Franklin's sister Sue is a teacher and she very kindly posted a comment on my last post, urging me (among other useful advice) not to sub in the fall but to start teaching immediately. I decided to make a new post to muse on this.
The problem is, I think it's too late for me to find a job for the fall. There are a couple of issues.
First, unlike most other parts of the country, this area has a glut of teachers seeking work. It's very competitive, and many school districts have April deadlines for applications for fall positions. Plus, the biggest district lost a referendum and is now cutting teachers left & right. So those experienced teachers are my competitors for jobs, along with all my former classmates.
Second, I have a LOT to finish up before I can even be certified. And I haven't even started putting together my resume, letters of recommendation, nada.
Third, the biggest problem here is that I've come up against some kind of psychological road block that has stopped me from making progress in any of the other things I've tried to do--including teaching, the first time around, twelve years ago. I don't know what it is, but every time I get close to succeeding in a long-term goal, I find myself completely stuck, and find that I refuse to do anything to move forward. This time, I am determined to figure it out and overcome it, and I know I will, because this is the only thing I really want to do. But at the moment--still stuck.
Fourth, when I have taught during student teaching, I basically have found that I have to create most of my lesson plans far in advance. It takes me a long time to develop a good lesson, and when I'm actually teaching, I don't have a lot of time, and find myself not functioning efficiently in the time I do have. So I've concluded that to feel confident and be successful, I really need to take time in the summer preceeding my first job to define the outlines of the curriculum for the year, and even develop drafts of most of my lesson plans. I'm asking myself if I really need that time, but honestly the answer is yes. Last fall, the lessons that went the best were the ones that I drafted over the summer; the stuff I made up at the last minute ended up sloppy and incomplete.
So, if I wanted to teach this fall, I would need to do a lot of preparation this summer, but I don't have time--between my certification work, three weeks in Arizona for my Mom's surgery, and four weeks in Japan--plus, with this "psychological road block" I don't think I would actually do it even if I did have time.
So I don't think it's irrationally pessimistic to think that I'd find myself completely unprepared on the first day of school in the fall, and that this would (1) set me up for such a stressful (and perhaps miserably ineffective) first year that I might indeed despair and become a corporate lawyer (ok, well, never that) and (2) continue to reinforce some bad habits that I'd like to change, e.g., xeroxing the second page of the test while the students do the first page while I type the third page.
I dunno though. But I do have to run now or I'll be late for meditation (one of the things I'm trying to do to unlock my deadlock).
One last thing I'll note—that in addition to subbing, I really want to find even one teacher that I actually consider effective, and observe his/her classes. I have yet to observe any teachers teaching effectively. So I sorta feel like I'm hacking my way through a jungle with a machete while knowing there is a four-lane highway around here somewhere—i.e., I'm having to figure out everything for myself, when I know there are a lot of fantastic teachers doing wonderfully effective things. I finally have leads on two who might fit the bill.
So I'm not just treading water til next summer...I still have things to learn and plans and stuff.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Sunday, May 29, 2005
it kinda grew on me....
Although I had anticipated that it would be painful, about halfway through "The Revenge of the Sith," I was surprised to notice that I was kinda into it.
About two-thirds of the way through I thought, "huh, this is actually not too bad at all."
During the climactic scene where Natalie Portman sobs, "Anakin, you're breaking my heart!" I almost welled up. Almost. And I did really feel sorry for Anakin writhing around in the muck with his legs cut off.
After it was over, I said to Loopy, "Well, that was actually pretty good."
After dinner I thought, "It really was about as good as any of the originals, not that that's especially good, but the old magic is gone for me—I can't really see myself viewing it repeatedly."
This morning I woke up thinking, "I could see that again."
Before getting up we watched a funny little show that Loopy taped for me: interviews with the original actors and the biggest fans of the original series (folks who dressed as Jedi for their weddings, that kind of thing), and I started to remember my old love of the series, and even to allow myself to connect the original three with the film I saw last night.
See, I'm one of those kids for whom the first Star Wars was a formative experience.
I absolutely worshipped Princess Leia: my first love, without question.
This isn't just a random pop culture thing. Princess Leia was one of a rare breed, those feminist (s)heroes of the 70s.
Episode I was so bad, and Episode II was literally one of the worst movies I think I've ever seen. I tried really hard to get into Episode I—saw it seven times in the theaters, read the books, tried, tried, tried to bring back the old magic.
But after Ep II I was just disgusted—I started to fantasize that sometime, twenty years hence perhaps, someone else would come along and remake the Episodes I to III as they should have been done.
Then I watched IV thru VI again and realized, to my horror, that my disgust was corrupting my enjoyment of the originals. So I tried to separate them in my mind as much as possible, not even think about them together.
Then fortunately The Lord of the Rings came along and saved me from torment.
So anyway...this afternoon I caught myself thinking, "I wonder if we could go back and see it again tonight."
There's hope yet for me and the ol' Star Wars magic.
About two-thirds of the way through I thought, "huh, this is actually not too bad at all."
During the climactic scene where Natalie Portman sobs, "Anakin, you're breaking my heart!" I almost welled up. Almost. And I did really feel sorry for Anakin writhing around in the muck with his legs cut off.
After it was over, I said to Loopy, "Well, that was actually pretty good."
After dinner I thought, "It really was about as good as any of the originals, not that that's especially good, but the old magic is gone for me—I can't really see myself viewing it repeatedly."
This morning I woke up thinking, "I could see that again."
Before getting up we watched a funny little show that Loopy taped for me: interviews with the original actors and the biggest fans of the original series (folks who dressed as Jedi for their weddings, that kind of thing), and I started to remember my old love of the series, and even to allow myself to connect the original three with the film I saw last night.
See, I'm one of those kids for whom the first Star Wars was a formative experience.
It came out when I was in first grade. I think everyone who's completely obsessed is about my age, no more than two or three years older. It shaped everything: my ideas about religion and philosophy, feminism and heroism, yadda yadda, yadda yadda.
I absolutely worshipped Princess Leia: my first love, without question.
I carved her name into a tree in first grade; I was her for Halloween; for years and years and years, Carrie Fisher was the only photo on my bulletin board, until in 9th grade I finally realized that was weird and replaced her with Duran Duran posters.
This isn't just a random pop culture thing. Princess Leia was one of a rare breed, those feminist (s)heroes of the 70s.
It was a weird little blip in cinematic history, but for just a few years, there were just a few films featuring female characters who actually behaved like real people, people who had something to fill up their time besides finding their soulmate. At least, I've heard there were others; I don't actually know of any other female lead who goes through an entire film without mentioning anything about her personal appearance, her desire for love, or anything else remotely "feminine." The stupid little kiss she gives Luke (before they swing across the chasm on the rope while hundreds of storm troopers fire at them & miss (god, those films are dumb in some ways!)) always seemed so tacked-on—it wasn't necessary even to notice it.
Episode I was so bad, and Episode II was literally one of the worst movies I think I've ever seen. I tried really hard to get into Episode I—saw it seven times in the theaters, read the books, tried, tried, tried to bring back the old magic.
But after Ep II I was just disgusted—I started to fantasize that sometime, twenty years hence perhaps, someone else would come along and remake the Episodes I to III as they should have been done.
Then I watched IV thru VI again and realized, to my horror, that my disgust was corrupting my enjoyment of the originals. So I tried to separate them in my mind as much as possible, not even think about them together.
Then fortunately The Lord of the Rings came along and saved me from torment.
So anyway...this afternoon I caught myself thinking, "I wonder if we could go back and see it again tonight."
There's hope yet for me and the ol' Star Wars magic.
Friday, May 27, 2005
glutton for...something
*grrr*
A few weeks ago I felt I was getting too detached from life, spending too many days in the house going nuts. So I decided to get back into school stuff. Being around school & students is very grounding—even relaxing in a way, if challenging—because it helps me remember what I'm trying to do and why.
It was easy to head back to the "alternative" high school, which is big on "adults from the community" being tutors etc., and where I volunteered for two years before I was a student teacher; in fact, when I called my old cooperating teacher, she said she had been just about to call me and could I please come help some of "my girls" who were having issues. (And they are, one in particular, but that's a whole 'nother story).
On the other hand, I dreaded returning to the middle school where I student-taught last fall. (You can read a few screams of anguish here and here). I didn't want to face my old cooperating teacher there, who used to continuously put me down. Perhaps worse, whenever I tried to voice an idea, she would look at me either as though I was a child speaking out of turn at a grown-up dinner party, or as though I was an alien from another planet suggesting that we vivisect the students.
Anyway, school's almost over for the year and I really did want to see all my former students, so I gathered my courage, did some deep breathing, and went there.
It was as awful as ever, including "reading" period, where the white kids read "Beowulf" while the Black kids slept (I am not making this up, although I should note that Beowulf was "retold" in semi-modern language, and one Black student was not sleeping but rather chewing on his shirt).
At the end of the day I went up to the teacher—who looked slightly less pleased to see me than if I had been Grendel (the monster in Beowulf, as I now know)—and eagerly but nervously told her that I had decided she was right, that I wasn't ready for my own class (her exact words were, "It's scary to think that you could have your own class in the fall"), and that I'd decided to sub for a year. "I didn't want you to worry," I said, stupidly.
Her answer, like so many of her comments, sounded fine on the surface but when you broke it down (you know, like on the menu when you realize that "plump breasts of organic grain-fed cornish game hens lightly robed in sourdough bread crumbs and sauteed to golden-brown perfection" essentially means "fried chicken") she essentially said, "I wasn't worried, I figured you wouldn't last more than a year or two anyway."
I was totally thrown. I got in my car feeling stupid and calling myself stupid and not quite knowing what had hit me.
Finally I understood what had happened. Without realizing what I was doing, I had slunk back there for one last desperate attempt to win her approval.
I had wanted her to smile approvingly and say, "Oh, I think that's a very wise decision; good for you. Another year of preparation will be just what you need, and then you'll be all set to go out and be a very fine teacher indeed."
Mind you, this is the woman who, on my last day of teaching, when I said, "Sorry if I've been difficult for you," said, "Oh, well, I've had worse." And when my supervisor asked her what my best qualities are, she said, "She knows her own weaknesses and she takes criticism well," which, in "fried chicken" language, means, "At least she knows she's inept and doesn't mind me telling her so."
In other words, there was no way on earth that any rational being could have thought she would ever throw me the tiniest bone.
I'm trying not to be mad at myself for hoping she would. But I am frustrated because I wish, wish, wish, WISH that I did not give a flying fuck what she thought, or anyone else for that matter, instead of being someone who is so thoroughly undone by disapproval and criticism, even minor annoyance.
*sigh*
and *grrr* too.
Well, off to see "Revenge of the Nerds," I mean the Sith. I'll let you know how it goes.
A few weeks ago I felt I was getting too detached from life, spending too many days in the house going nuts. So I decided to get back into school stuff. Being around school & students is very grounding—even relaxing in a way, if challenging—because it helps me remember what I'm trying to do and why.
It was easy to head back to the "alternative" high school, which is big on "adults from the community" being tutors etc., and where I volunteered for two years before I was a student teacher; in fact, when I called my old cooperating teacher, she said she had been just about to call me and could I please come help some of "my girls" who were having issues. (And they are, one in particular, but that's a whole 'nother story).
On the other hand, I dreaded returning to the middle school where I student-taught last fall. (You can read a few screams of anguish here and here). I didn't want to face my old cooperating teacher there, who used to continuously put me down. Perhaps worse, whenever I tried to voice an idea, she would look at me either as though I was a child speaking out of turn at a grown-up dinner party, or as though I was an alien from another planet suggesting that we vivisect the students.
Anyway, school's almost over for the year and I really did want to see all my former students, so I gathered my courage, did some deep breathing, and went there.
It was as awful as ever, including "reading" period, where the white kids read "Beowulf" while the Black kids slept (I am not making this up, although I should note that Beowulf was "retold" in semi-modern language, and one Black student was not sleeping but rather chewing on his shirt).
At the end of the day I went up to the teacher—who looked slightly less pleased to see me than if I had been Grendel (the monster in Beowulf, as I now know)—and eagerly but nervously told her that I had decided she was right, that I wasn't ready for my own class (her exact words were, "It's scary to think that you could have your own class in the fall"), and that I'd decided to sub for a year. "I didn't want you to worry," I said, stupidly.
Her answer, like so many of her comments, sounded fine on the surface but when you broke it down (you know, like on the menu when you realize that "plump breasts of organic grain-fed cornish game hens lightly robed in sourdough bread crumbs and sauteed to golden-brown perfection" essentially means "fried chicken") she essentially said, "I wasn't worried, I figured you wouldn't last more than a year or two anyway."
I was totally thrown. I got in my car feeling stupid and calling myself stupid and not quite knowing what had hit me.
Finally I understood what had happened. Without realizing what I was doing, I had slunk back there for one last desperate attempt to win her approval.
I had wanted her to smile approvingly and say, "Oh, I think that's a very wise decision; good for you. Another year of preparation will be just what you need, and then you'll be all set to go out and be a very fine teacher indeed."
Mind you, this is the woman who, on my last day of teaching, when I said, "Sorry if I've been difficult for you," said, "Oh, well, I've had worse." And when my supervisor asked her what my best qualities are, she said, "She knows her own weaknesses and she takes criticism well," which, in "fried chicken" language, means, "At least she knows she's inept and doesn't mind me telling her so."
In other words, there was no way on earth that any rational being could have thought she would ever throw me the tiniest bone.
I'm trying not to be mad at myself for hoping she would. But I am frustrated because I wish, wish, wish, WISH that I did not give a flying fuck what she thought, or anyone else for that matter, instead of being someone who is so thoroughly undone by disapproval and criticism, even minor annoyance.
*sigh*
and *grrr* too.
Well, off to see "Revenge of the Nerds," I mean the Sith. I'll let you know how it goes.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
unmitigated mush
I'm having trouble finding a way to express how deeply satisfying and beautiful it was to see Franklin again.
He's been through some really, really rotten shit since I last saw him.
Pain does all kinds of things to people. Although I don't feel like writing it all out here, I was connected to many things and people who were destroyed or damaged by 9-11, and those events shook me to the core. At the time I wrote something about how we have a choice about our response to pain.
Suffering can either harden you and make you narrow, scarred, and bitter, or it can soften you and open you up to a deeper connection with other people. You can't avoid suffering in life and you can't avoid being altered by it, but you do have a choice about how you respond, how you are transformed.
With Franklin, my dear dear Franklin, I am so moved to see him changed. It's moving because it's sad and beautiful at the same time. I am deeply sad about what he's gone through and I wish more than anything that it had never happened to him. But the change—it's like polishing a precious stone.
He seems more fully himself.
He always had a big, kind heart and a gentle soul, but now they are more evident: they almost literally shine out from him.
Like so many or maybe all of us, it seems to me that he used to "hide his lamp under a bushel," you might say (bible quote, sorry). In college, he seemed afraid to be as warm and kind as he is; he seemed to seek ways to protect himself, so that at one point, to my eternal regret, I became confused about which was "the real Frank"—the warmth and kindness or the armor.*
And yet, there are moments that are like touchstones, that I remember so clearly, when I really needed something and he was there for me. He really came through for me, in more than one crisis, with an inimitable insight and wisdom that cut right to the heart of the matter, bringing comfort and illumination. This used to take me by surprise because he usually seemed to prioritize being seen as entertaining and witty rather than wise and solid.
At times he also seemed to be overcome with self-loathing and despair of ever finding love or happiness, even though he was surrounded by people who cared about him. Although... now that I look back to those college days, I can see very clearly how lonely his position must have been...there were many ways in which he was an island unto himself. Back then I hadn't yet learned how to see other people, except as mirrors I used to judge whether I was okay. Not a very useful friend to anyone, I'm afraid; if I ever hit the mark, it was a blind shot in the dark.
Anyway, the lamp is no longer under the bushel.
Frank's eyes are warm and steady, his smile is open and warm, and he seems unafraid to be his ownself.
His goodness and kindness come through so clearly now, not hobbled by self-doubt anymore; it's funny, but I can also somehow feel the presence of his family in his life, and see how these good qualities are in a way channeling his parents, his sister, his grandmothers, his aunt Eva. I think this may seem new to me because he only came out to his parents late in college, so there may have been a barrier there much of the time I knew him.
He seems both gentler and stronger, and more solid on his own two feet.
He still seems a bit raw from the pain that is still not so long ago, but he also seems unafraid of this rawness.
He is so beautiful I can hardly stand it.
I wish I could give him another hug right now.
As you can see, it is this feeling that I'm having trouble expressing. I guess it's just plain old ordinary extraordinary love, which seems more and more precious as we get older and realize how few people "out there" we'll find to love so easily and comfortably.
Being with old old friends always makes me feel more complete, like there are more parts of me awake and alive. I think that's a bit how Loopy felt about being in Chicago.
Frank may not see himself the way I've written him here; he may not see his past self the same way either, but I decided to risk it since he did as much in posting about me. I have a unique perspective, not having seen him in so long. That means I may be missing some things and exaggerating others. But I don't think I have the "big picture" wrong—unless he hasn't changed a bit and I was more oblivious in college than I realized.
As I said, it was so deeply moving, satisfying, and beautiful to see you again, my dear friend. I hope we spend many more happy weekends together before one or both of us leave the region behind.
He's been through some really, really rotten shit since I last saw him.
Pain does all kinds of things to people. Although I don't feel like writing it all out here, I was connected to many things and people who were destroyed or damaged by 9-11, and those events shook me to the core. At the time I wrote something about how we have a choice about our response to pain.
Suffering can either harden you and make you narrow, scarred, and bitter, or it can soften you and open you up to a deeper connection with other people. You can't avoid suffering in life and you can't avoid being altered by it, but you do have a choice about how you respond, how you are transformed.
With Franklin, my dear dear Franklin, I am so moved to see him changed. It's moving because it's sad and beautiful at the same time. I am deeply sad about what he's gone through and I wish more than anything that it had never happened to him. But the change—it's like polishing a precious stone.
He seems more fully himself.
He always had a big, kind heart and a gentle soul, but now they are more evident: they almost literally shine out from him.
Like so many or maybe all of us, it seems to me that he used to "hide his lamp under a bushel," you might say (bible quote, sorry). In college, he seemed afraid to be as warm and kind as he is; he seemed to seek ways to protect himself, so that at one point, to my eternal regret, I became confused about which was "the real Frank"—the warmth and kindness or the armor.*
And yet, there are moments that are like touchstones, that I remember so clearly, when I really needed something and he was there for me. He really came through for me, in more than one crisis, with an inimitable insight and wisdom that cut right to the heart of the matter, bringing comfort and illumination. This used to take me by surprise because he usually seemed to prioritize being seen as entertaining and witty rather than wise and solid.
At times he also seemed to be overcome with self-loathing and despair of ever finding love or happiness, even though he was surrounded by people who cared about him. Although... now that I look back to those college days, I can see very clearly how lonely his position must have been...there were many ways in which he was an island unto himself. Back then I hadn't yet learned how to see other people, except as mirrors I used to judge whether I was okay. Not a very useful friend to anyone, I'm afraid; if I ever hit the mark, it was a blind shot in the dark.
Anyway, the lamp is no longer under the bushel.
Frank's eyes are warm and steady, his smile is open and warm, and he seems unafraid to be his ownself.
His goodness and kindness come through so clearly now, not hobbled by self-doubt anymore; it's funny, but I can also somehow feel the presence of his family in his life, and see how these good qualities are in a way channeling his parents, his sister, his grandmothers, his aunt Eva. I think this may seem new to me because he only came out to his parents late in college, so there may have been a barrier there much of the time I knew him.
He seems both gentler and stronger, and more solid on his own two feet.
He still seems a bit raw from the pain that is still not so long ago, but he also seems unafraid of this rawness.
He is so beautiful I can hardly stand it.
I wish I could give him another hug right now.
As you can see, it is this feeling that I'm having trouble expressing. I guess it's just plain old ordinary extraordinary love, which seems more and more precious as we get older and realize how few people "out there" we'll find to love so easily and comfortably.
Being with old old friends always makes me feel more complete, like there are more parts of me awake and alive. I think that's a bit how Loopy felt about being in Chicago.
Frank may not see himself the way I've written him here; he may not see his past self the same way either, but I decided to risk it since he did as much in posting about me. I have a unique perspective, not having seen him in so long. That means I may be missing some things and exaggerating others. But I don't think I have the "big picture" wrong—unless he hasn't changed a bit and I was more oblivious in college than I realized.
As I said, it was so deeply moving, satisfying, and beautiful to see you again, my dear friend. I hope we spend many more happy weekends together before one or both of us leave the region behind.
*I regret this ten times more when I realize that if I had not made this mistake, if we had been close all along, maybe there would have been something I could have done to help prevent everything from getting quite so bad... but probably not, I guess. I had another friend who went through something similar. A controlling spouse is very skilled in separating the best of friends. Still... this is a very strong, deep regret. I accept that maybe it couldn't have been otherwise, or maybe it doesn't matter now, but I am still heartbroken to think of my mistakes in the past. This makes me all the more grateful to Frank who appears to have completely forgiven (or at least decided to forget, which is much the same thing really).
Monday, May 23, 2005
ultimate girlie road trip
Tomorrow I'll post more about the happy reunion with dear Franklin. For now I will confine myself to illustrating the title of the post (which comes from an observation made by Frank, in wittier words I'm sure, but I'm a bit brain dead just now).
In the proud tradition established by the San Francisco trip, we sang songs in the car, ate ourselves sick (on lasagna, nine-storied pagoda chicken, lingonberry pancakes, cosmopolitan-flavored chocolates, and sweet-potato-tempura sushi, among other things), and bought the following items:
LUSH bath bombs....
Vosges chocolates...
Sex toys...
Yarn!!!
....and patterns too...
I might be lucky enough to this sweater, someday--that is, if (1) I can make up my mind about the color and (2) Loopy doesn't kill me over the purple cardigan!
and a dress for Mike & Danielle's wedding.
(Jones New York--from the clearance rack!!)(not this exact one, but sorta similar.)
It has several panels in the front with seams between, including one seam that goes straight down the middle of the front. It looks weird at first, and Loopy & Frank didn't think I should get it, but it fits and is comfy and pretty, so I got it anyway. I just posted here so Loopy wouldn't be *too* embarrassed to be seen with me in it.
Spanish phrase-a-day calendar phrase for the weekend:
Estas satisfecho?
Si. Estoy muy, muy satisfecho (satisfecha?).
(more because of the reunion than the shopping, but more on that later)
In the proud tradition established by the San Francisco trip, we sang songs in the car, ate ourselves sick (on lasagna, nine-storied pagoda chicken, lingonberry pancakes, cosmopolitan-flavored chocolates, and sweet-potato-tempura sushi, among other things), and bought the following items:
LUSH bath bombs....
 |  |  |  |
Vosges chocolates...
Sex toys...
Yarn!!!
....and patterns too...
I might be lucky enough to this sweater, someday--that is, if (1) I can make up my mind about the color and (2) Loopy doesn't kill me over the purple cardigan!
and a dress for Mike & Danielle's wedding.
(Jones New York--from the clearance rack!!)(not this exact one, but sorta similar.)
It has several panels in the front with seams between, including one seam that goes straight down the middle of the front. It looks weird at first, and Loopy & Frank didn't think I should get it, but it fits and is comfy and pretty, so I got it anyway. I just posted here so Loopy wouldn't be *too* embarrassed to be seen with me in it.
Spanish phrase-a-day calendar phrase for the weekend:
Estas satisfecho?
Si. Estoy muy, muy satisfecho (satisfecha?).
(more because of the reunion than the shopping, but more on that later)
Friday, May 20, 2005
me traje un bocadillo
i love my spanish phrase-a-day calendar. Friday's phrase was the one in the subject line. Meaning: "I brought a snack." So appropriate for our big trip to Chicago!
But Thursday's, I loved so much I made it the subtitle of my blog—"cada loco con su tema."
Meaning: each to his own.
Literally: every lunatic has his theme (topic, subject).
I think that could be the subtitle for the world of blogs, generalamente.
Have a good weekend everyone!
But Thursday's, I loved so much I made it the subtitle of my blog—"cada loco con su tema."
Meaning: each to his own.
Literally: every lunatic has his theme (topic, subject).
I think that could be the subtitle for the world of blogs, generalamente.
Have a good weekend everyone!
Thursday, May 19, 2005
going to chicago, and then Japan
Well, not immediately afterward. But in honor of the Chicago trip—whose highlight will be seeing Franklin again after lo these many years!—I'm posting an old photo of me & Franklin.
Here is probably the best photo of Franklin and myself in our younger years. There are many others, but I have to make sure it's ok with Franklin before I post them. (No, no, you naughty-minded guttersnipes, nothing like that. Worse, actually—they're just photos of us behaving very, very strangely.)
We were on our way to the Lowell House Waltz. We're in Beth B's room, I think (but those two posters were ubiquitous; I included them 'specially). That dance was a lot of fun—a LOT of fun—definitely worth a lot more of a post; maybe later.
All's I'll say now is, little tip: never wear a long-sleeved corduroy dress to perform any strenuous activity.
I was going to post all about both trips and lots of photos, but I stayed up all night last night and it's catching up with me. Then I was going to scan in a better picture than this, then I was going to at least try to make this picture a little less blurry, but, same story. Also, I was going to post a moving and grateful response to Franklin's tribute to me. But not right now. Gotta sleep.
Q: So why am I just slapping this photo up here despite having fallen short of all my other goals?
A: So that I can feel that I accomplished something in the last forty minutes since I came home & DIDN'T immediately climb into the hot bath & nap I'd promised myself.
Here is probably the best photo of Franklin and myself in our younger years. There are many others, but I have to make sure it's ok with Franklin before I post them. (No, no, you naughty-minded guttersnipes, nothing like that. Worse, actually—they're just photos of us behaving very, very strangely.)
We were on our way to the Lowell House Waltz. We're in Beth B's room, I think (but those two posters were ubiquitous; I included them 'specially). That dance was a lot of fun—a LOT of fun—definitely worth a lot more of a post; maybe later.
All's I'll say now is, little tip: never wear a long-sleeved corduroy dress to perform any strenuous activity.
blog-o-versary!!!
Hey, it's been a year since I started my blog! Yes, my very first post was on May 18, 2004.
(Don't bother looking, it's not very interesting--it's all about how I'm supposed to be doing work but I'm not doing it--pretty much the same thing you'll find here, now, a year later, so, no big thrill).
(Don't bother looking, it's not very interesting--it's all about how I'm supposed to be doing work but I'm not doing it--pretty much the same thing you'll find here, now, a year later, so, no big thrill).
Sunday, May 15, 2005
phoebe mom
Every year a phoebe (see image at right) comes and builds a nest in our carport rafters. She was mentioned by the previous owners in a note they left for us (along with "Chippy the Chipmunk," whom Snoggy messily devoured sometime within the first month of living here), and the rafters are liberally strewn with old nests, so she's been doing it a long time.
According to this page, phoebes live nine years, but there are a lot more nests than that, so either she's lived longer, or a second generation has continued the carport-nest custom.
Here's a photo of last year's babies just a day or two before they left the nest:
Anyway, every year, I see her building the nest and then I see her sitting on it, and then a week or two go by where we see her flying around catching bugs, but we don't see her on the nest at all. This worries me.
Loopy is familiar with this time period because I pester her a lot with questions like, "Mrs. Phoebe isn't on the nest, do you think we scared her off? Huh? Do you? Have you seen her on the nest lately? because I haven't seen her on the nest lately."
Loopy used to try to reason with me ("she's been building her nest here for years; I don't think she's going to be scared off by us getting in and out of the car") but after a while she gave up and resorted to noncommittal noises whenever I raised the important subject of Why Mrs. Phoebe Isn't On The Nest. (Smart woman, my Loopy)
Well, today I was talking to my Mom and shared my anxieties about the phoebe—and Mom had an explanation!
Apparently they lay eggs one at a time, and in between eggs they eat a lot so they can make another egg. They don't start sitting on the eggs until they're all laid! The eggs just sit there, cold and not developing, until the mom is done laying eggs and settles down to incubate them.
Isn't that amazing? I never knew that.
So Mom has saved Loopy from another two or three years of my pestering questions.
Although not from my pestering "Hey, Loopy, the phoebe's flying around catching stuff so she can go back and lay another egg! Cool, huh? Isn't that neat, Loopy? Hey, Loopy, isn't that neat?"
I don't know what you're thinking right now, but what I'm thinking is that I am so, so, so, so, so, lucky to be married.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
not myself
I've been feeling a bit odd and adrift since returning from AZ. This is not surprising, given all the drama that occurred there, but I don't like it.
I've decided not to seek a full-time teaching position in the fall--it's just too much. I have so much to deal with this summer, and a lot to catch up on, and I just don't feel ready. I'm now planning to substitute teach for a year and perfect my "classroom management" technique.
I spent a lot of agonizing time drafting a letter to my professor about why I am so far behind in everything and have still not completed the requirements for her fall 2004 course, nor in fact for three courses taken in 2002 and 2003.
I finally succeeded in crafting what I thought was an eloquent summation, alluding to my personal struggles but not providing an inappropriate amount of detail, and describing succinctly yet intensely how much these difficulties were contributing to my development into a truly excellent teacher.
I sent it off and crossed my fingers that she wouldn't kick me out of the program.
Her response was almost worse; it was essentially, "ok, whatever."
I felt really, really dumb for thinking that anything I had written mattered in the slightest to anyone. My humiliation was only relieved by the comforting thought that she sounds so busy that she probably didn't even read most of what I wrote.
So, as I said, adrift. Now what do I do? The sense of desperate urgency is gone. I've been waiting around for a couple of days to see what would happen if I didn't try to whip myself into a frenzy. Would I start working or just sit around?
Apparently the latter.
Fortunately I have therapy on Monday.
I've decided not to seek a full-time teaching position in the fall--it's just too much. I have so much to deal with this summer, and a lot to catch up on, and I just don't feel ready. I'm now planning to substitute teach for a year and perfect my "classroom management" technique.
I spent a lot of agonizing time drafting a letter to my professor about why I am so far behind in everything and have still not completed the requirements for her fall 2004 course, nor in fact for three courses taken in 2002 and 2003.
I finally succeeded in crafting what I thought was an eloquent summation, alluding to my personal struggles but not providing an inappropriate amount of detail, and describing succinctly yet intensely how much these difficulties were contributing to my development into a truly excellent teacher.
I sent it off and crossed my fingers that she wouldn't kick me out of the program.
Her response was almost worse; it was essentially, "ok, whatever."
I felt really, really dumb for thinking that anything I had written mattered in the slightest to anyone. My humiliation was only relieved by the comforting thought that she sounds so busy that she probably didn't even read most of what I wrote.
So, as I said, adrift. Now what do I do? The sense of desperate urgency is gone. I've been waiting around for a couple of days to see what would happen if I didn't try to whip myself into a frenzy. Would I start working or just sit around?
Apparently the latter.
Fortunately I have therapy on Monday.
change to template...
I made a minor change to my template & can't decide if I like it or not.
I used to have just one link to the comments page, but then I realized that if you want to post a comment, this just becomes a detour. So I now have a link to the comments page *and* a link to post a comment. It seems a little cluttered now, especially with the background color, but I like it in theory because it makes navigation easier.
Your feedback welcome.
I also made a grammar change, dedicated to the fastidious Dr. Faustus: I changed "comments" to "comment(s)," to avoid the potentially disconcerting appearance of "1 comments."
To differentiate the function of this link from the "post a comment" link, I also added a verb. I settled on "see x comment(s)" rather than "read x comment(s)," on the basis of an assumption that one can see zero comments (i.e., see that there are no comments), but one cannot read them if they do not exist.
Does this post represent a turning point, where my blog will revert from its brief foray into the heights and depths of human relationships and existential contemplation to the sort of meaningless piffle heretofore largely occupying these pages?
Only time will tell.
I used to have just one link to the comments page, but then I realized that if you want to post a comment, this just becomes a detour. So I now have a link to the comments page *and* a link to post a comment. It seems a little cluttered now, especially with the background color, but I like it in theory because it makes navigation easier.
Your feedback welcome.
I also made a grammar change, dedicated to the fastidious Dr. Faustus: I changed "comments" to "comment(s)," to avoid the potentially disconcerting appearance of "1 comments."
To differentiate the function of this link from the "post a comment" link, I also added a verb. I settled on "see x comment(s)" rather than "read x comment(s)," on the basis of an assumption that one can see zero comments (i.e., see that there are no comments), but one cannot read them if they do not exist.
Does this post represent a turning point, where my blog will revert from its brief foray into the heights and depths of human relationships and existential contemplation to the sort of meaningless piffle heretofore largely occupying these pages?
Only time will tell.
Friday, May 13, 2005
oops, shot my wad
[this post has been edited since last night]
I seem to have accidentally absolved my mother of all her past mistakes.
Damn it, I meant to keep that ace in the hole, just in case I ever wanted to really let loose on her—really make her suffer, make her pay—tell her about all the times she hurt me and how sad and lonely and angry I've been.
But I blew it all in an email this morning. I swear, it was an accident—I was actually just trying to soften something hard that I said.* I didn't even realize what I'd done until she wrote back full of gratitude and emotion.
At first I was alarmed and confused. But these emotions subsided as several things dawned on me.
First, I realized that the statute of limitations on that "ace in the hole" is definitely running out.
In other words, if I have something I want to say to her, that I want her to understand, I better make it quick.
Cuz if I had had anything to say to Dad, it would already too late.
At these sobering thoughts, all that "old stuff" started to seem less important. That's not it, exactly—it's important, because it made me who I am. But it doesn't seem so important that I somehow "make Mom sorry for what she did."
Partly because it's just pointless. It's not like I can trade in all those old scars for a big shiny prize or a perfect childhood. That's why I haven't said anything up to now—there's no real reason to make her suffer.
But there's more to it now, and that's the other thing I realized.
Her grateful answer illuminated ten years' worth of comments and asides, and I saw that she's already sorry for what she did—she's been sorry. She doesn't know quite what it was, but she knows something wasn't right, and it makes her sad.
I didn't need to store up all that stuff in case one day I wanted to make her suffer. She's been suffering. And I just helped her feel better.
This makes my head spin.
But ultimately even though I feel sad, and like I've lost something (were those grudges so much a part of me?), I also feel a softening toward her.
I don't know if it's because I feel like the debt is paid, like we're even now because she's been sad too...
...or if I just see that however much it hurt me, her problem hurts her more. At least I had the ability to learn to connect with others. She'll always be inside the four walls of her head, looking out & knowing that other people have something she doesn't.
Somehow it doesn't seem to matter so much whether I still hurt or not. That's my problem and I'll be sorting out for the rest of my life, maybe. But there's no reason she should suffer too.
So I responded to her response—she said I was perceptive and a good person—by saying that if I am either of these, it's because of the example set by her and Dad. I said that so many people don't even try to be a good person, and she tries every day.
That was the nicest thing I could honestly say (she'll totally miss the fact that there are nicer things that one could say about someone) and I think it will have the intended effect.
I don't exactly feel better. Actually, I feel sort of alone and "all grown up." My visual for this is that it's like Mom and I were carrying something heavy, and I took it from her and said, "Okay, I'll carry that now, you can rest." And she sat down gratefully and sort of faded away. And here I am with the heavy thing.
But I'm glad I did that. She needs to rest. It's time to let her go.
* What I was actually saying at the time was that Dad's situation triggers my memories of how she failed to protect me from harm when I was helpless and dependent as Dad is now—referring to how I was molested by a friend of theirs. (I was angry because Dad had another mini-stroke and she didn't take him to the ER.) To soften this bombshell—or what would have been a bombshell to a normal person—I talked about her "blind spot" (referring to the Aspergers stuff) and said it wasn't her fault, and that I'd "accepted and made peace with" it. I think all she heard was the stuff about her personally. So ironically, but not surprisingly, my accusation turned into an absolution.
After all this time I still keep expecting her to be different, to "get" what happened to me. She never will.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
*whew* glad that's over!
For now anyway. We'll go back again for Mom's surgery on June 24.
Two remarkable things about the visit:
of allowing unpleasant feelings to surface, be felt, and then flow through you and pass away. It's hard to describe why it felt better to be present with these feelings than to ignore them or shut them out. It just felt real. And it was so much less stressful than the continuous running away.
When she was being spectacularly oblivious of everyone else, instead of getting frustrated, I just thought, "well, she can't see us."
Then a really amazing thing happened.
When I was getting out of the car at the airport, Dad & I hugged and said our goodbyes, but Mom just went & got in the driver's seat (I'd been driving), saying as she did so, "Honey, you'll be glad to know, I really feel okay today." Huh?
But somehow, even as I wryly noted the total non-sequiturness, I discovered I didn't feel the usual resentment and hurt at her self-absorption. Not only that, I actually felt loved, because it seemed like she really was trying (however oddly) to say something that would make me happy. It wasn't her caring that was "off," it was her expression of it. She can't connect, but that doesn't mean she doesn't care.
Did you catch that? The whole "feeling loved" thing.
This is new, in case you haven't been following the story up to now.
I finally succeeded in doing what Loopy said: wanting from someone exactly what they have to give.
Two remarkable things about the visit:
Thing One
I seem to have done a pretty good job of "staying in the moment." I really had the experience, just like my Buddhism books say,Thing Two
The unofficial Asperger's diagnosis actually really helped me deal with my mom, and helped me a lot with Thing One.When she was being spectacularly oblivious of everyone else, instead of getting frustrated, I just thought, "well, she can't see us."
Then a really amazing thing happened.
When I was getting out of the car at the airport, Dad & I hugged and said our goodbyes, but Mom just went & got in the driver's seat (I'd been driving), saying as she did so, "Honey, you'll be glad to know, I really feel okay today." Huh?
But somehow, even as I wryly noted the total non-sequiturness, I discovered I didn't feel the usual resentment and hurt at her self-absorption. Not only that, I actually felt loved, because it seemed like she really was trying (however oddly) to say something that would make me happy. It wasn't her caring that was "off," it was her expression of it. She can't connect, but that doesn't mean she doesn't care.
Did you catch that? The whole "feeling loved" thing.
This is new, in case you haven't been following the story up to now.
I finally succeeded in doing what Loopy said: wanting from someone exactly what they have to give.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
happy birthday Loveygirl
Where you are, that’s where I wanna beAnd through your eyes,
all the things I wanna see
In the night you are my dream
You’re everything to me
Every day, every night, you alone
are the love of my life
Every day, every night, you alone
are the love of my life
--Santana/Matthews
I'm the luckiest girl in the world...cuz you know you're my favorite everything.
You are the trip I did not takeYou are the pearls I cannot buy
You are my blue Italian lake
You are my piece of foreign sky.
--Anne Campbell
I love this poem...it encompasses all that I love most, and says you are worth it all and more. So true. You're the home I never had and the peace and trust I thought was impossible, the adventure and new worlds I didn't know existed & might have been too scared to find alone.
It was written that I would love youFrom the moment I opened my eyes
And the morning when I first saw you
Gave me life under calico skies
I will hold you... for as long as you like
I'll hold you... for the rest of my life
--Paul McCartney
Happy birthday sweet pea, honeybunny, loopy love. I'll always be your girl.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
a little levity
Mom reads aloud from a book - the second law of thermodynamics:
and the author's paraphrase: "everything goes to hell unless you prop it up."
Earlier, with the financial guy, we chatted about traveling in Spain and Portugal.
"I don't remember much about that trip," I confessed. "I was fourteen. I spent the whole time in the back seat with my headphones on, listening to Duran Duran and trying to imagine that I was somewhere doing something really cool."
Financial guy responded, without missing a beat: "Little did you know, you were."
S2 - S1 = q/T
and the author's paraphrase: "everything goes to hell unless you prop it up."
. . . . . . . . . . .
Earlier, with the financial guy, we chatted about traveling in Spain and Portugal. "I don't remember much about that trip," I confessed. "I was fourteen. I spent the whole time in the back seat with my headphones on, listening to Duran Duran and trying to imagine that I was somewhere doing something really cool."
Financial guy responded, without missing a beat: "Little did you know, you were."
lawyers
There is a limit to how many times the following phrases can be uttered in the course of an hour-and-a-half meeting: "if Mom dies first," "if Dad dies first," "if [Loopy] dies," "if Mom and Dad die," "if Mom and [Loopy] die," "if [Loopy] and I die and Mom and Dad are left..."
After that limit, as these phrases continue on and on and on, the head starts to spin, the entire torso feels strangely hollow and tight, and one wishes to be elsewhere. One begins to stutter and repeat oneself and the nice lawyer looks friendly and concerned.
However, it does not help when the nice lawyer tries to use other words, like, "well, if you were to fall by the wayside..."
At this, I imagine myself hanging on to the door of a bus that is driving off without me; I hang on as long as I can but eventually "fall by the wayside," all dusty and forlorn.
This is simultaneously awful and hilarious and I giggle. The lawyer looks at me as if he's seen it all before.
We are doing this because of Mom's somewhat dangerous surgery on June 24...How long is that from now? Time is a strange thing, like the time between now & that day, or the time after it.
I came home and Mom carefully told me which flowers to water and how.
I didn't hear a word she said. I watered them all copiously. I hope that's okay.
After that limit, as these phrases continue on and on and on, the head starts to spin, the entire torso feels strangely hollow and tight, and one wishes to be elsewhere. One begins to stutter and repeat oneself and the nice lawyer looks friendly and concerned.
However, it does not help when the nice lawyer tries to use other words, like, "well, if you were to fall by the wayside..."
At this, I imagine myself hanging on to the door of a bus that is driving off without me; I hang on as long as I can but eventually "fall by the wayside," all dusty and forlorn. This is simultaneously awful and hilarious and I giggle. The lawyer looks at me as if he's seen it all before.
We are doing this because of Mom's somewhat dangerous surgery on June 24...How long is that from now? Time is a strange thing, like the time between now & that day, or the time after it.
I came home and Mom carefully told me which flowers to water and how. I didn't hear a word she said. I watered them all copiously. I hope that's okay.
Monday, May 09, 2005
wow (did I already say that?)
Wow—look at this!!!!
Unless you are the type to be jealous of the numerous accomplishments of others.
Or the type to fall into a deep depression at the sight of an extremely hot guy you will probably never fuck (nothing personal; he just seems to be taken).
In which case, don't look.
You looked anyway, didn't you? Well, don't come crying to me. I warned you.
Seriously, though, congratulations & admiration to Dr. Faustus, M.D. I bet that girl who threw us out of a store in Little Italy is sorry now.
Unless you are the type to be jealous of the numerous accomplishments of others.
Or the type to fall into a deep depression at the sight of an extremely hot guy you will probably never fuck (nothing personal; he just seems to be taken).
In which case, don't look.
You looked anyway, didn't you? Well, don't come crying to me. I warned you.
Seriously, though, congratulations & admiration to Dr. Faustus, M.D. I bet that girl who threw us out of a store in Little Italy is sorry now.
lemon man
So Dad & I went out to this dark, oddly cavernous all-you-can-eat buffet place, decorated with about fifty Norman Rockwell posters (Dad's favorite at left) and half-full of a lot of very tired, worn-out, used-up looking people—mostly whitish senior citizens in pairs and threes, and 3-generation Mexican families. At least the kids running around made things a bit more cheerful, and the food actually wasn't bad. Dad had a mountain of carrot-raisin salad and some potato skins (just the skins; he seemed to think they were fried plantains like at the Peruvian restaurant).
Behind Dad, I watched an older man bring a plate of lemon wedges to a table—just lemon wedges.
No, I mean a LOT of lemon wedges.
Well, not that many. But a lot.
Wha...? I thought to myself.
But I was distracted for a while because "Time After Time" (the original version—the soundtrack for me sobbing my way through high school, don't we all have a song like that?) began playing amid the soft pop medley that is endemic to such places, and Dad was sitting there with food all over his mouth, smiling sort of hopefully, and I almost started bawling right there. Damn you, Cyndi Lauper, I will always have to remember that awful goddamn moment whenever I hear that awful, goddamn song.* Fortunately, this little moment was in turn interrupted when I noticed that the man behind Dad was not, in fact, having a lunch solely composed of lemon wedges. He had crammed them all into a glass of iced tea.
Although there was not much room for tea, it actually looked pretty good. But the whole thing struck me as very funny. Perhaps it was only funny in comparison to the whole ridiculously maudlin Cyndi Lauper thing. But I made a mental note to share it with you.
*Actually I like the song, but I don't think I should admit to it.
asparagus mom
Thanks for all the nice comments. I feel supported & loved. No, really, I know that sounds corny, but I do, and thanks. OK, I'm not being eloquent, but I do mean it.
This morning after breakfast (where I narrowly avoided the "gravy," i.e., lard in a jar heated to a semi-liquid state in the microwave—yeesh) Dad took me in his office and tried to show me all his financial records, but he couldn't make head or tails of his own stuff, poor guy.
He showed me one file, then put it away, told me a little about it, then said "I have all that information in a file here somewhere..." I pulled the same file out of the drawer where he'd just put it. "Is this it?" "Oh, yes, here it is," he said happily, opening it up and showing me the same thing.
The main reason I'm here is to facilitate a transfer of all their financial stuff to a guy who will take care of everything for them (we've worked with him for ten years, it's all good). But after this, I told Mom I didn't think he was really able to even have a conversation about the financial stuff, never mind sign papers yadda yadda.
"Really?" she says, surprised. I told her a few examples. "I had no idea," she said, looking shocked. "You see, he never talks to me about this stuff."
"Mom," I said, "He talks. You don't listen." Then, trying to be more compassionate, "You always finish his sentences because you don't want him to struggle for words." She panicked, told me to take Dad out to lunch, and ran in the bedroom and called his doctor.
Lots of feelings. Sad for Dad. Frustrated with Mom (I mean, how can you live with someone and not notice that they can no longer remember what happened ONE MINUTE AGO???) but not as much as I would have been before the unofficial Asperger's diagnosis. It's not that she's self-absorbed, she really can't perceive him. Also I'm sure in this case she doesn't want to.
I guess I feel it's good that I can feel compassionate toward her instead of angry. I just mostly feel sad for both of them—and I have to remind myself to feel sad for me too.
Ah well. This is life.
This morning after breakfast (where I narrowly avoided the "gravy," i.e., lard in a jar heated to a semi-liquid state in the microwave—yeesh) Dad took me in his office and tried to show me all his financial records, but he couldn't make head or tails of his own stuff, poor guy.
He showed me one file, then put it away, told me a little about it, then said "I have all that information in a file here somewhere..." I pulled the same file out of the drawer where he'd just put it. "Is this it?" "Oh, yes, here it is," he said happily, opening it up and showing me the same thing.
The main reason I'm here is to facilitate a transfer of all their financial stuff to a guy who will take care of everything for them (we've worked with him for ten years, it's all good). But after this, I told Mom I didn't think he was really able to even have a conversation about the financial stuff, never mind sign papers yadda yadda.
"Really?" she says, surprised. I told her a few examples. "I had no idea," she said, looking shocked. "You see, he never talks to me about this stuff." "Mom," I said, "He talks. You don't listen." Then, trying to be more compassionate, "You always finish his sentences because you don't want him to struggle for words." She panicked, told me to take Dad out to lunch, and ran in the bedroom and called his doctor.
Lots of feelings. Sad for Dad. Frustrated with Mom (I mean, how can you live with someone and not notice that they can no longer remember what happened ONE MINUTE AGO???) but not as much as I would have been before the unofficial Asperger's diagnosis. It's not that she's self-absorbed, she really can't perceive him. Also I'm sure in this case she doesn't want to.
I guess I feel it's good that I can feel compassionate toward her instead of angry. I just mostly feel sad for both of them—and I have to remind myself to feel sad for me too.
Ah well. This is life.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
misc news items
I edited this post since last night, because I decided that "good news" and "bad news" are too dichotomous for the situation here which is many things mixed up together.
Yummy: there is a fantastic new Peruvian restaurant about 1/2 mile from my parents' place. I had a gigantic plate of ceviche for dinner--yum!!! We're going back for lunch tomorrow. When Loopy comes with me next time we'll enjoy it too.
Sad: Dad couldn't figure out how to pay the bill. He left a 40% tip, added wrong so he came up with $599 instead of $59, and this evening he called me by the name of one of Mom's employees (granted he was talking to me through a door, but still).
Bittersweet: At least he was laughing at himself when he figured out he had $599. It's like he's let go and accepted that he's kinda losing it, which in itself is an unexpected little miracle (in the non-theistic sense). So we can talk about it and laugh and feel sad together, which is how I remember the passing of the other people in my life who've died. You get to a point where it's okay to talk about it and be sad and love each other while you have time.
Infuriating (let go, let go...): Mom's attempt to join in this invovles saying things like, "well, if your father remembers THAT I'll eat my hat," in front of him. She's been experimenting with the tone of this comment; she has tried irritated, jovial, and conspiritorial. Keep trying, mom, I'm sure you'll hit on something that doesn't grate on the nerves quite so much.
It would also help if she didn't get anxiously controlling when she thinks he's doing things wrong. "Jack, why don't you let [birdfarm] add up the bill--Jack, come on now, you know you can't do this anymore"—in tones normally reserved for trying to stop someone from risking his life ("Jack, come down from there—stop it! You know jumping won't solve anything!")
I just want her to be different. She just isn't gonna be. OK. Right. Moving on with my day.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
"mama" means "adequate" or "the way it is" in Japanese
so for this trip (I'm in AZ again) I have a new mantra: "She's never going to change."
Last trip I practiced just "being in the moment," which went okay for a couple days til I totally OD'd on "the moment" and went into a coma.
I'm practicing again, but now I've added the mantra.
As soon as I'm in the same space with my mother, I start getting angry. Up to now, this has always quickly translated into little bitchy comments, incessant squabbling, and general crankiness.
Last trip, with the whole "in the moment" thing, I was like, "Ok, I'm having a feeling. What is this feeling? Ah, I'm angry. I'm so angry. Soooooo angry. God, am I angry. OK I can't take this anymore I have to go shopping."
This trip I'm trying the next step. "OK, so why am I angry?" My response to myself: "Because I really want Mom to... [summary: be different]."
(there's always something more specific. I want her to...stop bugging dad, stop swerving all over the road, stop pointing at the people on the other side of the restaurant, calm down, make up her mind, finish her sentence. But it all boils down to the idea that I just really really want her to be different).
So for a while today it was, acknowledge the feeling, put words to it, and then the reality check: "Grrrrrrrr.... I really want her to be different.... But she's never gonna be any different, so get over it."
As the day wore on, this continuing conversation with myself started to get kinder and gentler, like I was talking to a sad friend instead of a stupid irritating person.
So what is it about her that I want to change?
Well, my therapist also helped me figure that out. We think my mom actually has Asperger's Syndrome. What that means is that she can't read faces, she can't empathize, she can't connect to others. The page linked above mentions that people with AS can learn social skills "as if they were learning to play the piano," which explains why (1) she genuinely wants to be a good person and (2) sometimes she really does helpful or supportive things but (3) other times she's way way way off and (4) even when she's helpful or supportive, there's no connection or emotion outside herself; it's like she's going through a routine she's filed under the heading "how to be a good person." Like playing the piano, but like a robot playing the piano. A robot that sometimes smiles which is just all the more confusing.
I also compared it to someone with leprosy. Apparently the main problem with leprosy is that you lose sensation in your extremities, so you can harm yourself without realizing it; part of the management of the disease is to continually check your body for damage so that you can treat problems as soon as they arise (I imagine it as something like, "right foot okay, left foot okay, right hand okay, left hand...aw, shit, how'd that happen? I *know* I still had my index finger when I got on the subway... Dammit, now I have to retrace my steps.") (I know, I know, it's sick, but the post was getting too heavy).
Anyway, the way a leper cares for his/her appendages is the way Mom cares for other people in her life, including me. She knows what things are Good and Bad to do to other people and she tries to do the Good things as much as possible. But she no more has feelings of connection with anyone else than the leper does with her toes.
Which is yet another thing Loopy has been telling me for years.
Last trip I practiced just "being in the moment," which went okay for a couple days til I totally OD'd on "the moment" and went into a coma.
I'm practicing again, but now I've added the mantra.
As soon as I'm in the same space with my mother, I start getting angry. Up to now, this has always quickly translated into little bitchy comments, incessant squabbling, and general crankiness.
Last trip, with the whole "in the moment" thing, I was like, "Ok, I'm having a feeling. What is this feeling? Ah, I'm angry. I'm so angry. Soooooo angry. God, am I angry. OK I can't take this anymore I have to go shopping."
This trip I'm trying the next step. "OK, so why am I angry?" My response to myself: "Because I really want Mom to... [summary: be different]."
(there's always something more specific. I want her to...stop bugging dad, stop swerving all over the road, stop pointing at the people on the other side of the restaurant, calm down, make up her mind, finish her sentence. But it all boils down to the idea that I just really really want her to be different).
So for a while today it was, acknowledge the feeling, put words to it, and then the reality check: "Grrrrrrrr.... I really want her to be different.... But she's never gonna be any different, so get over it."
I realized I recognize this feeling. It's this incredible frustration of hurling yourself again and again at a brick wall, always with the delusion that somehow this time you'll make a dent, you'll change the brick wall into something nice and it will give you a hug and make you feel safe and loved and happy. I want... I want... I want it so much and I can't have it.
As the day wore on, this continuing conversation with myself started to get kinder and gentler, like I was talking to a sad friend instead of a stupid irritating person.
"I really want her to be different."
"I know. But she isn't going to be."
"I know. But I just want it."
"That's okay, sweetie, it's all okay." *
So what is it about her that I want to change?
Well, my therapist also helped me figure that out. We think my mom actually has Asperger's Syndrome. What that means is that she can't read faces, she can't empathize, she can't connect to others. The page linked above mentions that people with AS can learn social skills "as if they were learning to play the piano," which explains why (1) she genuinely wants to be a good person and (2) sometimes she really does helpful or supportive things but (3) other times she's way way way off and (4) even when she's helpful or supportive, there's no connection or emotion outside herself; it's like she's going through a routine she's filed under the heading "how to be a good person." Like playing the piano, but like a robot playing the piano. A robot that sometimes smiles which is just all the more confusing. I also compared it to someone with leprosy. Apparently the main problem with leprosy is that you lose sensation in your extremities, so you can harm yourself without realizing it; part of the management of the disease is to continually check your body for damage so that you can treat problems as soon as they arise (I imagine it as something like, "right foot okay, left foot okay, right hand okay, left hand...aw, shit, how'd that happen? I *know* I still had my index finger when I got on the subway... Dammit, now I have to retrace my steps.") (I know, I know, it's sick, but the post was getting too heavy). Anyway, the way a leper cares for his/her appendages is the way Mom cares for other people in her life, including me. She knows what things are Good and Bad to do to other people and she tries to do the Good things as much as possible. But she no more has feelings of connection with anyone else than the leper does with her toes.
In a way this is a relief. When you actually realize that it's a brick wall, a real honest-to-goodness brick wall and its hardness and wall-ness have nothing whatever to do with you, you can stop hurling yourself at it and just deal with your own feelings about it, and hope that eventually, you can just say, "ah, there's that good ol' brick wall, we sure have some great memories," but not expect it to be anything other than a brick wall.
Which is yet another thing Loopy has been telling me for years.
*This approach--where you create an "adult" in yourself and build that into "the parent I never had," and take care of yourself and give yourself what your parents could not—turns out it actually has a name, transactional analysis. Which is funny because a lot of it I just came up with on my own, after some discussions with my therapist about the "adult executive voice" that I would need to be authoritative as a teacher. Funny eh.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Thursday, May 05, 2005
jackpot
Today is 05/05/05.
I've been enjoying that stuff ever since the turn of the century. For the first few years I was constantly doing little calculations. If you know how to view page source, you can see a bunch of them, but I won't bore my regular readers.
I've got an email to my prof half-written. That has nothing whatever to do with the multidude of little math calculations hidden in the html. Nothing, I assure you.
I've been enjoying that stuff ever since the turn of the century. For the first few years I was constantly doing little calculations. If you know how to view page source, you can see a bunch of them, but I won't bore my regular readers.
I've got an email to my prof half-written. That has nothing whatever to do with the multidude of little math calculations hidden in the html. Nothing, I assure you.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
me & robert redford
Your Seduction Style: The Natural |
 You don't really try to seduce people... it just seems to happen. Fun loving and free spirited, you bring out the inner child in people. You are spontaneous, sincere, and unpretentious - a hard combo to find! People drop their guard around you, and find themselves falling fast. |
 |
Well, it's been twelve years since I tried to seduce someone new, but that worked out well (wouldn't you say, Loopy?), so whatever my style is, it must have been good enough.
Although.... if memory serves, there wasn't a whole lot of "style" to it... I seem to remember something about a long, heart-in-throat conversation in a bookstore about whether we should "get more involved" or not....god, I was so young and earnest.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
FAQ: birdfarm and her blog
Q: Does birdfarm do anything else with her life besides sit around and blog all day?
A: No.
Q: Doesn't birdfarm realize that she can't hide out in her office forever?
A: That thought has occurred to her.
Q: Doesn't this worry her?
A: Did you know that it's the anniversary of the breaking of the Abu Ghraib torture scandal? Here's a darkly amusing take on the issue.
Q: Are you even listening to me?
A: What, I'm sorry—did you say something?
A: No.
Q: Doesn't birdfarm realize that she can't hide out in her office forever?
A: That thought has occurred to her.
Q: Doesn't this worry her?
A: Did you know that it's the anniversary of the breaking of the Abu Ghraib torture scandal? Here's a darkly amusing take on the issue.
Q: Are you even listening to me?
A: What, I'm sorry—did you say something?
Nadine's baby girl...
Since friends from college make up an increasing proportion of my occasional readers—not to mention fully half of my most regular readers (a.k.a. Franklin)(my other regular reader is Loopy who, thank goodness, has rarely been in spitting distance of my alma mater, and when she was there, she pretty much spat most of the time)—I thought I'd post the following. Plus, it's just too darn cute not to share.
Here is Alexa Sophia, flying through the air courtesy of Nadine's hubby Chip.
god, she's adorable!
See more of Nadine's baby pix or read her blog for entertaining updates on Alexa's growth and daily life...(and other topics as well).
Here is Alexa Sophia, flying through the air courtesy of Nadine's hubby Chip.
god, she's adorable!
See more of Nadine's baby pix or read her blog for entertaining updates on Alexa's growth and daily life...(and other topics as well).
Whitman Tongzi Banzai!
Once again I am responding to Franklin's comment with a new post. Ah, how he inspires me, and what a waste of time it is. But that's what blogs are for, no?
Below is a rare archival image of a member of the Walt Whitman Youth Environmental Brigade (center right), shown with figures representing other youth leadership groups.
Note the caption at left, "Long live Comrade Whitman!"
As is well known, the Whitman Youth fell out of favor during the Cultural Revolution, and unfortunately, most evidence of their existence was destroyed. And now a verse from our fallen comrade:
A few more items of interest concerning dear Comrade Whitman can be found in the comments on the previous post.
Below is a rare archival image of a member of the Walt Whitman Youth Environmental Brigade (center right), shown with figures representing other youth leadership groups.
Originally uploaded to Flickr.com by birdfarm.
Note the caption at left, "Long live Comrade Whitman!"
As is well known, the Whitman Youth fell out of favor during the Cultural Revolution, and unfortunately, most evidence of their existence was destroyed. And now a verse from our fallen comrade:
Who includes diversity and is Nature,
Who is the amplitude of the earth, and the coarseness and solidarity of the earth, and the great charity of the earth, and the equilibrium also,
None other than our great Leader, who brings us victory and tramples the capitalist swine under his feet!
—from Kosmos
A few more items of interest concerning dear Comrade Whitman can be found in the comments on the previous post.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Happy May Day, part II
Of course, I can't let this day go by without saluting its history.
You can read more about it here, here, and here.
But today I want to conjure in our imaginations is the spectacle of eighty thousand people marching down Michigan Avenue on May 1, 1886, on strike and proclaiming (not demanding) an eight-hour workday from that day forward.
That's one-sixth the population of Chicago at that time!
Imagine them marching. It is reported as a beautiful spring day. The street is lined with police, national guardsmen, and anyone willing to wield a weapon to protect the ruling class, because rumors have been circulated that murder and mayhem are planned.
I like to think that these folks felt pretty silly as they stood there "protecting" the trembling, cowering wealthy folk of Chicago...protecting them from a crowd of families and children, reportedly in holiday spirit, dressed in their best, singing songs and enjoying themselves.
The eighty thousand won—the eight-hour day went into effect immediately—not because they smashed things or killed people, and not because they moved the cold hearts of "the bosses" to pity and benevolence.
They won because eighty thousand people with a single goal are uncontrollable.*
The eight-hour day had been signed into law years before in many states, but the law was ignored. In contrast, unions and strikes were illegal. None of this had any bearing on the struggle or the victory. When hundreds of thousands of people across the country (estimated 400,000 total went on strike) announced that they would no longer be working more than eight hours a day, what could "the bosses" do but agree?
This power is what has been forgotten.
My point is that creating the world we want is not about the ballot box or the law. It's not about getting someone else (a president, a senator, a judge) to do what we want them to do. It's not about waiting for a great leader to take us to the promised land.
It's about organizing ourselves collectively to create the future we want to see.
¡La lucha continua - unidos venceremos!
*n.b. Eighty thousand, or eight hundred thousand, or eight million people who just gather with signs or candles... can be comfortably ignored, as we saw on Feb. 15, 2003 (although the pictures still make me cry...). This is why I don't put a lot of energy into protesting anymore.
Angela Davis visited here last year and she said something like, "When we used to protest, it was a demonstration of how much power we had, of how many people we had organized, who were determined to get something accomplished. The 'powers that be' knew we were unstoppable and they better not get in the way. But now, the protest is the goal in itself, and it's nothing more than street theater."
| Sheep: | "We need a permit to protest the fact that you keep eating us." |
| Shepherd: | "Be my guest, protest all you like." |
| Sheep: | "See how many of us are here, begging you, to please stop eating us." |
| Shepherd: | "Make me." |
| Sheep: | "But you're supposed to love and protect us!" |
| Shepherd: | "You obviously don't understand the point of my existence." |
And just for fun...
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Happy May Day!
Or, as we say in Wisconsin, "Well, it looks pretty gloomy outside, but at least we don't have to worry about tornadoes...
...because it's snowing."
...because it's snowing."
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