Because I spent the weekend painting my kitchen and foyer (that's fowh-yay although it really shouldn't be because split-level rentals don't have those but a kitchen is still a kit-chen no matter the design of the house), I am now behind in reading. I don't regret it. Much. Aesthetics are important. If aesthetically pleasing to me, I can study better. I will be a better mother. Especially in the fowh-yay will my reading and mothering flourish. In the kitchen, the food will gather outside of the pantry and refrigerator and assemble into consumable parties.
Friday I took my van back to the service station that inspected it for The State of Missouri. The rear wiper (ummm) wasn't doing its job and apparently a license plate bulb was out, as in hanging out. While those two very important issues were being addressed, the Belarus station owner told me how lazy American women are ("Excuse me. I am sure you are exception.") and how he was so happy his son married someone not-American. She works and cleans the house and cooks beets and cabbage. I want to ask what his son does when he's not working, but from the corner of my eye I can see my van through the window in the door between the office and the garage. I brought a book this time so he would only look at me from the corners of his very blue eyes instead of the front of them. Because I was obviously not a lazy American woman, he was happy to fix the things (he unfixed last time) for free. I thanked him and drove home to take a nap in which I dreamt that his not-American daughter-in-law came to my American house and cooked beets and cabbage into a bloody green soup. Sometimes I awaken happy it was a dream.
Jocelyn once said to me, "What if words are in your blood and you just have to write?" I immediately envisioned single letters, morphemes, phonemes moving through my veins like superhighways, stopping occasionally at dictionary and thesaurus toll booths, and if travelling in large groups, a full investigation by Harmon and Holman for authentic classification. But maybe there are no rules and the words are just there in all the languages of my genetic contributors and the confusion and osmotic struggle of translation?
The fowh-yay I painted the color called "parchment." The faux finish is named "candlelight." In differing light, it shimmers. When wet it smells like dog shit. I hope it dries soon.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Dona Nobis Pacem
My mac mail application has been importing everything from my gmail account. I've watched the past four years fly by me in acronyms: Fwd: Re: attachments: It has made me sometimes smile, sometimes bite my lower lip, sometimes power another glass. I found things I had written from the defunct blog from long ago, papers I had emailed to profs, long lost mp3s (thanks, Andy), well-wishes from acquaintances, a few spam messages that promised me a "longer member" and "immediate disbursement of funds." It has been powerful enough to magically open a bottle of Rosenblum Syrah (not the promised longer member). Add Chiara Civello and I am melancholically contemplative. I sometimes loathe responsibility. I want one more glass. It's no longer the taste, the lovely color of the wine I want, I just want to prolong the effect. Responsibility tells me: "Drink water, take a vitamin and some ibuprofen, go to bed; you have to be up with children tomorrow, read for class." Sigh...guess who wins.
Good night.
Good night.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Armed Forces
A few months ago, I was in an airport making my way to the gate. The waiting area was completely packed, so I stood. My mother did tell me not to stare. I can't say, "taught" because there is very little my mother literally taught me. Her's were micro lessons in code that I literally didn't get until I was 31. But, she did tell me that it was rude to stare, so I try not to be obvious in my rudeness. I was facing the busy area, watching everyone, entertaining myself with stories about them, watching them, taking mental note, filing them away. I turned around because I heard a baby. Very close to me. A young mom had her baby in a sling. She was also trying to manage three bags. A slinged baby! All but my oldest babies I wore in a sling. They loved it and I loved it because strangers who did (and perhaps did not) strange things with their hands kept their digits off my children if they were in a sling. I think it was because with the baby wrapped against me, it seemed to invade my private space. And they were right, whatever their reasons were, to not touch. A smile was enough, if they felt compelled to communicate anything. So, I sat down next to her on the floor. I told her all that I just told you. She was pleasant but seemed tired and managed quietly spoken, easy answers. I focused on my coffee to relieve her polite disinterest. The baby was quiet and watched me with gray eyes. The flight attendant called for boarding and the woman struggled to stand up and collect her things. I helped her stand up and then helped her adjust all the bags onto her extended arms. She leaned over to adjust the baby and a pair of dog tags slipped out of her collar, camouflaged behind the shirt, the sling, the baby.
"Is your husband or the baby's dad in the military?" I asked brightly. I knew military.
"Yes. He was in the Marine Corps. He died last week. We're headed back to his funeral now."
"Ohmygoodness. I'm so...I'm so sorry." My eyes immediately flooded with tears. Hers had the exhausted non-wet expression. How many times had she said this? How many people had chatted on with her only to see what I saw or some other marker connecting her to him and asked? The crowd of impatient travelers pushed her down the line. I wanted to shout, "Give her a first class seat, goddamnit! She lost her husband. She lost…"
I could feel the tears coming and new I wouldn't be able to stop them. I moved quickly to the nearest bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I leaned against the door and sobbed loudly. I then fell into weeping loudly. A lady tapped on the door and asked me if I was O.K. "Y-E-S," I choked out. I was in that stall for a good four and a half minutes. Time that starting...now. That's a long time to hide in a public bathroom stall in an airport, bawling. I knew immediately why I was so upset. It's one thing to read the news, to listen to NPR, to hear the politicians tug on the elbows of the armed forces, it's another to see that look of exhausted grief in another human being's face, to see a child knowing that that child will never see her father. I thought about all of George Bush's pontifications on family and the importance of dads being around and people taking responsibility for their families, as he cut aid to families with dependent children and sent more and more people to Afghanistan and Iraq. I realized that his decisions have caused many children to be without the comfort of two parents, and parents to be without the comfort of a partner. A generation of disarmed, unarmed forces. Even after I quit crying in the stall, I stood there. Blank. Tired myself, now. I blew my nose, stepped out, washed my hands, and got on my plane.
Two days later, I walked into a voting booth and I remembered my experience, prayed for hers, and punched the card.
"Is your husband or the baby's dad in the military?" I asked brightly. I knew military.
"Yes. He was in the Marine Corps. He died last week. We're headed back to his funeral now."
"Ohmygoodness. I'm so...I'm so sorry." My eyes immediately flooded with tears. Hers had the exhausted non-wet expression. How many times had she said this? How many people had chatted on with her only to see what I saw or some other marker connecting her to him and asked? The crowd of impatient travelers pushed her down the line. I wanted to shout, "Give her a first class seat, goddamnit! She lost her husband. She lost…"
I could feel the tears coming and new I wouldn't be able to stop them. I moved quickly to the nearest bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I leaned against the door and sobbed loudly. I then fell into weeping loudly. A lady tapped on the door and asked me if I was O.K. "Y-E-S," I choked out. I was in that stall for a good four and a half minutes. Time that starting...now. That's a long time to hide in a public bathroom stall in an airport, bawling. I knew immediately why I was so upset. It's one thing to read the news, to listen to NPR, to hear the politicians tug on the elbows of the armed forces, it's another to see that look of exhausted grief in another human being's face, to see a child knowing that that child will never see her father. I thought about all of George Bush's pontifications on family and the importance of dads being around and people taking responsibility for their families, as he cut aid to families with dependent children and sent more and more people to Afghanistan and Iraq. I realized that his decisions have caused many children to be without the comfort of two parents, and parents to be without the comfort of a partner. A generation of disarmed, unarmed forces. Even after I quit crying in the stall, I stood there. Blank. Tired myself, now. I blew my nose, stepped out, washed my hands, and got on my plane.
Two days later, I walked into a voting booth and I remembered my experience, prayed for hers, and punched the card.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
You know how some people are adept in literature and science, and some people are adept at math and science, but rarely are people good at math AND literature (and I really do dislike those that are; go away, you ruin my favored odds for attention and influence). I think this is for a reason. I mean, have you met those people? Are they any fun at parties? I think it would more fun to have been completely drunk and uninhibited in front of a fantastic looking man and find out he's a psychologist at the end of the night than to have the Total Brain person at my cocktail get-together. They have such fantastic use of their hemispheres but seem to have no access to whatever portion holds the humor. I am lover of aesthetics. I prefer lamps to overhead lights (too clinical, makes me think of paper dresses and stirrups); pasta to potatoes; cream sauce to marinara; area rugs. You get it. So I can't understand how this kind of person would be fun to talk with. I mean, really, how many mathematicians do you find sexier than a requisite 20 minutes together or two by yourself?
That previous paragraph was a complete failure at leading into my real subject. Sigh. So, I have studied literature. (And science. I'm that type.) A B.A.'s worth, anyway, and am working on a Master's. I am intimidated by anything pre-Renaissance. It's to do with the language. I don't like the weird little feeling in my forehead when I am trying to read something that is supposedly English but not quite. It's like flour-less cake or Diet Caffeine Free Coke. I do, however, feel compelled to read it, to study it, to submit myself to the challenge. First of all, Chaucer really is quite funny...in translation. And second, how can I say I am a master of literature if I am unfamiliar with the origins of the English side of it? Anyway, I am finding my limits in literature and this...bothers me.
While a junior at my undergrad university, I heard the story of our department chair telling a class that she had never read Moby Dick, would never read it, and she was fine with it. The joke then became that we should have t-shirts printed that said, "I'm an English Major and I've Never Read _________." The bold claim--real or legendary--of that woman inspired me. I mean, she had a Ph.D and was the fucking department chair. If she could have one book she refused to read and still hold her chin up, then so could I. My one? Lolita. I asked a friend what he thought and if he liked it. He told me he read it. I'm not sure he did.
His response, "Yes."
Me:
Him:
Me: "So, you liked it?"
Him: "Oh, yes."
Me:
Him:
Me: "Why? What did you like?"
Him: "All of it. And I liked it because it made me think."
Me, parenthetically, of course: Made you think of what?
Me, aloud: "Oh. O.K."
I don't like that book. My boundaries are pretty broad, but a man being seduced by a 12 year-old girl is the story from one perspective: a sick man, one obsessed with young--very young--girls. I feel no need to identify with or understand pedophilia or to dress it up in becoming words. My disgust was solidified when Playboy became interested in Nabokov after the success of Lolita in the U.S. Now, if the book was only about one man's pathology, why would Playboy be so interested? The magazine is about sex, sexuality, and objectification of women. It is also about adult women having the freedom--and with full consent and understanding--to do with their bodies as they choose. What 12 year-old girl has full understanding of the emotional, physical, and psychological impact and consequences of her involvement in sex. I am amazed to read people justify the work as incredible for its ability to get inside the charming mind of the monster. I wonder which life these people have lived to not know that there are more charismatic monsters out there than there are bores. Had he brutally killed her, it might not have been described with such tender words. But no, he only molested and violated her, and after all, she wanted it and even used it to get what she wanted, and its all told with humor and such lovely prose.
What prompted my thoughts? This did. Obviously, I disagree with at least number 22.
That previous paragraph was a complete failure at leading into my real subject. Sigh. So, I have studied literature. (And science. I'm that type.) A B.A.'s worth, anyway, and am working on a Master's. I am intimidated by anything pre-Renaissance. It's to do with the language. I don't like the weird little feeling in my forehead when I am trying to read something that is supposedly English but not quite. It's like flour-less cake or Diet Caffeine Free Coke. I do, however, feel compelled to read it, to study it, to submit myself to the challenge. First of all, Chaucer really is quite funny...in translation. And second, how can I say I am a master of literature if I am unfamiliar with the origins of the English side of it? Anyway, I am finding my limits in literature and this...bothers me.
While a junior at my undergrad university, I heard the story of our department chair telling a class that she had never read Moby Dick, would never read it, and she was fine with it. The joke then became that we should have t-shirts printed that said, "I'm an English Major and I've Never Read _________." The bold claim--real or legendary--of that woman inspired me. I mean, she had a Ph.D and was the fucking department chair. If she could have one book she refused to read and still hold her chin up, then so could I. My one? Lolita. I asked a friend what he thought and if he liked it. He told me he read it. I'm not sure he did.
His response, "Yes."
Me:
Him:
Me: "So, you liked it?"
Him: "Oh, yes."
Me:
Him:
Me: "Why? What did you like?"
Him: "All of it. And I liked it because it made me think."
Me, parenthetically, of course: Made you think of what?
Me, aloud: "Oh. O.K."
I don't like that book. My boundaries are pretty broad, but a man being seduced by a 12 year-old girl is the story from one perspective: a sick man, one obsessed with young--very young--girls. I feel no need to identify with or understand pedophilia or to dress it up in becoming words. My disgust was solidified when Playboy became interested in Nabokov after the success of Lolita in the U.S. Now, if the book was only about one man's pathology, why would Playboy be so interested? The magazine is about sex, sexuality, and objectification of women. It is also about adult women having the freedom--and with full consent and understanding--to do with their bodies as they choose. What 12 year-old girl has full understanding of the emotional, physical, and psychological impact and consequences of her involvement in sex. I am amazed to read people justify the work as incredible for its ability to get inside the charming mind of the monster. I wonder which life these people have lived to not know that there are more charismatic monsters out there than there are bores. Had he brutally killed her, it might not have been described with such tender words. But no, he only molested and violated her, and after all, she wanted it and even used it to get what she wanted, and its all told with humor and such lovely prose.
What prompted my thoughts? This did. Obviously, I disagree with at least number 22.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Dog Gone
It has been four months since I lay on the floor of the vet's exam room, holding my chocolate lab and choked on dog hair and snot. The first shot was supposed to calm her. What it did was paralyze her. In her eyes I saw terror. I whispered all the words she didn't understand and rubbed her nose. I never saw the fear leave her eyes, I only saw them close. The tech and doc left and told me to just walk out when I was comfortable. I couldn't. I had to ask them to take her out in front of me because I couldn't leave the room with her lying dead on the floor. A few days later, I got the lovely card from the vet expressing condolences. I can't recall his exact words, but something in it told me that I was one of plenty that day that grieved her neglect. He meant well, I'm sure. What I'm not sure of is if I meant well.
I'm really jealous when people have dreams of their dogs being happy and running around. I haven't had that. There's not even a yet. No dream is guaranteed. Each time I awaken from the one recurring dream, I don't even really know if it recurred or if I dreamt that it did or if it felt so familiar because of some neurological synapse misfiring. So even with that one dream I can't say if it will happen again because I'm not even sure it happened. What was I saying? Oh, yes. Dog dreams. I haven't had that one yet. I dream of one house of the four I lived in growing up, my grandparent's house, former lovers, my children, celery, but Tasha has yet to visit and alleviate my conscience.
Today is Thursday
You know when you go to a party because a friend insisted you go? You don't really know anyone, you can't afford something new to wear and the best outfit you have is five pounds too uncomfortable, and frankly, it's been so long since you been in such a gathering outside your break room that you just don't know how to behave? It seems that I've just described a scene from The Office but it's really a description of attempting to blog. Again. I started blogging six years ago, back when we had to actually type the html code in instead of having those handy little buttons up there, and learn code and understand CSS to design a decent background (we also walked to school five miles, uphill both directions, in a blizzard). But, I divorced myself from the blog family that resulted and it never was the same. Kind of like a real divorce. You say you'll all still be friends, but everyone picks a side. It's just how it is. So, this little beginner post will get tossed into obscurity at some thank-god point and only the really curious will dig around to read it. That's it for now. Introductions and questions about me make me really uncomfortable; you'll just have to read and play close attention.
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