Missing Marylyn

The end times...

2012-01-22T17:32:00.001-06:00

A friend of mine pretended to be horrified when I mentioned that I didn’t have the time or the money to visit my dying aunt. My youngest brother is taking care of this aunt at her home, which is 600 miles away from where I live, and 300 miles away from where he actually lives. He can do this because he’s not employed full-time right now. In fact, his “job” is now taking care of this dying person. He is learning a lot; he is learning things I don’t want to learn. I am mature enough to hear him talk about it, though. In years past, I might have avoided such topics. Death makes me uncomfortable.
Death was one of the reasons I became depressed when I was a teenager. When I discovered that it actually happened to people, I was confounded. A counselor I’d had at summer camp had been killed by a motorist as she walked on the tree-lined road near my school. I remember obsessing about her death: “But she had plans! She had hopes and dreams! It doesn’t make sense!” Which segued into: “So, what’s the point? Why bother?”
There were other reasons (discrimination against women, for one) that I was assuring myself it was not worth bothering to have “dreams and plans,” but right now I’m talking about death. The best people are doing it. People who have aged enough to know better. Why are they leaving us? Do they not care? As my brother says (sometimes with tears) “a whole generation will be lost.” He has loved this generation—his parents, his aunts. He feels they were harder workers, had more integrity, more courage. He’s probably right. My aunt (who is 91) worked in a home for the retarded and mentally disabled. She put up with low pay, little social regard, physical danger from the people for whom she was caring, and finally, an attempt to oust her before she’d qualified for her pension. She put my mother through nursing school. She never married because she thought she was “ugly.” She loved art and tried her hand at watercolors. She had friends, most of whom are dead. She is modifying and improving my brother’s cooking skills via her specific demands of the moment. She is a toughie. But cancer is eating her insides. She won’t go to a hospital, but hospice people visit. There’s oxygen (my brother rigged up a tube to go up the stairs, because her upstairs power outlets are out of date). My brother also cleans up after she’s had an “accident.” This is becoming more frequent.
She’s not the only one. Relatives of co-workers are going through these final days, and people have to take time off from work to hold vigils. My parents are approaching this journey, perhaps, being only a few years younger than my aunt. I don’t know what I will be called upon to do. And it may be that I won’t do it. I’m still working, I tell myself. I have no time. I have no travel money. It’s not something I want to face yet. And it will happen to me.
Baby boomers—who are probably one of the first American generations to be sheltered from death (except for those who went to Vietnam)—must now minister to their dying loved ones. No one escapes. First, the introduction to the process. Then, the invitation. Twenty or so years apart, but one follows the other.

My big mouth

2011-10-22T15:35:00.007-05:00

When I quit smoking back in the late seventies, the weeks that followed contained the first moments I opened my mouth and spoke as an adult. A smoker since age 15, I’d been shy, a writer, an observer. Tranquilized by nicotine, I had no urge to verbally express aggressive emotions (which I barely felt), and no experience in doing so. Instead I wrote doleful poetry that I showed to no one. As the cigarette-induced calm ebbed, I suddenly began to feel my own angers and dissatisfactions, but I was crude and spontaneous in voicing them. I'd picked up swear words from roommates, and used them, sputtering my first complaints about human (and working) conditions without considering the effect I was having on people around me. It seemed so important to release these burning thoughts and feelings, I couldn’t contain them. I was having tantrums like a two-year-old, and I paid the price. People were afraid of me, and I eventually got fired. More than once.
I also started to write my feelings (now that I was feeling them). This was probably not always a good idea either. I once sent a letter to my mother-in-law chiding her about some of her conservative advice. The next time I saw her, she said quietly, “I’m going to forget you ever wrote that, and I think you should, too.” I felt that my true self had been denied; I hadn’t been seen by her. But I was humbled, and I did henceforth keep mum about some things.
Despite practicing various methods for minimizing reactions and modulating expressions, I was always surprise-attacked by my own outbursts of rage, followed by weeping and guilt. I learned, as an animal learns, to maintain composure in front of those most important to my survival, but I often took it out on lesser persons or complete strangers.
Developing a more civilized language for my anger helped, I suppose. But nothing can disguise a tone of voice. My impatience with callers on the phone was well-known. When the job I have now evolved to include phone work, I struggled to build a "nice" and "helpful" persona. I didn’t want to be false, but what else could I do? I couldn’t afford to get fired again. Honesty is never the best policy, I was learning.
Fortunately, as I became older and more anxious about all of these matters, I got an invite to try antidepressants. After demurring for a few years, I accepted. The situation improved. I rarely opened my big mouth in the way I’d done before. I was tranquilized again. This damping-down was experienced in such a way that I’d recognize what was bothering me, but I could hold it in, or express it differently, or even engage in an exercise of empathy, building those inner muscles until I could almost always put myself in the other person’s shoes, boots, or sandals. My "feeling" responses were considered, if they happened at all. I started to prefer pure information.
I am still learning that even considered responses may not be received well, as with my recent response to a piece of writing by a friend, a tour de force that was supposed to be a joke, a parody, and which I took seriously. I complained about this friend’s "mean" attitude as evidenced in the piece, only to discover that it was a persona; that I had been meant to laugh and not take offense. In this case, my friend had struggled to develop this persona for art’s sake, and was proud of it. I am left wondering why I was so clueless. Is there something in me that seeks opportunities to criticize and find fault with my new-found ability to consider as I respond?
In a literature class I’m taking just for fun, we were discussing Gertrude Stein’s writing, in particular, the poem “Lifting Belly.” Apropos of nothing but my inner churnings, I burst out, “That phrase gives me the creeps!” The professor gave me the same look my mother-in-law had given me, as if commanding me to pretend I never said it. I'm qualified to be an adjunct professor myself, and have taught in the evenings now and then, but when I TAKE a class, I turn into a student, which, for me, means regression. It’s as if I had never been introduced to “political correctness” or even “taking turns.” I become the outspoken, spontaneous, complaining teenager I never allowed myself to be.
Becoming adequately socialized and modified so that no one will EVER be angry with me again seems impossible, at this point. And besides, why aren’t the people who complain about ME (or even burst out at me occasionally) worried about their own self-control and tolerance?
I’m finished with this self-modification project. My big mouth has undergone all the modifications it can take. I will say and write what I think and feel. I will edit myself for style, grammar and typos only, not for possible offenses. It’s took late for that.

Of an evening...

2011-09-15T20:00:00.001-05:00

I can stay pretty balanced during the day. There’s lots to do at work, and I’m with people some of the time, so I get feedback. Then I can go to the gym, listen to my favorite podcasts (Dan Savage, Slate Culture Gabfest, Mark Kermode’s Film Review (BBC), Howard Kunstler, Podcastle). But when I get home, I’m at a loss. Hence the beer and wine. Hence the obsessive Fairyland game activity. I used to be more self-sufficient. I also used to smoke cigarettes and write poetry, often at the same time. The same hope still lingers; one more NoDoz tab, and I’ll write the best poem ever! One more half-a-beer, and I’ll figure out how to quit Firefox, open up the word processor, and express myself freely again. I may be addicted to the internet in some undocumented, insidious way. Sometimes we do indulge in television here at the homeplace, but when doing so, I always have the feeling of being “kept” on the couch by my spouse so that we can “enjoy” the show together (albeit it’s always Netflix, since we don’t have cable). My remaining calm involves more beer or wine, and corn chips. Since I don’t really eat dinner, this isn’t making me fat, but I do wonder what exactly it IS doing. Enabling me to work the next day, I guess. Why doesn’t watching a really good episode of an HBO TV show give me the same internal “cred” as reading literary criticism does? Or better, writing some literary criticism! I just don’t approve of myself these days. I don’t know what it will take for me to approve of myself. Probably doing something totally horrendous about which I shall be FORCED to feel righteous. Don’t know what that might be. All I know is that I want to go back to being the author of my own life rather than a spectator, even if it’s being a spectator of others’ pretty-good productions.

What’s art & what’s not...

2011-06-30T18:21:00.003-05:00

The last show in our most beautiful gallery (we have three at this university art department) was a very skillful collection of paintings, prints, and handmade books by a student who has found her solace in religion. Her experience of religion is connected with the idea of Family. In all fairness, I have to say she loves children, and is capable of relating to them, catering to them, and portraying them. Some of her artworks are adequate portraits of children, done from photographs.
Many of her handmade books are full of photographs of herself and extended family. Some of these are cleverly made to be contained in small, ready-made tins.
At one end of the gallery, she’d arranged two tables, covered with a tablecloth, and arrayed with containers of candies. She provided plastic bags for collecting the candies and taking them away. I admit I availed myself of chocolate kisses until they were gone. There was also a small table with paper and crayons for any children who visited. This student artist also liked decorating cakes. So there were some styrofoam cakes covered with elaborate fondant on the candy table, and three large posters of cake designs on one wall.
This is an integration of Life and Art. So much so, that the critical thinker wants to say, it’s NOT art. I cannot stop the critical thinker, and I am one. This student’s artist’s statement waxed rhapsodic (not RAPsodic) about the influence of her church, God, Jesus, and (yes) the art instructors in her life. It was decidedly NOT post-modern. It was as if the ART was a by-product of her life. Is that so terrible?
Because of her great skill, her consummate craftswomanship, she will graduate and proceed with her life. I am reminded now of many students whose senior shows were very abstract expressionist; everything that they should have been. And yet, some of them are still struggling in life. I don’t think this gal will be struggling. She has integrated. Her skills are in the service of her particular social subset, and she is adored and praised by her immediate associates. What could be better than that?
And yet, in relation to our department, she has gone astray. It is as if we were unable to reach her. Will she end up doing posters for her church events forever? Or portraits of the children of fellow church members? Has she no critical bone in her body? OK, she NEEDED her community. And they came through. And she then came through for them. So her work is essentially collaborative. So many things are good about this, and yet I am writing her off, intellectually and artistically. This is my fault, my bias. And the thing is, she seems so happy. And I’m not, really.

What is sex these days?

2011-04-25T20:36:00.003-05:00

Just had another birthday. I’m rather accomplished chronologically. But not in other ways. I’ve never figured out what sex is. Has anyone? In the last few years there’s been a proliferation not only of “porn,” but of approaches to it; an expansion of “permissiveness” and appeals to its normalcy and desirability. There’s a whole new “normal.” And I thought I was a rebel, losing my virginity at 16.
That loss of virginity had nothing to do with love, and even less to do with a “relationship.” It was simply the thing to do at the time. I sensed that, given the tide of difficulties in my family of origin, I might be leaving home soon. And I would need some currency. I wasn’t capable of loving anyone then. I would occasionally develop intense feelings of dependency, but that wasn’t love.
So, now I’m to understand that I should have known not only how to achieve my own “pleasure,” but how to demand it of my various partners! I was a silent, shy girl at that time. I was lucky people took pity on me and gave me a place to stay. I wouldn’t have known an opportunity if it chucked me under the chin. I once stopped some hippie guy from “going down” on me because I didn’t understand what he was doing, and thought it was wrong and peculiar. I said, “Let’s take a walk instead.”
Although I’ve advanced quite a bit from that attitude, I’m still not comfortable with “kink.” For one thing, my spouse has no inclination at all toward that kind of thing (that I know of). For another, it seems like something that emotionally distances one’s sex partner rather than bringing them closer. But how would I know?
I tremble at the brink of realizing that I’m OF ANOTHER GENERATION! The world of so-called “intimate relations” is changing, and I am not changing with it. Perhaps I should stop listening to Dan Savage’s “Lovecast” on my iPod, and face the facts. I’m friggin’ OLD. Even the sex advice columnists and podcasters rarely deal with those in their 60th decade! I google “older women,” and get things for women in their 40s. Physically, I feel like I’m still in my early 50s, and I look good. But my mind is all a-whirl. Once I got over my runaway stage of life, sex, for me, was proof of love. Now it’s just another art form or recreational activity. I would like to think there is something mystical or cosmic about sex. But no, those options aren’t appearing on the horizon. All I can say is, thank goodness I’m married. Things in the sex department may be old-fashioned, but at least they exist.

Expanding/Contracting New Year

2010-12-28T21:37:00.002-06:00

My spouse and I are exchanging home offices. This means all the crap that we have each collected has to be transported several yards to another location. I already knew about my crap. I didn’t know about his. But that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I have to DECIDE what matters. All this memorabilia; it’s kind of pointless, now that I realize no one but myself is interested. All the newspaper clippings, notes jotted in notebooks, brochures I worked on, printouts of photographs, it’s all ephemeral. It represents a person I no longer am. Sometimes I wish I was that person. That person had a lot more energy. That person was capable of following an illusion to the very end (and the end is never a dramatic cliff, but a foggy expanse of nothing). So where is it that we embark from when we embark on a new venture? It’s not exactly the same mindset that we had last year, or last week. Every night, as we sleep, we change. It may not be to our liking. Things are shuffled off and allowed to fall into some abyss. I don’t even know if I am a “writer” anymore, even though that’s what I always thought I was. I can type pretty fast, that’s all I know. I like Christmas, because it means I get some time off; but the synchronicity of expectation of goodwill with my mood is not ideal. I no longer understand any of it. It’s as if, given my age, I have no reason to get all worked up about either Solstice or Savior. What I’m worked up about is much bigger. And because it’s so big, I feel small. I will be happy to have a door I can close. At least in my new room, I’ll be in control, and therefore, cosmically larger. I am introvert; hear me roar!

Through the looking glass, without a glass

2010-09-04T21:31:00.006-05:00

I don’t know if it’s real or not, this change that’s happened. I sit here sipping a non-alcoholic beer, not having had any regular beer or wine in eight days. In fact, I haven’t wanted any that badly. I wonder if I’m just kidding myself, or if this “sobriety” thing will stick. I’m preferring myself and my life this way. I like being in a state each evening where I can fully perceive what I’m feeling and how I’m interacting with others (and with material objects). I’m enjoying or at least tolerating my own thoughts. I’m getting more done after the regular work day is over. It’s as if I have finally realized that the person I am with a buzz on is a less sensitive, less feeling, less intelligent person. So I would like to choose the me without the buzz.
But does this mean I have to use words like “alcoholism,” and go to AA meetings? I’ve been to AA meetings in the past; I discovered that “the program” helped me lose weight, mostly because it gave me something to do and people to hang out with—people with whom I didn’t have to feign perfection or even competence. This kept me from eating between meals, somehow and, coincidentally, from drinking alcoholic beverages for about three months. I never admitted that I was “powerless,” or that I even had a “higher power.” That was 30 years ago. I’ve been drunk quite a few times since then, of course, and in recent years had settled into drinking a little every night. By a little, I mean one or two beers; two or three glasses of wine. Sometimes more. Sometimes less. But it was steady, except for the time my doctor asked me to cut back because something showed up in a test. So I stopped for a month, and it seemed easy. This time I’m stopping for no reason.
OK, there was a reason. I watched a TV show, and later, talking about the show with my husband, I realized I hadn’t understood, or perhaps hadn’t remembered the plot. This bothered me so a lot, because as a teacher of short stories, I need to keep plots in mind. Maybe it also bothered me that my husband calmly said, “I think you were buzzed, and that’s why you didn’t get it.” I don’t want to be thought of as someone who can’t “get” a TV show because she’s had too much to drink! So, I will become that other person, the smarter, more perceptive, more agile one who can remember everything. That’s the person I want to be. Can that person have a drink now and then? I don’t know yet.

2010-06-27T16:58:00.003-05:00

Early on in the history of being a girl on earth,
The feeling comes with the song: “Get ready.”
Because you don’t know yet!
You don’t know yet what’s going to happen.
It could be anything
And that’s exciting. “Get ready, ‘cause here I come.”
Here WHO comes? Who will it be?
Your world could change with one kiss.
Or so you believe.
By “world,” you mean, a set of sentiments, layers of belief
Between what you perceive
And what those perceptions signify
In the culturally prepared environment
Of your young brain.
“Like a rolling stone,” you say.
But you’re tethered. Winding the chains around you as you roll.
“Chains of love,” family love.
Love is just another word for dysfunction.
And dysfunction is just another word for narrative.
But no one asks you for your story.
Some can live without words.

Without music, it’s more difficult.
Thoughts not worth a penny, pennies lie all around, worthless.
At the school I visited in my dream,
I ascend the stairs, only to find students in costume,
Preparing for a play, and they want to know
What my part is. But I shy away
From their eagerness, and stare out the window
Out of which I can see the football team
Marching down the road victorious, coming home.
I know it’s all classic American stuff; and as usual
I’m not invested. My approval is expected,
But not examined. I wake up, but am not awakened.

Speaking of which, have you ever heard such nonsense?
Virtual mini-gurus make pronouncements;
You are supposed to respond. No matter what your concerns,
They are wrong. The trick is to think of nothing,
Followed rapidly by writing nothing. Only then
Can you say you are awakened. Because no one will know
That you’ve said it, and therefore will not contradict you.
I can really become absorbed by the patterns in the floating grease
That come into being when I run hot water into the chicken pan.
Depending on how hot the water is, the patterns are clear or blurred.
Right now there’s no hot water in my life. The patterns are way too clear,
And have solidified. Bits of tasty meat stick to the roasting rack.
I do not retrieve them, either for the cat or for myself.

Light at the end of the tunnel?

2010-04-22T20:51:00.005-05:00

I have recently been considering "retirement." Of course I couldn't afford to live on the pension that would be provided (although I could have with style back in 1970). I never intended to stay this long in any job. It's as if I looked away, and then turned back, and found myself in some kind of mainstream method, if not attitude, toward LIFE and CAREER. Please, I am not an administrative professional! Go to someone else! I know nothing but the Byzantine ways of my particular academic institutional employer. This is what I have "learned" during the last eleven years: how to fill out the variety of forms considered important by various offices, and how to plead and beg for forgiveness if those forms are not received on time or filled out incorrectly. Kafka would be proud. Oh, and I've also learned to consider interruptions an essential part of the job. My office is public, really, so I have no privacy. My privacy consists in what I don't reveal. And since I'm very forthcoming if a human being is in my presence, I reveal too much, always. It's not that I'm everyone's friend, it's that I feel obligated to everyone. Especially my boss. She's an accomplished, beautiful, liberated woman. Why does she need me? Someday, we'll both find out.

Too much to do

2010-01-30T18:07:00.003-06:00

Possibilities for communication have increased considerably in the last decade or so; that communication includes all kinds of obligation-transmissions (real or perceived). People who used-to-couldn't reach us to ask for things can now reach us at any time of night or day, unless we deliberately "block" them by turning our phones off, or avoid checking our e-mail. This situation will be impossible to keep up. Either communication will become more and more MEANINGLESS, or people will just break down. It's particularly damaging for people with a sense of duty and kindness. I think I'll try to rid myself of that sense of duty and kindness so that I can at least survive into the first part of the 21st century.

2009-11-10T22:40:00.001-06:00

I'm aghast I haven't updated this for so long. Moods change. Not in the same mood. Cannot articulate current mood. Probably has to do with the aging process. However, recent visit to parents' abode indicates that I, myself, am not OLD yet.

Stone soup and other delicacies

2009-08-03T20:45:00.001-05:00

Perhaps I make a mistake when I try to communicate what is actually going on in my mind and “heart” rather than try to create art that could manipulate reader or listeners into feeling and thinking those things for themselves. But art is so hard to make, especially with words. I’m taking the easy way by simply telling me like I am. Or as I’d like to be (which is part of what I am). At the same time, I’m superficially disgusted by all this “I” and “me” stuff. I’m no one special, and yet, I’m everything to me. That’s a joke. I think.
I’ve had this longish life that kind of moves inside me now as if I were an overfilled pot of soup, and when someone tilts me a little bit, some of my life spills out. They have to jump out of the way to avoid getting greasy spots on their clothes. Rarely do they thank me for a delicious taste of something unusual. Maybe that’s because my soup is quite common, and only the inexperienced think it’s something new. Most probably think it’s something to be avoided. People don’t have much conversation these days, or listen to each other’s stories, unless it’s presented as “art.” But I know there’s more to art than off-the-cuff storytelling. And knowing that, I despair. Who has the time to really perfect something? And who has the time to appreciate art?
Sometimes I wake up in the morning feeling like my brain is too small to form concepts, let alone comprehend existence. It wants to, but it fails. This is when routine comes in handy, but still, it leaves me feeling empty. My morning exercises soothe me as if I were autistic; my breakfast gratifies me as if I were a domesticated raccoon. The comics in the paper give me a sense of community and continuity as if I were a nun in a convent and needed news of the outside world. And then I go to work, which is just another trap. I’m looking for an escape hatch, but not very hard.
The older a woman gets, the less likely there is to be an escape hatch of the romantic kind (which is a favored kind of escape for us culturally-deranged females). There’s almost an inner compulsion to “give all of that up.” Even the daydreaming (if indeed there ever was any). But what’s to replace it? Here’s where living in a convent could have come in handy; surely such women understand how to deal with life directly, without romance. I’m thinking of Julian of Norwich, an old favorite literary figure of mine, who hallucinated upon a crucifix, and made a career out of it in the 14th century or thereabouts. Got herself a little house next to a church; didn’t have to do anything but daydream (about Jesus) and dictate. Oh yes, and receive visitors occasionally who were seeking her wisdom and trying to imitate her piety and get a special soup-stain upon them that they could see a vision of the Lord in. But prayer is a selfish thing. Prayer is not action, that I can tell. Prayer is meditation and navel-gazing, even if you think it’s the Lord’s navel you’re looking at.
I’m feeling some anger at the moment. Not sure what it’s about. Could be many things, or just life. Maybe my soup needs salt to make it complete, and I just can’t find any.

2009-06-14T18:28:00.004-05:00

Whenever I want to DO something, I have to yank my will and brain around. Therefore, I'm not sure whether or not I'm supposed to DO anything. I only have old paradigms to rely on. The sense of "duty" of a Catholic. The sense of "professionalism" of a long-time administrative person. The sense of aesthetic completion of an article-writer. What's new? My most recent REMEMBERED dream is also a DISMEMBERED dream. Another corpse, another era? My unconscious brought in an old friend to take responsibility for a murder; but I had to help cut the body apart, rather like sushi. It wasn't so bad in the dream--not bloody at all--it's just that afterward, in telling it, one thinks how bizarre it might seem to others. The body represents the psyche, so it's not really murder in the legal sense. It's just killing--or attempting to kill--various aspects of "the Shadow" a la Jung. However, these aspects return, because some of the body parts became "alive" again, although they were hidden under a bed. Uh-oh, fingers twitching! I am getting so tired of these corpses and body parts, alive or dead. They've been showing up in my dreams for decades. When will I allow my entire self freedom?

2009-05-15T20:15:00.002-05:00

Unfortunately, this recession/depression comes just when I feel like pulling back--not putting as much effort into my work. I understand the game is to make oneself indispensable, and that can be done either by doing more work than anyone else for the employer's bucks; or by controlling information (keeping certain procedures secret or confusing so that one is the ONLY person who can do a number of necessary things). The trouble is, it's all so boring--other people's priorities. I, personally, have ideas for poems, performances, outings, long letters to old friends and relatives, do-gooder activities. I claim no great MEANING for these things, but they are important to me, and they spring naturally from me. But none of these can be implemented right now due to time constraints and exhaustion. Other people (my boss and her boss) confuse their own career-related projects with genuinely humanity-helping efforts, and pull me in to assist them. This is NOT what I want. I have done this for years, and I'm sick of it. I want to promote my own views for a change. These views are not going to save anything or anyone, but at least I'd have them "out there," wherever "there" is, and it's possible I might amuse a few souls. Having to (essentially) grovel to make a living is really getting to me. But I WON'T take it out on my few students, come Fall. The classroom is where, maybe, I can get my point of view across. Please don't make me ponder whether or not my "viewpoint" is useful to these students. I'm transferring it anyway...it's my last chance.

Cheering up the world while sitting in my chair

2009-03-01T19:42:00.003-06:00

Yes, that’s what I’m doing. I’m interacting with people (or their virtual representatives) from China, Taiwan, Sweden, Portugal, England, Australia, France, and who knows where else. I’m taking care of their virtual animals. Oh, what a warm feeling it brings. I earn money by stroking these virtual pets in a Facebook application called “Fluff Friends,” in a kind of innocent virtual affection trade. Then I use that money (or “munny”) to buy various types of “food,” with which I gift the strangers’ pets now and again (admittedly, most of the “food” is consumed by my own virtual pet, a Land Giraffe named “Madame Y.”) I also buy “habitats” and “decorations” for Madame Y, as well as a series of “Minis,” or little friends to keep her company. These “Minis,” like most children, slaves, and real pets, cannot earn money, even for other people. They are not pettable. They are dispensable, and can even be given away as gifts.
Though I do have access to a vast number of virtual pets, and thus, a vast number of glimpses into the virtual decorating, eating, and commenting habits of their owners, I nevertheless am not “free to be me.” I must keep up with the virtual Joneses. Many pet owners change their habitats for the holidays: every holiday from Hannukah to Fourth of July. New decorations must be purchased; new gifts must be distributed so that one’s pet page won’t be sporting an empty Easter basket or Christmas stocking. One, in fact, gives in order to receive. That’s how it’s all set up.
For those who simply MUST shine, there are credit card options available for purchasing an “artsier than thou” environment, or fancier decorations and minis, with one’s REAL MONEY. Some folks buy multiples of things in order to create interesting background patterns on their page. Some use the application to create art, pictures that can be glanced at for a moment and appreciated, or possibly transmit something about another culture’s visual preferences. Some of these pages are missing the Fluff Friend entirely, the virtual pet originally chosen, and feature only myriads of Minis in starry skies, or feasts of flowers and hearts.
I don’t believe a Fluff Friend can “die,” although those who have not been “visited” by their owners for weeks may plead for others to send the owner a reminder. Peer pressure is encouraged here, I am not sure to what end. Now that I have my Madame Y, it seems a shame to abandon her, but others feel no such shame about abandoning their virtual Racoons, Pigs, Puppies, or Chicks. Many of these languish unvisited, unpetted, and unfed, providing neither munny nor joy for their owners, who apparently have “real” lives, or are playing more active/violent virtual games.
The idea of being able to “give” something, to make others “happy” with a few clicks of the mouse and a few minutes of time is irresistible, however, to some. It takes the messiness out of real-world charitable giving or volunteer work, and provides instant feedback. One is THANKED, one is petted, one is connected, one is able to identify with others on the safest possible level, from the privacy and comfort of one’s own home. I am reminded of the Buddhist meditative practice of breathing in the evils of the world, and breathing out love. What is really happening with this practice? Is world suffering eased? It can’t be verified. Neither can the “benefits” of Fluff Friends. I rest my case.

The Ultimate Reality

2008-12-07T19:32:00.004-06:00

Having just finished final grading for my first English class, I must have been relieved, exhilarated, disappointed, understood that achievement is relative—all those things. Because a dream that followed that night was extraordinary, and left me with a feeling I’d been allowed a glimpse of the ultimate “reality.”

It took place in and around a museum that kept expanding, becoming more like a castle, and then like an entire city, but still all one building, with halls that were sometimes streets; rooms that were sometimes entire mansions, and all at varying levels. An exhibition was about to open, and I was helping. The small room I was working in held a model of the base of an obelisk. The model was of styrofoam, painted gold, which I discovered when I accidentally broke off part of it. Distressed, I left the room, and noticed that other rooms were being filled with antique furniture. Outside was a model of the entire obelisk, but it had fallen over due to the wind. It, too, was of styrofoam. I didn’t know whether I should be relieved that others had had problems with the exhibits too, or if I should tell the woman supervising the re-erection of the outdoor obelisk about my breaking the other exhibit. Before I could say much, a golden object fell from the sky. It was a tiny piece of armor, just the chest part of it. It was made for a monkey, I knew. But inside it were other objects, including an ancient gold coin, which the woman gave to me despite my murmuring that I did not deserve it.

Coin in hand, I ascended some stairs and revisited the room where the obelisk base had been, but someone had substituted another exhibit. My worry gone, I went to a balcony that overlooked a landscape, and sat down in a chair. I soon became overwhelmed by the view to the extent that I no longer had the faintest idea that I might be dreaming; this was reality. I would never wake from it, never leave it, never grow tired of it. I knew the privilege of seeing this perfect sight of hills, clouds, and sun was somehow due to the coin in my hand. The clouds moved continuously in a hypnotic swirling motion, creating bursts of sunlight and shade in my eyes. There was no sign of sentient life, let alone “civilization.” All the forces necessary to Understanding and Experience and Acceptance were contained in this view, and although there was a feeling of slightly fearful awe, I knew I would never lose sight of this; it was the ultimate reality.

When I did wake up, I was neither disappointed nor relieved. My own familiar “reality” was adequate and pleasant. But I now suspect it is not the ultimate one.

2008-10-08T20:19:00.002-05:00

I feel that individual waking “consciousness” is divided into at least two parts. One consists of seemingly coherent thoughts that are in words or images, and these are necessarily contaminated by the “superego,” and/or influences on same. The other part is simply unknown, and may show itself (move into consciousness) as impulses or emotional responses. I am lately very aware of how the necessity to fill out a certain bureaucratic form, for instance, having to do with my full-time job (at which I strive to be conscientious, at least worth the money they are paying me) interferes completely and painfully with the “unknown” part of my consciousness. There is so little silence. And silence is necessary. It should be a given, not a treasure that one has to steal. And by silence, I mean a reprieve from certain roles whose fulfillment requires constant conscious self-admonition. That’s what “Fall Break” should be about. But it’s not. Not for secretaries. I guess what I’m saying is quite simple. It’s the reason people shout, “T-G-I-F-!” and the like. But there have been times when I’ve been able to hitch the two kinds of consciousness together, and not need a break at all. Some of these times have to do with teaching, being a “person” in front of a class. Trying to convince them it’s worth it to put some time into writing well. Because I know everyone CAN do it. It’s our human heritage. At these times, my two types of consciousness come together. At other times, however, when I’m NOT teaching and am in my other role, I feel, not for the first time, like Cinderella, only with no ball or prince in sight. Oh, I know it’s not “all about me,” but one can only be servile for so long before it becomes a fetish that might be worth joining a recovery group to eliminate. Yes, I feel like a teacher with a secretarial fetish.

Teaching

2008-08-31T19:15:00.006-05:00

I never really understood what it involved, although I've enjoyed almost every class I've taken. Mostly, I enjoyed following the talk of the professor (whoever it may have been) with an eye out for something with which to disagree, or for some point upon which I could digress. I felt free to burst out with statements when the spirit moved me. I must have been obnoxious, but I often felt as if I were riding in some boat down a turbulent stream with a few other people, and that making sudden declarations was like commenting on the water (which we were all watching) and on the sturdiness of the boat (which some of us might have been worried about). Or, as in the still from Fellini's "La Strada" (above), I would feel I was watching a circus performer whose credentials were ultimately unknown. Since I wanted to be a circus performer too, I would have no choice but to suspend disbelief.

It turns out I'm not that great a lecturer, although I certainly could work on it if I looked upon it as a performance. But that would mean two performances per week, and my natural rhythm is, like, two (studied and contrived) performances per year. I do care about my students, though, and I e-mailed each one of them regarding their "brainstorming" notes for their first essay (a mere two-pager). The essay is to be on Kate Chopin short stories, "The Storm," and "The Story of an Hour." The main female character in each story is, according to most of the students, "cheating," and "selfish," respectively. I don't believe this is what Kate Chopin intended to convey. Have expectations for women's potential and behaviors not changed since the 1890s? I suppose not. For these young people, the 1960s never happened.

In "Deschooling Society," the late Ivan Illich wrote:

"Universal education through schooling is not feasible. It would be no more feasible if it were attempted by means of alternative institutions built on the style of present schools. Neither new attitudes of teachers toward their pupils nor the proliferation of educational hardware or software (in classroom or bedroom), nor finally the attempt to expand the pedagogue's responsibility until it engulfs his pupils' lifetimes will deliver universal education. The current search for new educational funnels must be reversed into the search for their institutional inverse: educational webs which heighten the opportunity for each one to transform each moment of his living into one of learning, sharing, and caring..."

I have always thought the position of "professor" to be rather strange, even though I fell under its hierarchical spell when I was in college. I cannot believe that the people who show up for my class don't have ways of learning without me. What I have to share with them is what I happen to be interested in, but only for my own reasons. I am supposed to be teaching them "how to write," but the formulas I have been urged to tout have never been the ones I have used in my lifetime of writing. This makes me feel divided, and sometimes a fake.

Yet still, I want them to look up to me and come to me for some sort of "advice." I don't care what about, though.

2008-08-23T22:04:00.003-05:00

I love my dreams. Sometimes I have a really good one. This was last night's: I was in "New Orleans," or some city like it. I was drawn to a run-down store whose name was "44," and I thought it was...I don't know...but it turned out to be a fabric and yarn store. The woman there gave me a straw hat, and was very nice. I noticed that a young, naked girl was there, perhaps as a clothing model, I had no idea. Suddenly, my father showed up, about 20 years younger than he is now. I was glad to see him; he was supposed to give me a place to stay. But I must have gone into the wrong building, because I looked out the window and saw only water, seething, bubbling water, with some large fish in it just under the surface. I didn't know if this was a normal part of "New Orleans," or a flood. Soon, my father said I should come over to HIS side of the building, since there was a place to stay there. However, there really wasn't; there were some different levels, and there was a transvestite type of person where I was supposed to sleep, all dressed up fancily; or maybe it was a leopard.

Changes

2008-06-26T23:05:00.003-05:00

A women's group has come to its planned ending. The Buddhist group continues. I start teaching an English class in August while staying with my secretarial job. I am not sure what any of it means.

I have the same husband, same house, same closet full of thrift-shop clothes.

Previous eras of my life have not been like this at all. Many of the eras of my life have been extended "transition" stages. I was always looking for answers. Once (maybe in 1979) I said to myself, "If only I could twist my MIND around the right way, everything would be all-right." I am here to say, now, that even if you twist your mind around right, everything is not necessarily all-right. Because there is always "society," and "other people" to deal with.

I had so many pointless thoughts and anxieties on the way home today, I wanted to fumigate my mind. I really do want to figure it all out, but that's a bit self-involved. Better I should care about others. Not in a masochistic way, though. And that is the key. How do you translate the various motivations for "CARING ABOUT OTHERS" into something genuine? It must not be an escape. It must be excess goodness. Goodness (bodhichitta) is no big deal. Really, anyone can do it. It takes no skills! You just have to want for others what you want for yourself. Kind of Golden-Rule-ish, only more subtle.

So, in psyching up to "teach" beginning composition class, I am thinking: Maybe if I just want the BEST for each and every student, I'll do OK.

Who am I, inside?

2008-05-06T21:44:00.007-05:00

Every morning I do a series of exercises before breakfast. They are simple, not strenuous. They wake me up and they let me know what’s going on inside. Is my body refreshed by sleep or still tired? Is there pain in one knee and not in the other? Is one shoulder feeling stressed and the other normal? How’s my equilibrium? One of the exercises I feel compelled to practice is walking in place for several minutes on some smooth stones in a box; it’s a balance test among other things. I like to conclude with crunches and a sun salutation, but sometimes I don’t have time. Anyway, breakfast tastes better when I’ve worked for it, or rather, when I’ve communed with myself before I eat.

But wait: is the body the “self”? Some would say no, but I feel it’s half the self I’ve got. My other half. Especially now that I’m older, and it’s talkin’ to me every day. In my youth it was silent during most activities. It neither complained nor felt delight. I depended on it unknowingly, like a child depends on an adequate parent. Then it started exhibiting an ego, wanting to dance or run when I turned 30. This was followed by floating anxieties, manifesting in things like plantar fascitis (sore heel) when I was 40. Now my body makes poignant speeches involving entire systems, like the hip-knee-calf, or the shoulder-tricep-elbow. I try to listen. My morning exercises are a congenial meeting with my body. We come to some agreement until the next morning, when we review the situation again.

I am turning into a skinny old lady. I never thought this would happen. But it’s intriguing. The parent/child model has switched. My mind, judgment, experience, compassion, humor (what there is of it), now comprise the parent. My body is the child; fussy, sometimes in need of re-education or attention or simply going more slowly. I actually love my body now. I always did prefer the taking-care-of rather than the being- taken-care-of. I never noticed when my body was taking care of me.

If the body is an expression of the spirit, or even of “god,” then it certainly does carry one through youth, through unseen dangers. Then one gets to return the favor, having learned what it is to be “god” from the body, from material existence. The senses arm the spirit for the adventures ahead.

Aesthetic war of the sexes

2008-04-14T20:20:00.004-05:00

What is this? A competition between artful representations of female and male genitalia? One week after seeing a great local production of "The Vagina Monologues," I am present when a rather large painting of a penis wins a $1000 Best of Show award at an annual student art show.

Sheer size may have done the trick. Then there are the colors. The artist, an attractive young woman, uses lots of red and green and white. The phallus's surfaces contrast with the background, though the piece at sidelong glance seems to be just one hefty square of piled-up pigment. Looking at it straight on, it is impossible to ignore the central cylindrical shape defined by shadow, color, and texture.

The artist has been accepted to more than one graduate school. She obviously has the verve to succeed. This painting is one of her ongoing series on the subject. All of them are large, colorful, painterly, exciting.

In Eve Ensler's "The Vagina Monologues" -- a work made of words -- we have the female genitalia as a "village;" the source of a woman's identity; a piece of furniture; something to be dressed/adorned in a particular fashion; or something that speaks a phrase, like, "Come on in!"

The phallus -- in this work made of paint -- seems not to need a disguise or metaphor (except for the obvious one of being, for the moment, "art." It's simply THERE. Often erect, it has a singular purpose. The vagina is more vague, more open to possibilities, narrative.

I don't even know how to write about this, really. But if one is comparing possible aesthetic uses, it's clear that the vagina is more adaptable and exploitable. It doesn't have to "perform" to be useful. It can be seen as an empty theater, inviting a performance. But it does have a will, and often its will is not respected. More subtle and complex, its will is not as "impressively" expressed as the will of the penis.

And, really, what am I doing SEPARATING body parts from the persons to whom they belong anyway?

I see this young woman's paintings as demystifying the phallus at the same time as going along with its program. I wonder, in ten years or so, what other subjects she will deem worthy of her gooey, exuberantly applied oil paint.

Interior landscapes

2008-03-04T21:36:00.005-06:00

Although Boston and surrounding small cities are visually rich, the interior of my mother’s house offers mini-views strangely similar to the public environs of north Alabama. Cheap religious icons of plastic, glass, and metal; emphasis on the extended family, especially its past through photographs; a penchant for the “cute” and politically simple.

During my recent visit to my parents' abode up north, I was taken by the idea of impermanence, and felt a desire to cling to these tiny furniture-top interior landscapes created by my mother from the materials she felt comfortable with. When will I ever see EXACTLY their like again? However, even the art world now flaunts collections of meaningful detritus. Minus the personal items, my mother’s arrangements, partly an expression of (Great Depression/depression induced?) not-wanting-to-let-go-of-anything, would be considered mini-installations or shrines.

My friend Anya, whom I also visited in the Boston area, has shrines, but they are thematic and minimal. She knows how to let go. She also knows how to wield a dustcloth.

There was a sadness in looking at my mother’s frozen galaxies of objects. Once she is gone, they’ll be gone. For now, the interior of the house is still a reflection of her concerns and hopes, though her once-frightening creativity has finally been contained by such things as fake crystal rosary beads and potholders in the shape of owls. But nothing is wasted.

In the midst of this, in his separate bedroom, my father reads his complicated books and lets objects fall where they were last given attention. His collections are arranged in his head, and consist of scientific facts and historical anecdotes. Things drift to the corners of his lair: the lost shoe, the letter from a friend now deceased, two old pennies, an electrical outlet adapter.

Human is as human does. And I, a human, witness this partnered domestic stasis, collecting impressions and sentiments, making a shrine in my heart, knowing that to be as impermanent as my father’s thoughts and my mother’s objects.

It's all "good."

2008-02-03T18:49:00.000-06:00

I am sure many people have thought of this while treadmilling or stairstepping at the gym: "Here I am exerting myself, burning calories, moving objects (i.e. rubber-covered foot platforms) 'round and 'round in the material world; why can't my efforts be used to supplement energy sources like oil, coal, water power or nuclear power? If not for the benefit of others, then at least for the benefit of myself!"

Well, this just doesn't seem to be a huge concern or interest. Here's a company looking for ideas, but if anyone's submitted any, there's no evidence. I did find plans for a bicycle-powered washing machine that I would construct IMMEDIATELY if my "utility room" weren't so danged small.

I expend too much energy at the gym. It's part of my mental health program, but that's of little concern to most people. Lately I've been listening to English literature lectures on a used iPod. I can only do this for about half an hour, because my concentration tends to dissolve after that. One of the great things about aerobic activity, for me, is that my concentration DOES dissolve, and I tend not to care because I'm doing something "good" anyway. And yet, I could do something equally mindless and "good" by staying home and strenuously cleaning something. What's the diff?

The difference is repetition. I think I'm a closet autistic. I enjoy repetitive motion way too much. I find it soothing and redemptive. Although I am not completely lulled. I enjoy spewing some attention on the way my legs or feet or hips feel; on whether or not I'm having to exert more effort than the day before; and on what could possibly have affected that. My bad day at work? My not-so-healthy breakfast? My waking up several times the night before to let the cats in and out? My own body has become an endless source of fascination now that it's on the verge of becoming eccentric in its operation (intermittently dysfunctional). I am a baby-boomer, after all.

But, back to the ENERGY issue. Why is there not readily-available, battery-charging home exercise equipment? And more pertinent, why is there not this kind of equipment in public gymnasiums? Couldn't the gyms offer a menu of charitable causes for which their patrons could productively and directly ellipticize or stairstep? I would love to exert myself for utilities payments for the elderly; after all, I might be one soon.

And so the gym continues to be an invitation to iPod-enhanced solipsism, either via Teaching Company lectures or what passes for music these days (I can only imagine, not having downloaded any). But temporary (and possibly therapeutic) retreat into a world of one's own is NOT incompatible with generating energy as a by-product! I see fraternity/sorority energyraisers! I see tax deductions! I see measuring one's daily exercise "achievement" in terms of what one has done for the energy crisis, especially one's OWN energy crisis (on whatever level that can be interpreted).

Season's feelings

2007-12-22T22:53:00.001-06:00

An excursion to Florida, with tropical breezes turning slowly to cold rain during the long drive back. John K. in a Santa Claus hat. Bette making delicious soup in the house in the woods. Beth laughing in Bruce and Ryn's kitchen, putting on her Tallulah accent. New faces on the periphery, people with high-tech jobs. A new kitten in my house. Rigid schedules failing, giving way to spontaneity. Scary for a person like me, even for a few days. Christmas doesn't carry the meaning, something else does. I feel the planet turning, banking, skidding across space, but I stay on my feet. Waking up is like riding a bicycle; you keep remembering how to do it even if you haven't for a long time.

A blue and white dance

2007-11-21T16:40:00.001-06:00

Worldly things seem to be coming together for me. Despite paperwork SNAFUs, my degree-obtainment is drawing near. I’ll “walk” on December 16 at the winter graduation. I’ve bought my master’s gown; it comes with some kind of blue-and-white hood. This is to distinguish the graduate degree obtainers from the bachelor’s degree obtainers, I suppose. Blue and white are my university’s colors, but I am not sure university spirit is the reason for their presence here. Maybe they mean “English Literature.” I suppose I should find out, research the matter, which is easily done these days. Ah, here we go: “A master's degree gown merits three inches of velvet trim in the color of the college awarding the degree and an oblong sleeve, square-cut at the rear with an arc cut-away at the front.” Does that answer the question?

I have already been offered a basic English composition/literature course to teach in the fall of 2008. It will be strange to be going back and forth between buildings, a secretary for most of the day and a “professor” for a few hours a week. (The part-time adjunct instructor category is officially “lecturer,” but the students tend to think that the person in front of the room is actually a “professor.” Or a fool. Or something in between.)

Oh, I have all sorts of plans, daydreams. I want to make them write. I want them to crave and adore the written word despite its failures and flaws. Like the deaf, dumb and blind title character in the rock opera, “Tommy,” with his pinball machines and blindfolds for everyone, I want to inflict my own idiosyncratic solutions to not-necessarily-universal problems on vulnerable others. While they pay for it.

From a slightly different angle, it can be seen that to teach is to perform, but it’s also to invite others to perform, whether out loud or in writing. Such invitations may be ignored, and instructions for performances are always provisional and often misunderstood. Still, something might happen when I teach my first English class that won’t be happening if I’m not there. Although that can be said about anyone, that would be cool!

Red, red wine, stay away from me...

2007-10-30T20:34:00.000-05:00

I have a problem with red wine. I like it too much. Maybe it’s the sugar in it, or maybe it’s the particular type of “buzz” it gives me. Or maybe I’m actually an alcoholic. Whatever the reason, it’s red wine over which I have less control than other beverages. After the first speculative glass, I begin pouring and quaffing it like it was grape juice. Which it is, only fermented. I down it like I’d down handfuls of salty peanuts--absent-mindedly--but of course the effects are slightly more obvious.

Social situations make me uneasy, although I do love socializing with even vaguely like-minded people. I must have residual self-consciousness; a feeling of not being good enough; a feeling of having to play a role in order to be liked. These feelings are somewhat stressful. Wine brings relief. Unfortunately, wine comes in bottles bigger than a bottle of beer. Once opened, a bottle of wine is, for all practical purposes, gone. And often, it’s gone into me.

Sometimes I don’t realize I’ve had too much until I knock something over or bump into something with more than my habitual clumsiness. My intellectual capacities feel the same as usual (which could be illusory). The ability to express my ideas might diminish, but that is not always noticeable to others. Or is it? I cherish the notion that I can express things well, so that a reduction of quality in MY expression merely brings it down to average level. What hubris and denial, eh?

No, I’m not having wine now. I’m having a beer.

But, seriously, I need to curtail my inclinations when it comes to that red wine. The merlots, the cabernets, the shirazes, and especially, the red zinfandels, so light and playful and deceptive. Oh, and the pinot noirs, brought to public attention by the film, “Sideways.” At least I’m not as bad as either of those guys!

Has anyone ever noticed that they might have a weekly alcohol quota? I think I do. If I skip a drink of wine or beer on one night, I seem to make up for it on another. I should measure carefully for a month. I’ll bet my weekly consumption is quite regular. The question is, is it increasing? Let’s hope not. I know it’s increased in the past, but at the moment, I intuit that it is decreasing, as my DVD-watching, exercise, and clarinet practicing increase. Nothing can replace oblivion, but that’s what sleep is for. Let us toast to a good night’s sleep!

Time keeps on slippin' slippin' slippin'...

2007-10-13T14:00:00.000-05:00

Bought a used bicycle, as if I had the leisure to ride sedately to the grocery store, waving at neighbors and hoping for good prices on the makings of an autumn soup. As if I could hang around yard sales or appreciate gardens. As if I weren't compelled to show up at the same office at 8:30 am every weekday and stay there until 5 pm.

I am not as counter-culture as I used to be. Not conscientiously green; not an advocate of social experimentation. Long ago, I used to take public transportation and live in communes. Now I'm married, drive a car everywhere, and live in a small house that we own, but there seems to be no time to take care of the house anymore. Despite finishing my thesis (which was supposed to give me more time), I still can't keep up with the messes and the lack of organization in my own home. My new boss is excited about doing exactly those things in the workplace. Old files are being thrown out; old gadgets and chairs are being surplussed (put in a metal building on campus where some low-life company may eventually bid on them as landfill). My limited energy for optimizing my immediate environment is thus being sucked away, and I become slightly depressed on weekends. This leads to focusing on a rental movie or a series of pointless clarinet notes, or even the dreaded SLEEPING LATE, instead of the housework that I KNOW my boss is doing in her lovely home, in addition to bringing up her children and preparing for her classes, and her meetings with important people.

I need to believe that this is because she isn't "deep" or "questioning" like I am. Except for questioning how she wound up in charge of someone like me.

All's well that is?

2007-09-23T20:43:00.001-05:00

And, life goes on. Not sure if there is any point in my taking clarinet lessons (which I am doing). I’m not “obsessive” about practicing, which I’d hoped I would be. I am, however, influenced by the sound I produce, I seek a better sound, but it’s not my only thought these days.

There is no ANSWER, only the process of asking or wondering. I have flashes of places I’d like to be, like Marseilles, or Arizona. Or in Toronto at some sort of advanced workshop on meta-cultural criticism. Or maybe in New Zealand, visiting an artist friend.

A friend was sharing pictures this morning at the coffeeshop of his experience at Burning Man (in Nevada) last year...or was it the year before? Seems an interesting interlude, but not “reality.” Still, I’d like to go sometime. I think I could enjoy an amusing non-reality right now. I’ve been so serious for so long.

Reading “The Wisdom of Insecurity,” by Alan Watts.

Look Ma, I created a new self!

2007-09-09T10:28:00.001-05:00

I successfully completed my thesis “defense” this past Friday. On the way out of the building, I used the word, “ascertain,” and my friend from the Biology Department who participated in the defense as the “Observer” from another College, said, “See, you’re smarter already.”

“Welcome to the community of scholars,” called out one of the art professors from my department as I drove up to the house where Women’s Studies was conveniently having a party that night. She was enacting a mild parody, and I understood that, but I do feel different, somehow.

My decades-long recurring dream of having a baby (however deformed or non-human it turned out to be, and even if I accidentally lost or destroyed it later) recurred that very night, after the party. This time, it felt as real and true and as non-surrealistic as a dream can be. I was pregnant, and had gone into labor, and realized that my identity would soon change forever. Then someone in the dream reminded me that most women are mothers, and it’s not really anything special in terms of human achievement. But of course it’s special for each mother. And, it follows, for each master’s degree candidate, although they are legion.

Since I don’t have any “real” children, my “baby” has always been something like a thesis, some project or other. Perhaps this is the first time the "baby" was legitimate and had all its proper parts: brain, legs, arms, chapters, endnotes, bibliography. It certainly wasn’t premature. It took me six years. Ten years before that I was merely thinking about returning to school for English literature. In between, I somehow got halfway through an art education master’s but changed my mind. (From that experience I learned not to pay for graduate courses by credit card.)

Yes, I am one of many. I am officially in the circus-like “community of scholars” now, and for some reason, although while I was “pregnant,” I very much wanted to quit, I now want to “have” another one. Someday. Or, maybe I’ll adopt.

A woman's place is inside a bubble?

2007-08-21T22:07:00.000-05:00

I have just returned from a nine-day solo vacation, visiting friends and family in New York and Massachusetts. There is a mood I get into while away from frequently-seen faces and practiced routines that is a sort of pleasant isolation, as if I am in a bubble of non-judgmentalism that has a sheen of good will. It may come off as pleasant to others as well, though it is not necessarily my usual style. Since I am not investing daily in the outcome of the situations I enter while on a trip, I can be generous and calm. But it’s not a personal generosity. My mind feels empty, unattached. I imagine it’s Zen-like, but it could be merely repression (my dreams during trips are quite complex and intense). But during the day, though conversation abounds, emotions were either absent or stifled. I could barely detect any within myself, aside from the two flares of irritation that burst briefly when my parents called my name as I was leaving a room, forcing me to pay attention just as I was about to do something else. This happened once with each parent. I hope I made up for this by simply staying in the room next time as long as possible, giving what seemed to me benign (non-resentful) attention. What did it cost me? I could only act like this because I had little else to do. I participated in social events with friends and at-home time with family without experiencing a strong sense of involvement, whatever that means. This cannot happen in my “real” life. I have too much energy to remain detached. I often throw myself into my non-vacation life the way I used to with the pretend games I played as a kid, like “cops and robbers,” or “house.” This suggests that my non-vacation life is, in fact, a collection of games, such as “job,” “marriage,” “creative community participation,” and so forth. If so, I am happy to be “winning” some of them. On vacation, I could place bets, but I wasn’t really allowed to play. You know what I mean?

Too much writing going on

2007-07-07T21:51:00.000-05:00

Last week I waved yet another printout of my thesis (at that point about 100 pages) at my boss passing by in the hall, my boss who has nothing to do with the project of me getting my master's degree in a different department at the university we are both trapped in. "This is like a big piece of goddamn meat," I said to him, by way of random complaining and explanation of why I hadn't been enthusiastic about my actual job tasks lately. "I have to DO something with it before it rots. It's been marinating, but now I have to throw some spices on it and grill it before it's too late!"

So, that's what I'm doing. Got the fire going, but I'm still throwing more spices and herbs on that sucker. More than 120 pages now. But soon, soon, the smell of words roasting will fill my nostrils, and the taste will probably confirm my suspicions that not only has it been overcooked, but that steak isn't even good for me.

Natural occurrences

2007-06-17T19:45:00.000-05:00

It's hot out there. The grass is dry, and some lawns look scraped and scalped, patches of parched red dirt pushing into view through straw-colored remains. We're keeping the AC around 78 degrees, and it feels cool. I don't go out there much except to get into my car and drive to work, or to walk my requisite hour after the sun goes down. There are places on my walk that seem cool and breezy. That's because the people have just watered their plants and the sidewalk is wet and evaporating, creating a tiny local breeze. It would be interesting to be one of those people. The people who care about the outsides of their houses.

I walked past one of the don't-care houses, and the little boy on his motorcycle-looking bicycle said, "There's a bottle!" I had stepped on part of the same bottle the night before, so I followed his pointing finger, and there was the bottom of the broken beer bottle. Then I noticed he was about to contact a stray piece of it with his bare heel. That wouldn't do, so we both spent some time collecting all the pieces while his mother watched, immobile it seemed, from her chair on the front porch. "People just throw things out of cars!" I yelled, cheerfully. She nodded or something. I walked on.

The cop who lives on the corner has got the poison ivy starting up again by the big tree on the edge of the lot. But the drought has brought the vine so little fuel that it remains tiny; the three-part leaflets haven't even reached the trunk. I am not sure if I'm gung-ho enough to bring along my spray bottle of ivy-killer on my walk. Where did the expression, "gung ho" come from, anyway? It can't be good that I use it. Anything automatic has to be suspect. As well as anything over-considered.

I am trying to finish a tiny poem. It has eight short lines. It was an assignment from the Soul Mistress of my writing group. It's supposed to be about writing poetry, and has to contain an onomatapeia. I've written it, but it doesn't have quite the impact I'd like. I can see becoming obsessed with perfecting it. What other activity to pour oneself into than something as insignificant as the arrangement of a few words? Because, after all, a poem IS a magic spell, and the spell has to be cast correctly.

Then again, how can I "pour myself" at all in this weather?

Nothing is real; nothing to get hung about...

2007-06-05T16:46:00.001-05:00

The near impossibility of getting any sleep in my tent during the Memorial Day weekend music festival helped me appreciate my conventional house and its dusty bedroom. My state of mind at around 3 am both nights at the festival was bizarre. At that hour, music was still heard intermittently in the campsite area, followed by whoops and hollers of drunken delight. It was all very benign, but still, it forced me to go into meditation mode, discounting all worldly phenomena. Such mental “nothing is real” efforts tend to carry over into the next few days, when things are back to “normal,” and should be considered “real.” So I am not sure what the benefits of another such “vacation” would be, except that the music was very enjoyable. I am considering doing it again next year but bringing my earplugs and getting there early enough to secure a less public campsite. Seeing people’s feet shuffle along six inches from the tent opening was disconcerting. It made me think about homeless people who live on the street in cardboard boxes. My husband, who joined me for the second night in the tent, commented that in fact, it did not resemble the experience of the homeless, because we could look forward to getting back to our conventional house and its dusty bedroom. A homeless person, by definition, could not do that, but would be in a continual state of insecurity and anxiety about their own welfare. Perhaps he’s right.

Everything is so impermanent: our houses and cars, our clothes, our jobs and their technologies, the things we think we are interested in, the fluctuating states of our health. I always revert to being a “big picture” person, maybe because I’m lazy. But most involvements, intellectual, personal, or artistic, seem sort of illusory to me. Or they do now that I’m older than I ever thought I would be.

There is no reason to post the picture you see here except that it’s a “scene” that's now gone: my 19-year-old self, with my little brother (the Incredulous Pithecanthrope whose link is at left) during one of my infrequent visits to my family’s big suburban house (long since sold to another, more “together” family). It was 1969, and I was in recovery from the excesses of urban hippiedom, wearing my other brother’s hand-me-down vests and shirts. This was probably a few months before I moved in with a boyfriend and began working for a well-known Cambridge movie theater that, surprise, no longer exists.

The idea of impermanence (a shibboleth of Buddhism) is useful when you’re squirming in discomfort with just a thin mat between you and hard ground and being frequently jolted awake by sudden loud sounds as if undergoing torture by sleep deprivation experts. But it’s an idea that also gets you thinking—too much.

Hippie dippie time

2007-05-24T09:21:00.000-05:00

It's probably been about 30 years since I attended a "music festival." Not that I haven't been to concerts in the park, and such. A few years ago I even went to Lilith Fair for an evening with a friend, but we didn't camp out. I recall being angry because they wouldn't let me take my bag of healthy food into Lilith Fair, but instead wanted to make sure I purchased their crappy food for lots of extra money. But the music was good. I even got to see the multi-talented Jewel belt out some classic blues and jazz. (After that, I couldn't resume my ignorant, jealous disparagement of her.) My point is, though, that I'm going to a "grassroots" music festival called "The Acoustic Cafe" this weekend with a girlfriend and her kids. I'm actually bringing my tent. And mosquito repellent. My spouse may join me for a day; that will be nice; it's only a short drive away from the old homestead to which we daily cling. I hope I can forget my troubles and get happy. Honestly, I don't HAVE any troubles, really. But perhaps I can focus on enjoyment rather than anxious feelings of "what am I supposed to do next?" I may even eat a baloney sandwich on white bread! But I am bringing my special, healthy beer.

Home stretch?

2007-05-20T19:53:00.003-05:00

I shared my 87 pages of rambling on my topic with my thesis advisor. He said he liked the writing. In fact, he was in Mexico, working on an academic study-abroad program, and had taken the thesis with him. He said that he enjoyed reading my thesis as much as the New Yorker magazines he'd brought with him. Perhaps he was just flattering me, but why would he do that?

He did say, however, that I needed to restructure the order in which I presented certain topics, and that I needed to provide some context information for the "reader." Darn. I was trying to avoid that! To heck with the reader! My writing is about satisfying MY whims. Or used to be.

It's going to be a slugging-away summer.

"You were not a woods-colt, Janey"

2007-04-27T11:17:00.000-05:00

After a couple of intensive reading/writing weekends, I’ve completed an 87-page first draft of my “thesis” on the books and films surrounding the legend of “Calamity Jane.” The initial response from my advisor was positive. But as for me, however much I’ve done, I know it wasn’t enough. I did not read every damn thing there was; there is always more. I barely skimmed the surface, drilling down in a few areas, like the various attitudes in 20th-century depictions of Calamity as mother. The possibility of Calamity Jane being a birth-mother who gave up her baby for adoption first came to the surface in 1941 when a woman named Jean (Hickok) McCormick claimed to be Calamity’s daughter by Wild Bill Hickok. On a Mother’s Day radio program, Ms. McCormick read for an eager public from a diary and letters that she said her “mother” left for her. The content of McCormick’s material gave new energy to the Calamity Jane myth. Such films as Jane Alexander’s 1984 TV movie, “Calamity Jane,” and Larry McMurtry’s 1990 novel, “Buffalo Girls,” were based on these letters. Many people believed that Martha Canary (“Calamity Jane”) wrote them, though she was thought to be illiterate, and presumably dictated her autobiographic-ish “Life and Adventures” pamphlet that was sold at dime museums in the 1890s. If one were to make an irresponsibly general division, it would turn out that male scholars do not believe Calamity wrote these letters, and female scholars and writers do. We women want this renegade to be more like us; to have experienced not only the hardships and wildness of frontier life, but the womanly pain of unrequited devotion and nobly motivated maternal sacrifice. The diary and letters give her a new voice, even though it might be the voice of Jean McCormick, the wanna-be who at least got a government pension out of the deal (because the documents were allowed to serve as proof of her birth date, not necessarily her lineage). Most interesting to me (at one point in my scholastic frenzy) was the seeming absence from contemporary academic “discourse” of an anthropology Ph.D., a woman named Leslie A. Furlong, whose 1991 dissertation on Calamity Jane’s social/symbolic role in the Wild West was fascinating reading. A footnote in this 500-page tome, near the end, asserts Furlong’s belief that Martha “Calamity Jane” Canary was the author of the McCormick diary and letters. Being the suspicious person I am, I can’t help but wonder if Furlong’s admission of this belief somehow cost her an opportunity because it was considered a fantasy (by some male committee member), and her imagination too active for the tenure track. Or maybe she just had kids and kep’ ‘em, and said to heck with academic stardom. She did turn up on the 'net as an adjunct instructor in Virginia, but she hasn’t yet answered my e-mail! And the mystery continues. But this weekend I'll put my magnifying glass down and try to have some fun.

On being mistaken for a man

2007-03-22T11:19:00.000-05:00

I know of two women who have, well, turned themselves into non-women. One can’t take testosterone but (s)he’s doing his best. The other’s verging on manly. They’ve adopted new names. I try to remember to use “he” when speaking of them. I accept the situation without thinking much about it. They’d likely be pleased to be mistaken for men. Being a make-up wearing, male-gaze-craving female probably doesn’t seem all that swell to them. They haven’t even gazed at me much, that I can tell.

When I was growing up, the fairytale still shimmered. If you were beautiful enough, sweet enough, and lucky enough, you’d meet some man who would “take care of you” for the rest of your life. You’d have children, and devote your loving attentions to them and to him. You’d be honored for this, celebrated. You would work hard, but it would be a different kind of work— for love, not money. Your dependence on your provider husband would be echoed by his and your children’s dependence on you for those magical nurturing qualities. A seductive scenario, but one that seems a bit delusional nowadays.

Never mind that women (and men) have more abilities than are utilized by the above plan. Life takes over. Even if a person does marry early and “well,” suffering and learning inevitably occur. Poverty, boredom, abuse, incompatibility, angst, divorce, child custody battles, the Iraq war, you name it. Some of these I’ve experienced, some I have not. I never did produce offspring, so I often wonder if others consider me a “real” woman. However, I profoundly do not want to be mistaken for a man. But why not?

In the 1953 musical, “Calamity Jane,” Doris Day has an epiphany midway through: Darn-it-all, she looks like a guy! That’s why she can’t get the guy! Changes ensue. She must give up her wild ways, fix her hair, clean up her act. For the love and attentions of men (everyone has desires, right?) she must at least appear to be pedestal-worthy and risk being domesticated. Cultivating a single-gender appearance might skew one’s experience of oneself and others, but it’s worth it, isn’t it?

When I saw the movie I was nine years old. I did not laugh at this boisterous “Western” romp; I cried. I wanted to have it both ways. I understood that I was not beautiful (I wore glasses and had crooked teeth), nor was I sweet. I liked to play boys’ games. But, I now saw, unless I underwent a major overhaul, I’d have to sacrifice love. I couldn’t bear the thought of either. The film induced a three-year depression, or maybe a hiatus. I emerged as more of a girlie-girl, naturally. By 16, I was ready to “give myself to someone forever.” But no one I knew wanted that overwhelming a responsibility. So I tore the gift tag to pieces and went about my business for a few years.

I was tromping one day on Coast Guard-owned land near Plymouth, Mass., happily watching sea birds and feeling the wind. A stern voice called out from the next hill, “Young man! Better clear off! You’re trespassing!” My instinctive fear was not of being arrested or fined; it was of losing my gender identity. “I’m NOT a young man!” I retorted in a panic-stricken tone, strangely ashamed. I had not thought about being pedestal-worthy in a long time, but I apparently still wanted to have the option; I was still half-dreaming the dream.

I furiously strode off the property, not looking back, and the next time I stopped at a drugstore, I considered buying lipstick.But I thought of something else, too, in the wake of that unwanted authoritative attention to the “wrong” part of me. It had never occurred to me that love went both ways. I had to take charge of myself and my persona(s). I needed something solid to give, regardless of what biological sex I was or what gender I appeared to be. I’ll bet that my transgender acquaintances have known that for years.

Multi-tasking, interruptions, non-productivity

2007-03-12T21:02:00.000-05:00

OK, not that "productivity" is the goal. I mean, we live life just to LIVE it, right? Seizing the moment and its pleasures and pains? Or have I got it all wrong? I think my job is interfering with my brain. I knew that all along, but it was confirmed by an article I just read in our local paper, about the downside of multi-tasking. It seems my IQ is fluctuating. I knew it! I'm constantly interrupted by phone calls just as I begin to compose an art show press release or figure out a budget. People burst in wanting to talk with me just when I start on a big re-filing task. Sometimes I can't think of what to do next when I KNOW there are several urgent requests or looming deadlines. I have for the past two years or so congratulated myself for training myself to switch my attention easily, and for remaining "pleasant" while doing it. I have taken pride in relinquishing perfectionism, and perhaps even mere high standards in favor of not pissing anyone off! I do so want to be LIKED, since my "abrasive" personality has been a factor in losing jobs in the past. But gosh, I can't get anything DONE these days, let alone done well. And I know this mode of being at work has affected my ability to concentrate on ANYTHING when I get home. My willpower only goes so far; it gets me to the gym and keeps me there for a while. What a relief to be able to put one foot in front of the other repeatedly without anyone (including myself) bugging me about doing something else instead! So, then I'm supposed to go home, grab a snack, and work on my THESIS? I don't think so. And now I know it's not my fault, it's that my IQ is (temporarily) lowered due to the nature of my job. Nice to have something to blame!

About my friend Bronwen

2007-03-03T11:55:00.000-06:00

I just added a new link, to Bronwen's Melancholy Garden.
It's a blog I started for an online friend who lives in England. (The photograph is a triptych of Blackpool in winter, created by her daughter, Charlotte). I haven't heard from Bronwen in a while. Sometimes she is too weary to get online. She has MS, and is in her forties. Since being diagnosed, Bronwen spends a lot of time collecting realistic thoughts about life (in contrast to the cheery remarks of medical professionals), and has compiled an anthology that covers centuries, which she sent to me. I posted the introduction, but I haven't posted all of the anthology itself yet, which I want to have available as a link to a PDF file. Until I figure out how to do this, you can read Bronwen's well-written personal philosophy. She also added a profile. I am concerned now, because if she is unable to get online, I don't know what's happening. She could be in the hospital, or she could be gone. It was more than a year ago that I saw one of her "cynical" remarks on another website, and complimented her on it; everyone else was dissing her for non-positivity. That's how we started corresponding. Anyway, read the introduction to her anthology if you like, by clicking on the new Bronwen's Melancholy Garden link, and I will soon post a link within that to her complete book (which she had sent to a publisher, but which had so many copyright issues due to song lyrics that were included that the outlook wasn't good for an actual book). But the internet is another matter. I send my love to Bronwen, wherever she is.

Context is everything

2007-02-22T21:31:00.000-06:00

I have no topic tonight. Realizing how much the needs of "others" motivate me. If no one needs what I have to offer, then why exist? The genius of some people is simply to NEED things. I am so grateful for those who make me believe I have something to offer, even if it's only the use of a pencil sharpener. I want to be IN THE THICK OF IT. I am still inside life. Let it flow around me and knock me off my sandbar.

Spectator sports

2007-02-11T20:28:00.000-06:00

The other night, we went to the Sex Workers Art Show. It happens here at a run-down factory building, the same building where there's an open mic poetry night I sometimes attend. I'd been before, but it was the first time I took my hubzand. It was a different show than last year's, with more spoken word and fewer dances, but what dances there were were fun. Especially Ms. Dirty Martini's "Patriot Act," a dollar-bill-swallowing, bump-and-grinding, assinuating, irreverent, very fleshy spectacle. Ms. Martini at one point extracted a long necklace-like length of paper money from her ample rear end, prompting the Amazing R to pay a visit to the "merch" table to talk with her about magic and tricks. I stayed up too late, but it was worth it. The organizer and emcee, one Annie Oakley, wanted to remind everyone of the thankless anonymity of sex workers and also of those in service industries and low-end jobs -- basically, the minimum wage earners of this country. The Sex Workers Art Show is politically correct in a good way, and I'm proud that our city somehow snuck it in. And yet, it still raises questions about how much and in what ways the "sex industry" should cater to naturally arising "needs," and how much it manufactures those needs. Business has never felt obligated to question its own morality, and the business of America is still business, even if we are farming most of it out. At least the Sex Workers Art Show was American-made, but then, it was show-biz.

Living, not writing

2007-01-28T20:48:00.000-06:00

It's not working. Life is taking over. I'm helpless to resist. Long ago, I wrote, "Why must it be either live or write? This question keeps me up at night." I'm now getting plenty of sleep, as if it's been decided for me. Does this mean I'm a failure? Ah, but the time's not up yet. I still have weeks and weeks. Sort of. It feels as if time's going too fast, though, and that a huge paper is not a contribution to my well-being or the world. No, I'm not being lazy. I do plenty. But I just can't focus. I have produced approximately twenty-five rather dull pages on my topic. It required staying in my pajamas and not doing ANYTHING else those days. But really, I just want to be a person and enjoy my friends. Have coffee, talk. Write personal poetry. Any suggestions? Does a master's degree matter at my age? Haven't I proved ENOUGH just by surviving and thriving?

Hoop-jumping to commence soon!

2006-12-17T13:08:00.000-06:00

The time has come to quit whining (even if only to myself) about my thesis, and to start writing. As my advisor implied, I can go on believing forever that I’ve not read enough to know anything about my topic. I’ve read some, I’ve done some thinking, and (theoretically) I can therefore begin. As my sister agreed, it’s all BS anyway, no better or worse than previous BS I’ve produced, especially a paper I wrote two years ago in a course called “Writing Pedagogy,” based on a piece of “found” text that consisted of the word “BLAH” handwritten more than 200 times. I created an erudite 16 or so pages about that “artifact.” Surely I can create 75 pages on the literature and films surrounding the (mostly fictional) character of “Calamity Jane.” If I can post on a blog, I can do anything! I hope such ego-boosting occurs with all who do blogs! I suspect that it might! Ahem. So, for all the friends and acquaintances whom I may be neglecting in order to focus on this master’s-degree-obtaining task, here’s the thing: Marylyn’s need to be needed must be set aside for a few months while she tries to meet the six-year deadline imposed by the degree-granting entity with which she has become entangled. If she does not complete the requirements by the end of April, all heck will break loose. Or rather, she’ll have to undergo re-examinations in courses that were taken six years ago, and she does not want to do that, even though they were great courses ("Introduction to Literary Criticism" and "Women's Autobiography"). Yes, I’ve heard of people who procrastinated longer than the two years I’ve been guilty of doing same, but I don’t have that luxury, being an “older” student, and having taken a course per semester, making it truly “gradual school,” as an artist friend calls it. It’s now or never. This won’t be my last blog post, but it will be the one I’ll be referring friends to for a while in order to explain my absence from their e-mail inboxes and other media. Carry on with life in the real world, and I'll rejoin you soon!

Can we hairtalk?

2006-11-19T18:03:00.000-06:00

Having read somewhere that women’s comments on each other’s hair are the equivalent of men’s remarks about sports teams, that is, a ritualized “bonding” exchange, I’m trying to go deeper. Surely there are hidden meanings in women’s hair-related conversations! I think hairtalk is shorthand that women friends and even mere acquaintances use to describe their “spiritual” and/or psychological states, and sometimes to establish a hierarchy, a temporary pecking order, although the cultural “values” of styles and methods get contaminated by other factors and are never static. One exchange I had recently was a three-way. A woman who’d started CUTTING HER OWN hair very short was complimented (drastic changes, of course, trump everything). A comparison was made between her and another woman whose hair was a similar length, but because she was black, the “do” had a different look. Self-reliance was emphasized, and the manner in which one cuts one’s own hair was described. The African-American woman admitted that she had not cut her own hair, but acknowledged the wisdom and economy of doing so. Both women came to the conclusion that in the future they would go through a period of dreadlock. This, I think, was an important moment in the bonding process. The money-saving woman added that, following the period of dreadlock, a period of head-shaving would follow. The other woman did not respond directly, thus indicating that this was not a (nun-like?) passage she anticipated for herself. Meanwhile, the third party (me) advanced another economical (retirement-related) tack, that is, one of letting the locks grow and braiding them. The amazingly common denominator was ACTUALLY PLANNING THE FUTURE of our hairstyles to parallel life’s passages! Since none of us could know upcoming hair trends (which may have an influence), the plans were symbolic, and showed an acceptance of certain styles “meaning” certain renunciations, aspirations, roles. I must say that this type of “bonding” exchange seems "richer" than male reports of sports teams’ wins-losses/responses to wins-losses, because the females involved create most of the content themselves. I am willing to entertain arguments. And I know “richer” isn’t necessarily “better”!

Death-in-life experiences

2006-11-14T08:55:00.000-06:00

A long time ago, during a period of transition in my life, I had a dream that I was lying in the woods in a pile of leaves, dissolving. It felt delicious, almost orgasmic. I was becoming part of the forest, losing all the pain and sorrow I'd been preoccupied with at the time. But the dissolving stopped somewhere near the back of my neck, perhaps where the "lizard brain" resides, the basic instincts. So, I lived. I woke up and continued. But I did not forget the wonderful experience of almost non-existing. About seven years before that dream, I had had an accident on a Massachusetts highway, spinning around uncontrollably in a borrowed Volkswagen after vainly trying to correct a skid on slippery snow. I was a new driver, but cars all around me were wrecking that night. My vehicle went ass-end into a ditch, breaking its rear axle. Just before the spin ended, my mind said to itself quite cheerfully, "Well, here we go!" These are my near-death experiences, and I kind of like them. A few days ago, a friend of mine whom I hadn't seen for ages turned up at a gathering and mentioned that she'd been having death dreams. The people in the dreams who were dying were herself in another guise or persona. In the dream, disappearing was just fine, no problem, but when she woke up, she was distressed. I think she should have been glad. It's a privilege to be able to imagine or even experience some kind of death before the actual one occurs. So many things that begin in life, end. Whole "lifestyles" can come crashing down. Rehearsal is good. I don't know what my next death will be like, but I'm not afraid to find out. Not much, anyway.

The kid next door

2006-11-08T10:49:00.000-06:00

The "kid" who lives in the house next door once again (after his tenants moved out) is the son of a friend of mine. He's only 25, and he actually owns the house, having bought it some years ago in a mood of stability-seeking and hopefully, investment-making. He's a small fellow, slender, with a sweet face. He bakes cookies. He does carpentry. He puzzles over philosophies and concepts. He now studies computer information systems management after exploring other careers (including construction work). He would like a girlfriend, but most of the girls he meets just want to be "friends." He's going to visit my Buddhist group tonight, and I'm so proud, as if I were, yes, his mother. In some ways, I'm his mother's opposite. I think alternatively but I behave (for the most part) conventionally. She has always lived a "wild" life but lately has been thinking more sedately (I can sense her thought waves all the way from California). I am so pleased to be able to invite her son over for a meal, discuss literature with him, and emanate wishes for his happiness; not that I have time to do those things every day, or even every week, but at least now I have the opportunity. I've had a surrogate son before, but this one is a joy to know. Any single young women out there looking for a quality fellah?

Life and Hope and Buddhist Nuns

2006-10-30T09:40:00.000-06:00

Sometimes the propositions of Tibetan Buddhism really cross sticks with Human Nature, especially in the seventh chapter of this little Pema Chodron book I've got here, "When Things Fall Apart." In the "Hopelessness and Death" section, the charming, round-faced sage with a buzz-cut promotes the benefits of "hopelessness" and disparages the comforts of theism (indulged in by millions). It's an addiction, she says. Well, maybe some folks get hung up on a jolly, kindly, managerial God and can't stop thinking about him (not that addiction is always to kindly, jolly things), but I never did, even as a kid. Somehow, the threat of years-long punishment in Purgatory for childish transgressions outweighed any images of his hippie son Jesus's loving glances and mysterious but compassionate words. I was kind of glad to give up on God when I "came of age," and I had only recently advanced to laughing at the Everything-Happens-for-a-Reason cliche (whether it had to do with God or not). But I draw the line at dropping "the fundamental hope that there is a better 'me' who one day will emerge." I mean, what the heck did I buy this book for, anyway? Isn't an occasionally meditative, more peaceful, less reactive and impulsive "me" a better one? And isn't this book touted as an aid to achieving this? (Even though there's no "self," we're supposed to behave well toward others.) What's going on here is your basic "Zen" paradox: the harder you try to grasp an idea and roll with it, the slipperier it gets, and then the landscape changes, the leaves turn yellow, the clock falls back, and you're rolling uphill.

Test Drive

2006-10-23T09:29:00.000-05:00

I understand it's silly to be proud of NOT buying something I can't afford. I wasn't even tempted, really. I'd informed my daydreams, "No," ahead of time. But being on the edge of the cliff, enjoying the view, was fun. I was too sane to actually jump off. But used-car salespeople don't understand sanity. They are there to discourage it. As one of three trying to convince me said, "Occasionally common sense rears its ugly head." This was after I'd taken the nearly-new Toyota MR2 Spyder for a spin, with the top down. I never got to fifth gear, but fourth was a thrill. The woman salesperson, Dana, went with me, and directed me to a business park nearby where there was a pleasant loop road deserted for the weekend. It had a hill, several curves, and one short straightaway. The silver-and-black roadster had something special: auto-manual transmission. No clutch, just the touch of a finger on a steering-wheel button or the right palm gently tapping the spider-decorated stick. I got the hang of it almost immediately. Now that's not silly to be proud of, is it? I told them, laughing, that if they could work out payments of $100 or less per month, I'd buy it. The manager himself took MY car for a test drive, and reported it to be in fair condition. Hey, I KNEW that. The paper he then handed me invited payments of $316 per month for 60 months, not terribly high for some, but way out of my range. Besides, where would I park such a car? On the street as usual? No, I've parked it back in my daydreams, where it belongs, but the dreams are more vivid now.

Temporary Wowness

2006-10-20T10:59:00.000-05:00

I am so full of love right now for everyone. And really, it only took a glass and a half of wine (I'm a cheap flower child). I took a friend to a play (a play with lots of cussing and violence) and she liked it, and I was glad to be with her. WOW. I stopped to visit another friend and give him a birthday present, and he smiled and was hospitable and talkative. WOW. My brother does a great blog that brings some of the siblings and even my father ("Dr. Kinbote") together (virtually), and I'm so enthused. WOW. My husband is the world's best lover (last night), but also has given me an evening of alone-time (tonight) as if he knows what I need at every minute. WOW. And an elegant older woman (my age, ha ha) at the Buddhist-GroupTherapy-BookDiscussion the other night laughed at my jokes and sent me an e-mail today. WOW. People who need people are the luckiest people in the world! (or not, as the case may be).

Paean to Yoga in Cliché Mode

2006-10-16T10:53:00.000-05:00

One of my sisters asked me recently why I did yoga. Her view was that it was a waste of time. She’s a person with lots to do: a full-time teaching position in a European university, and two beautiful but willful little boys. She used to love to go to the gym and sweat. She seems to feel that unless something is strenuous both in appearance and subjective experience, it’s not really physical exercise. She doesn't really want anything less than her ideal workout (although she stays trim running after her children and shorting herself on meals) and laments her former-fitness-buff fate. I understand that; I am still addicted to cardio machines and weight work, and glad I have time to do it. And yet, I love yoga. It’s really more of a complicated discipline than either of the above, an exercise not of exertion but of control and precise forms. Rather than heavy breathing to pull in the air, the breath is coordinated with movements, usually very slowly done, calling for a lot of muscular strength in places you didn’t know you had muscles. The movements themselves are at the edge of what is possible for most amateur practitioners in terms of stretching and flexibility. American yoga doesn’t ask the impossible, and offers alternative positions for those who can’t quite do the lotus or the various twisting “binds” that conclude some of the more advanced postures. Poses like “triangle” are a balance challenge for me (let’s not even talk about “standing tree”)! The spiritual aspects of yoga are downplayed for Westerners; in my state-sponsored university gym, any “meditation” at the end of an hour-and-15-minute yoga session is verboten. But the vaguely-Eastern music drones on. Sometimes it’s pleasant when kept at a low volume. At the very least, it helps create the illusion that one’s movements are smooth, not jerky. I have achieved more of that “good achey” feeling (particularly in the hamstrings) from yoga than from almost any other workout. Friends of mine have had to take naps afterwards; even the instructor ends the class with, “Don’t go tossing any hay bales today. Be kind to your lower back; it’s probably very vulnerable right now. Drink plenty of water.” This is also what some massage therapists say after giving you a deep rubdown. I rarely follow the advice, but it indicates that there have been enough unfortunate post-session events for both yoga instructors and massage therapists to be wary of lawsuits. So something must be getting done to the body! I’m a once-a-weeker, not all that devoted, but I look forward to it. My Saturday morning yoga class makes my weekend.

Having a beer

2006-10-09T11:14:00.000-05:00

It's really my fault for playing the do-gooder role with other people's possessions. I fervently wanted my spouse to give his old computer to my friend who just had her appendix out. I overheard he'd transferred all the data from the old computer to the new one. I heard wrong. I must have seemed appallingly eager to take away his "box" that still had allegedly important e-mails on it. I put the pressure on. He got irritated. I got irritated. He left for a while, and in the interim I had to have a beer to calm down. It was only 5 pm, too early for a beer, according to MY rules (my rules are only for me, and I never expect others to obey them). Having the beer led to making chicken soup, which negated our plans for going out to dinner. See how out-of-control I can get on ONE BEER? By the time my spouse got back I'd calmed down and had a basic dinner to offer him. Things seemed peaceful. However, I soon found another source of irritation. I had promised to send an "estranged" friend a copy of some writing I'd done (about her) 30 years ago. I knew it was in my file cabinet somewhere, but I couldn't find it. Leo, the good (and still wonderfully alive) cat, tried to help me, but was only a hindrance, and I became agitated, once again, to the point of using bad language audible to my spouse, who was in another room, trying to "chill." At this point, I craved a second beer. But my "rules" said, "No!" These rules have waxed more stringent lately by the Buddhist influence, the idea of allowing oneself to FEEL COMPLETELY what is going on at the time, not smothering the opportunity to learn by distractions like alcohol, drugs, or television. Oh, I felt it completely. I was ready to smoosh up all the papers I've carefully saved (for whatever pitiful reason) and make a trashy bonfire on the front lawn, just as I often wish my spouse would do with HIS papers. Ranting, I drank an entire bottle of flavored club soda (about as expensive as one beer) trying to avoid the additional alcohol which would have provided the dulling sensation, the RELIEF. But relief did come as soon as I located the elusive materials in a red folder inside the cabinet. Looking at these papers gave me pause. I'd always been a writer. Here I had been fictionalizing a "breakup" between friends, using poetry and film scripting. Perhaps the person I'm sending it to will say, "What the HELL was she thinking?" But I'm fearless. I'll launch it off in the mail, thus bringing full circle one of the mysteries of my life: my obsession with abandonment by various women whose wishes I've "obeyed," thinking I was "pleasing" them by doing so. This one woman's response is not as important as the fact that I've made a tentative reconnection with her. But if I DON'T get an answer in a few days, I reserve the right to have at least TWO BEERS!

Learning from the boob tube

2006-10-06T16:37:00.001-05:00

Watching good television (namely, the last season of “Six Feet Under” episodes) is like dreaming. It feels as if it’s coming from your own mind. You know those people; you are with them in their kitchen, mourning a death or eating yogurt or chasing a bird out the window, and it’s all so deliciously angst-filled, like a tragic pastry. The few minutes after watching an episode are necessarily a streaming of that dream into your life. You haven’t woken up quite yet, and the phone call from your girlfriend who’s having an emergency appendectomy seems like a continuation of the show. Fortunately, you’ve just learned how to behave like a well-written amiga or family member should; you’ve seen many interesting examples in the last hour or two. These examples, combined with short-term memories of emphatic things your girlfriend has said to you when you’ve momentarily let her down in the past, guide you in your speech and behavior, and you want to serve. There would be exhilaration in venturing out into the night on an errand of mercy, whether it would be to feed her dog or to park yourself in a hospital corridor to tenderly greet her when she’s wheeled out, groggy and grateful. As it turns out, you get to do none of these things. Still, you were willing, and you think maybe she knows that, though others have taken the available positions. You go to sleep wondering, for the fourth or fifth time in about twenty years, what exactly the appendix is for.

Complacency, procrastination, identity

2006-10-02T16:49:00.000-05:00

I am way too comfortable at my desk at work. It leads to a false view of the world for hours at a time. The situation is extraordinarily forgiving. When I think of jobs I've had in the past, I'm amazed I have landed here. Students and callers-in seem to think I actually have power to help them. My boss is two hallways away and rarely bothers me with requests. People stop by to chat. My tasks are relatively easy (if sometimes tedious). I don't have to think about "teamwork" or group projects. I can indulge in personal e-mail and postings like this. I am respected and get regular raises. Something's terribly WRONG here! I don't deserve this! That's why it's convenient to have a failure-in-the-offing, such as my un-done thesis. THAT's what I've done with the old Marylyn; I've wrapped her up in the guilt and worry of a nearly-complete master's degree, and I can take her with me wherever I go. If I'm feeling uncomfortably satisfied, I just unwrap the psychic bundle of un-done thesis, and there she is, babbling incoherently from the middle of a pile of books about Calamity Jane and the Western novel.

The horror of not being horrified

2006-09-29T11:42:00.000-05:00

I'm wondering about my lack of aghast-ness upon finding out about the suicide of an acquaintance, a woman in her forties who was part of my "ladies who lunch" group. I was not close to her; she was not part of my daily life. I liked her. She seemed very cheerful, almost too cheerful. She loved dogs and children. She was unmarried; had never found "the one," and may have been "gay," but never made an admission of such (to me, anyway). Other friends from the group are quite distraught. I am more worried about them at this time than I am horrified by this person shooting herself through the heart with a 22. Is it possible it has not fully penetrated me, this news? It has been three days. Am I really so unenlightened as to care only about family, spouse, and very close friends? Or is the emotion I feel I'm lacking simply an unproductive panic that I've blessedly lost the capacity for? Even still, I asked the Wednesday-night Buddhist group to meditate on/around/about her for a few minutes. Like our now-deceased cat, Shadow, I must need an example of normal behavior to imitate, because tears came to my eyes only when I heard the sorrow in someone else's voice over the phone. Either Shadow was (in retrospect) guru-calm and free of kitty "samsara," or I am psychologically damaged, as we thought Shadow was. Or, none of the above.

Does "the way" get in the way?

2006-09-19T13:28:00.000-05:00

Caught between the personal and objective reality. No longer interested in my "self," but in something larger. What vanity, though, to think I've finally come around to something "spiritual." Came to the conclusion at Sunday's Buddhist gathering that the "spiritual" and "imagination" are the same thing, or rather, the "spiritual" is a powerful subset of "imagination." But that's OK, you see, because our shared imaginations create our shared realities in the sense that what's in people's minds governs their view of anything that's actually "out there," beyond the eyes, the breath, the touch. In pure moments when the imagination, including the spiritual imagination, is absent-- moments of shock and awe, for instance-- that is when we're really in touch with something greater, and sometimes it's not so pretty.

Disclaimer

2006-09-15T15:42:00.000-05:00

This blog is the place for what I'm missing in myself; it's an invitation. Build it and I will come? I will say nothing objectively new here, show no photograph that doesn't resemble one someone's already taken. The medium is (a big part of) the message. Presence on the internet may create an apparition within the soul, whose eyes are made new by the world each day. (I don't even believe in a "soul," really, so there ya go; problematic enterprise from the start.)