, things directors said that struck me, and quotes from acting teachers and actors I read.
Relatively few pages are filled. But, looking back, I think that was because most of what I learned doing theatre was not in the form of a bulleted point or quick note to jot down. It was more than that. However, coming across this notebook today, turning its crispy, delicate pages, I began remembering the passion, love, and joy that theatre gave me. The alacrity with which I approached it.
A list of "dream roles." I played one, Anne Frank, in 2002.
My loopy handwriting and address, in case I ever left it in some coffeeshop after finishing my Mocha, my drink of choice in my early teens before real coffee sounded appealing.
When I first moved to Chicago at 18, I remember mourning the loss of the theatre community, the creative outlet, and so many other things about it. It had been my life. I wondered if I'd ever feel that way about anything again.
Today was the first time that I've encountered one of these nostalgic moments and was able to think, Yes, I do love something as much as I loved this. And that made me feel content and excited.
Name a point in my life. A momentous occasion of considerable import, or a random Tuesday in 1998. I can probably tell you what book I was reading. I associate times in my life with what I was reading during that time. I held A Tree Grows in Brooklyn a little longer than the rest of the books as I dusted, remembering the ten consecutive years I have read and re-read it. I passed off Fear of Falling as quickly as possible, because it was the book I was reading when attacked on a bus in 2008. When I had finally worked my way down to the most neglected and chaotic mess, the bottom shelf of old theatre books and scripts, I found a book so special that I felt compelled to share it.
This is a notebook I bought in Broad Ripple (an area on the north side of Indianapolis, that used to be cool and funky). It was from a store that smelled strongly of Patchouli, and they sold long, flowy skirts, candles, and things made out of recycled items. I bought this notebook there to hold my acting notes; things I learned in Saturday morning classes, things directors said that struck me, and quotes from acting teachers and actors I read.
Relatively few pages are filled. But, looking back, I think that was because most of what I learned doing theatre was not in the form of a bulleted point or quick note to jot down. It was more than that. However, coming across this notebook today, turning its crispy, delicate pages, I began remembering the passion, love, and joy that theatre gave me. The alacrity with which I approached it.
A list of "dream roles." I played one, Anne Frank, in 2002.
My loopy handwriting and address, in case I ever left it in some coffeeshop after finishing my Mocha, my drink of choice in my early teens before real coffee sounded appealing.
When I first moved to Chicago at 18, I remember mourning the loss of the theatre community, the creative outlet, and so many other things about it. It had been my life. I wondered if I'd ever feel that way about anything again.
Today was the first time that I've encountered one of these nostalgic moments and was able to think, Yes, I do love something as much as I loved this. And that made me feel content and excited.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Stirring my oatmeal, the smells hit my nostrils and suddenly I am not here, but there, living on the south side, downtown, the South Loop. It is 2005. I am new. I am not at home, yet I feel more comfortable than I have in... years? Months? Ever?
I always get sentimental this time of year. Kids are graduating, others are closing another year, gearing up for the next. Some people are moving. Lots of people are getting married. Summer promises a lot, it seems. And I can't help but think about the promise of summer 2005, for me. Eighteen years old, headstrong, stubborn. I left Indianapolis, the only home I could remember, and the friends and streets and mochas and rebellions that made up my teenage years. In my head I had created a life for myself in Chicago. it was going to be fabulous.
Four years later... and it seems so much longer. And, finally, I feel fabulous. My life is completely different than I thought it would be. For the better, I will add. I would be miserable leading the life that eighteen year old had planned. But tonight, I am sentimental. For a late night snack, I chose a packet of instant oatmeal, Cinnamon Bun flavor. As I stirred the hot oats and water, I remembered eating the stuff every morning before walking uptown to my retail job off Michigan Avenue. In an instant I saw that first apartment, too expensive but too cute, a great first Chicago apartment, with its sideways view of the Sears Tower, its walking distance to both the Art Institute and the largest homeless shelter in the city. A far cry from the suburb I had been raised in. I heard the creaking utility closet door, the cat running past it to use the litter box. I heard the calm quiet of downtown weekend morning, all of the business suits slung over backs of chairs until Monday.
All that from some hot cereal.
I always get sentimental this time of year. Kids are graduating, others are closing another year, gearing up for the next. Some people are moving. Lots of people are getting married. Summer promises a lot, it seems. And I can't help but think about the promise of summer 2005, for me. Eighteen years old, headstrong, stubborn. I left Indianapolis, the only home I could remember, and the friends and streets and mochas and rebellions that made up my teenage years. In my head I had created a life for myself in Chicago. it was going to be fabulous.
Four years later... and it seems so much longer. And, finally, I feel fabulous. My life is completely different than I thought it would be. For the better, I will add. I would be miserable leading the life that eighteen year old had planned. But tonight, I am sentimental. For a late night snack, I chose a packet of instant oatmeal, Cinnamon Bun flavor. As I stirred the hot oats and water, I remembered eating the stuff every morning before walking uptown to my retail job off Michigan Avenue. In an instant I saw that first apartment, too expensive but too cute, a great first Chicago apartment, with its sideways view of the Sears Tower, its walking distance to both the Art Institute and the largest homeless shelter in the city. A far cry from the suburb I had been raised in. I heard the creaking utility closet door, the cat running past it to use the litter box. I heard the calm quiet of downtown weekend morning, all of the business suits slung over backs of chairs until Monday.
All that from some hot cereal.
Friday, December 26, 2008
I've been thinking about so much lately, and perhaps that is why I haven't written. It's not a lack of words I have but a plethora that is the problem, this time around. And still, the words twist around themselves inside of me, trying to make their way out into the world, but they become ensnarled in one another.
Life is beautiful and hopeful and shiny and new and old and comfy, too. This is a good mix, I think.
We didn't travel to Indy for the holidays, but stayed home. This was partly because David couldn't get off work (food service+holidays+new guy at work=no way), but also because we couldn't afford it really. And, David needed to save all of his paid leave for our vacation in early January. Some family members understood this, and other did not. It was evident from their phone calls on Thanksgiving and Christmas that they felt sorry for us, like whatever we were doing was obviously second best to being in Indiana. Sure, we would have loved to have seen Madelyn on her first Christmas... but, we will see them in a week or so. And, we were with our Chicago family, Jay and Dwayne. We laughed and ate and sang and had a great time. I was home for the holidays.
The longer I am here, the harder it is to imagine leaving.
The way the leaves stain the sidewalks after a good rain...all browns and green and yellows. The way the dog walkers all know one another, the only crazy people out in every weather imaginable, watching our dogs circle for that perfect place to make a deposit. The roar of the 'el out our window. The mix (and clash) of cultures on every block. The die-hard Cubs and Sox fans. Tiny neighborhood businesses. This is Chicago. And everyday it becomes more like home to me. It becomes harder to convince myself that this isn't where my life is, this is only life for the time being. I begin to see my future here. And I don't know what that means.
Christmas yesterday. How strange. All of this build-up, planning, gift buying... and I'm not even Christian. I feel so strange on Christmas day. Yesterday went from stange to sad though. Our closest friends up here, my "two gay dads" Jay and Dwayne, had to put their 16 year old dog down on fucking Christmas night. I know. Awful. Every few hours during Christmas, the vet would call with an update. They became grimmer as the day went on. Late last night they took a cab over to the vet hospital and made their decision.
It made us so... aware. Aware of how much we love our dogs, how lost we'd feel without the sound of their tags jingling, their snowy salty paw prints on our hardwood floors. It reminded us that while Jake is only 3 and Lucy only 1, we will someday have to make the same decisions. It was a hard night. They had no idea why they had lucked out, but they slept with us last night, because we just wanted to be near them. Imagine, two grown people and two grown pit bull in a full-size bed.
The sidewalks are ice rinks that are slowly melting to puddles. In 11 days I'll be drinking pina coladas on a cruise ship.
Strange.
Life is beautiful and hopeful and shiny and new and old and comfy, too. This is a good mix, I think.
We didn't travel to Indy for the holidays, but stayed home. This was partly because David couldn't get off work (food service+holidays+new guy at work=no way), but also because we couldn't afford it really. And, David needed to save all of his paid leave for our vacation in early January. Some family members understood this, and other did not. It was evident from their phone calls on Thanksgiving and Christmas that they felt sorry for us, like whatever we were doing was obviously second best to being in Indiana. Sure, we would have loved to have seen Madelyn on her first Christmas... but, we will see them in a week or so. And, we were with our Chicago family, Jay and Dwayne. We laughed and ate and sang and had a great time. I was home for the holidays.
The longer I am here, the harder it is to imagine leaving.
The way the leaves stain the sidewalks after a good rain...all browns and green and yellows. The way the dog walkers all know one another, the only crazy people out in every weather imaginable, watching our dogs circle for that perfect place to make a deposit. The roar of the 'el out our window. The mix (and clash) of cultures on every block. The die-hard Cubs and Sox fans. Tiny neighborhood businesses. This is Chicago. And everyday it becomes more like home to me. It becomes harder to convince myself that this isn't where my life is, this is only life for the time being. I begin to see my future here. And I don't know what that means.
Christmas yesterday. How strange. All of this build-up, planning, gift buying... and I'm not even Christian. I feel so strange on Christmas day. Yesterday went from stange to sad though. Our closest friends up here, my "two gay dads" Jay and Dwayne, had to put their 16 year old dog down on fucking Christmas night. I know. Awful. Every few hours during Christmas, the vet would call with an update. They became grimmer as the day went on. Late last night they took a cab over to the vet hospital and made their decision.
It made us so... aware. Aware of how much we love our dogs, how lost we'd feel without the sound of their tags jingling, their snowy salty paw prints on our hardwood floors. It reminded us that while Jake is only 3 and Lucy only 1, we will someday have to make the same decisions. It was a hard night. They had no idea why they had lucked out, but they slept with us last night, because we just wanted to be near them. Imagine, two grown people and two grown pit bull in a full-size bed.
The sidewalks are ice rinks that are slowly melting to puddles. In 11 days I'll be drinking pina coladas on a cruise ship.
Strange.
Friday, September 19, 2008
I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a feminist. I am consistently at a loss for articulate words and phrases when someone asks, "What is a feminist?" Allow me to defend my apparent stupidity by saying that gender studies, women's studies, and feminist studies scholars devote semester-long classes to this concept, books, articles, and an inordinate amount of hours, to this concept. We, as feminists, are constantly trying to figure out the definition. So it's challenging to articulate.
The closest thing I can compare it to, because it's an easy point of reference for a lot of people, is claiming identity as a Christian, or under any other religious doctrine for that matter.
As a Christian, you believe in a few core things. So do feminists. For Christians, when asked what a Christian is... can you imagine that range of answers, depending on the denomination, age, location, and world view of each person? It's sort of the same thing for feminism. But, I assume all Christians believe that Jesus died for them, on a cross, to save people from their sins. I assume that all feminists would say that women are oppressed, and that feminism works to end that, or save us from that, to neatly tie the two subjects together.
What I've been struggling with though is not just the definition, but what it means when I call myself a feminist. What does that actual act of claiming a feminist identity mean?
Have you ever seen those people outside military funerals, or any time a new state legalizes marriage equality? At Pride Parades? They have colorful signs that say, "God Hates Fags" or "Thank God for AIDS"? There are other really charming sentiments as well, but you get the idea. Now, the man who runs this campaign, Fred Phelps, is a Christian pastor. He and his church (Westboro Baptist Church, whose website address is actually GodHatesFags.com) claim a Christian identity. They are Christians. They stand outside military funerals, and protests the inclusion of gays and lesbians in the military (though I'd like to explain the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy to him, because I believe it's closer to his ignorant beliefs that he thinks!). Even if the service person killed is not gay, he takes it upon himself to demonstrate. He demonstrated outside of Matthew Shepard's funeral, the victim of a brutal anti-gay hate crime in Laramie, WY in 1998. He now protests productions of the play, The Laramie Project, too.
From talking to my Christian friends and family, I know that this is not the prevailing attitude of Christians. Yet, Fred Phelps and his church claim that identity. And, shouldn't they? They believe in the life and death of Christ, and agree with other Christians that it means salvation from sin.
So what is a feminist? The word has become so loaded, a caricature of it's real meaning, over the years. To pervert it makes it really easy to dismiss it. "Embrace feminism in policy and lawmaking? But they're a bunch of man-hating lesbians! We can't do that!" See? Easy. But what if people knew what feminism really was, a quest for equality between the sexes? That's harder to discount, because, ladies and gentleman, that would be called discrimination.
But, just like Fred Phelps the Christian, there are questionable people claiming a feminist identity. The media refers to Sarah Palin as a feminist, yet she supports the idea of women in Alaska paying for their own rape kits. Most feminists would agree that making sexual assault harder to report, investigate, and recover from is very anti-feminist. But then, she must have some faith in the notion of gender equality, if she has propelled herself to high-ranking positions like mayor and governor. Someone who believes women have no place in politics or the professional sphere wouldn't be there. So is she a feminist?
We had a discussion in my transnational feminisms class the other day about defining feminism, shared a moral crisis (Oh shit! Do we have to claim Palin as a feminist?! Shit shit shit!), and wondered who the hell we were to define feminism. Then, we discussed a piece of feminist thought that changes me every time I read it.
bell hooks. She is awesome. We discussed her piece exploring the concept of "I am a feminist" vs. "I advocate feminism." My mind, it was like it just cleared. Some stopper had been removed, and the revelations flowed. By calling oneself something, one is essentially defining it by their own being. Fred Phelps defines Christianity for some people. Those people learn to define Christianity as hate-mongering ignorance. When the media propels this notion of Palin as feminist, feminism could be portrayed as all the very traditionally un-feminist things she stands for. Especially with feminism, which is so misunderstood, we don't need these random labels and definitions applied to us.
Claiming an identity is empowering. Calling yourself a feminist, making yourself part of that movement, that realm of thought and possibility... enchanting. But what if we all started to say, "I advocate feminism"?? Essentially, "I advocate for the rights of women"? That has a different meaning.
It also makes us more proactive, I think. I call myself a feminist, but what do I do about it, besides call myself that? Do I volunteer with any women-centered organization? Do I seek the best pro-woman candidate, talk to others about voting for that person, donate to their campaign? Do I keep myself aware of issues affecting women and talk to others about them? Am I BEING a good feminist? So often, the VERB gets lost when claiming an identity. When we say, as bell hooks, that we ADVOCATE something... that requires more work and commitment.
To be a "good" Christian, however that is defined, takes a lot of work I assume. So does feminism. And my challenge to myself, and to all my feminist allies, is to remember the verbs behind our identity. What are we DOING, aside from claiming a word as our identity? What definition of feminism are we creating? How can we better at both?
The closest thing I can compare it to, because it's an easy point of reference for a lot of people, is claiming identity as a Christian, or under any other religious doctrine for that matter.
As a Christian, you believe in a few core things. So do feminists. For Christians, when asked what a Christian is... can you imagine that range of answers, depending on the denomination, age, location, and world view of each person? It's sort of the same thing for feminism. But, I assume all Christians believe that Jesus died for them, on a cross, to save people from their sins. I assume that all feminists would say that women are oppressed, and that feminism works to end that, or save us from that, to neatly tie the two subjects together.
What I've been struggling with though is not just the definition, but what it means when I call myself a feminist. What does that actual act of claiming a feminist identity mean?
Have you ever seen those people outside military funerals, or any time a new state legalizes marriage equality? At Pride Parades? They have colorful signs that say, "God Hates Fags" or "Thank God for AIDS"? There are other really charming sentiments as well, but you get the idea. Now, the man who runs this campaign, Fred Phelps, is a Christian pastor. He and his church (Westboro Baptist Church, whose website address is actually GodHatesFags.com) claim a Christian identity. They are Christians. They stand outside military funerals, and protests the inclusion of gays and lesbians in the military (though I'd like to explain the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy to him, because I believe it's closer to his ignorant beliefs that he thinks!). Even if the service person killed is not gay, he takes it upon himself to demonstrate. He demonstrated outside of Matthew Shepard's funeral, the victim of a brutal anti-gay hate crime in Laramie, WY in 1998. He now protests productions of the play, The Laramie Project, too.
From talking to my Christian friends and family, I know that this is not the prevailing attitude of Christians. Yet, Fred Phelps and his church claim that identity. And, shouldn't they? They believe in the life and death of Christ, and agree with other Christians that it means salvation from sin.
So what is a feminist? The word has become so loaded, a caricature of it's real meaning, over the years. To pervert it makes it really easy to dismiss it. "Embrace feminism in policy and lawmaking? But they're a bunch of man-hating lesbians! We can't do that!" See? Easy. But what if people knew what feminism really was, a quest for equality between the sexes? That's harder to discount, because, ladies and gentleman, that would be called discrimination.
But, just like Fred Phelps the Christian, there are questionable people claiming a feminist identity. The media refers to Sarah Palin as a feminist, yet she supports the idea of women in Alaska paying for their own rape kits. Most feminists would agree that making sexual assault harder to report, investigate, and recover from is very anti-feminist. But then, she must have some faith in the notion of gender equality, if she has propelled herself to high-ranking positions like mayor and governor. Someone who believes women have no place in politics or the professional sphere wouldn't be there. So is she a feminist?
We had a discussion in my transnational feminisms class the other day about defining feminism, shared a moral crisis (Oh shit! Do we have to claim Palin as a feminist?! Shit shit shit!), and wondered who the hell we were to define feminism. Then, we discussed a piece of feminist thought that changes me every time I read it.
bell hooks. She is awesome. We discussed her piece exploring the concept of "I am a feminist" vs. "I advocate feminism." My mind, it was like it just cleared. Some stopper had been removed, and the revelations flowed. By calling oneself something, one is essentially defining it by their own being. Fred Phelps defines Christianity for some people. Those people learn to define Christianity as hate-mongering ignorance. When the media propels this notion of Palin as feminist, feminism could be portrayed as all the very traditionally un-feminist things she stands for. Especially with feminism, which is so misunderstood, we don't need these random labels and definitions applied to us.
Claiming an identity is empowering. Calling yourself a feminist, making yourself part of that movement, that realm of thought and possibility... enchanting. But what if we all started to say, "I advocate feminism"?? Essentially, "I advocate for the rights of women"? That has a different meaning.
It also makes us more proactive, I think. I call myself a feminist, but what do I do about it, besides call myself that? Do I volunteer with any women-centered organization? Do I seek the best pro-woman candidate, talk to others about voting for that person, donate to their campaign? Do I keep myself aware of issues affecting women and talk to others about them? Am I BEING a good feminist? So often, the VERB gets lost when claiming an identity. When we say, as bell hooks, that we ADVOCATE something... that requires more work and commitment.
To be a "good" Christian, however that is defined, takes a lot of work I assume. So does feminism. And my challenge to myself, and to all my feminist allies, is to remember the verbs behind our identity. What are we DOING, aside from claiming a word as our identity? What definition of feminism are we creating? How can we better at both?
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Flamingo Fetus
When I sleep, it tends to be in one of two positions: curled up in the middle of the bed in a fetal position, or on my stomach with one leg stretched out and the other bent up so that my left foot is touching the right knee. Like a flamingo stands.
I was thinking about this last night as I tried to fall asleep. What makes some people find these positions? Why do I sleep like an idling flamingo or a floating pre-human? In my almost-sleep, I contemplated the nature of both stances, both beings, both concepts. Both flamingos and fetuses live in, I would guess, relatively warm, moist, places. I mean, I've been to both. Florida and the womb, I mean. I remember Florida slightly more vividly than the womb, but I tend to think of Florida as only DIsney World, thus what my brain lets me recall from my experiences there is generally inconsequential. I try to block things like Disney World out. And yet, I'll probably go again one day when my niece is old enough to appreciate it, yet young enough to miss the creep factor. Or, if Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers ever do another hometown tour in Gainesville when I have money.
The womb, where, actually, my niece is now, seems like a great place. I really wish I could remember the womb. Floating around, not even having to breathe for myself. That's the life. Or maybe it's stressful. I don't know. I was, you know, working. I was making myself into a human. All I know is that it must have been pretty jarring to leave that little cocoon and be thrust into a blinding hospital operating room, doctors trying to free me from the cord wrapped around my neck. Whoa, sailor!, I must have thought. Quit smackin' my ass, you have to buy me dinner first! I don't just cry for anybody!
Thank Dog he or she was persistent though. Otherwise I would not have begun breathing, which means I still wouldn't be breathing, which means I'd be dead. I wouldn't be writing this, and I surely wouldn't have ever developed my avian nocturnal stance. Or anything else for that matter. And when I'm really pressed to make a decision, I think I might have to say that the flamingo way of sleep has got to be my favorite. It takes up less room I think, which probably makes David happy. It probably promotes better posture. And, who knows, maybe I look sexy with my one leg all flexed like a graceful dancer. A flamenco dancer, perhaps.
My mom still talks about our trip to Spain and reminds me of the night I got drunk watching the "Flamingo" dancers.
I think flamingos, or flamenco dancers, are way sexier than fetuses. More graceful. More mature. More worldly. Pinker.
I was thinking about this last night as I tried to fall asleep. What makes some people find these positions? Why do I sleep like an idling flamingo or a floating pre-human? In my almost-sleep, I contemplated the nature of both stances, both beings, both concepts. Both flamingos and fetuses live in, I would guess, relatively warm, moist, places. I mean, I've been to both. Florida and the womb, I mean. I remember Florida slightly more vividly than the womb, but I tend to think of Florida as only DIsney World, thus what my brain lets me recall from my experiences there is generally inconsequential. I try to block things like Disney World out. And yet, I'll probably go again one day when my niece is old enough to appreciate it, yet young enough to miss the creep factor. Or, if Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers ever do another hometown tour in Gainesville when I have money.
The womb, where, actually, my niece is now, seems like a great place. I really wish I could remember the womb. Floating around, not even having to breathe for myself. That's the life. Or maybe it's stressful. I don't know. I was, you know, working. I was making myself into a human. All I know is that it must have been pretty jarring to leave that little cocoon and be thrust into a blinding hospital operating room, doctors trying to free me from the cord wrapped around my neck. Whoa, sailor!, I must have thought. Quit smackin' my ass, you have to buy me dinner first! I don't just cry for anybody!
Thank Dog he or she was persistent though. Otherwise I would not have begun breathing, which means I still wouldn't be breathing, which means I'd be dead. I wouldn't be writing this, and I surely wouldn't have ever developed my avian nocturnal stance. Or anything else for that matter. And when I'm really pressed to make a decision, I think I might have to say that the flamingo way of sleep has got to be my favorite. It takes up less room I think, which probably makes David happy. It probably promotes better posture. And, who knows, maybe I look sexy with my one leg all flexed like a graceful dancer. A flamenco dancer, perhaps.
My mom still talks about our trip to Spain and reminds me of the night I got drunk watching the "Flamingo" dancers.
I think flamingos, or flamenco dancers, are way sexier than fetuses. More graceful. More mature. More worldly. Pinker.
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