the semester's almost over, and for that i'm grateful. no more maps, analyses, or whatever for at least a little while. i do get to celebrate winning the alpha editorial competition, and having my discriminatory experience at the planetarium made known to other folks.
if you're interested, here's a sneak peak at the essay.
Have you ever noticed that families are not welcome to attend many
public events? I experienced that feeling when my young son and I were
asked to leave the Daniel Soref Planetarium.
All day, we talked about stars. I recalled how much I'd loved going to
the planetarium at as a child, and was thrilled to have the
opportunity to share that experience with Samadhi. He loves the night
sky, and often shrieks "Moon, mama! Moon!" when we're reading his
favorite stories. Why not show him something really special?
The weekly show was focused on the northern lights and would only run
a few more times. We could look out at the stars any time, but in my
22 years of life, I've only seen the Aurora Borealis once. This was
something that would dazzle the socks off this kid.
We arrived at the planetarium 15 minutes early, purchased our tickets,
and prepared for our adventure. I talked to Samadhi about the
constellations, and we sang "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." My
excitement mounted, I held my son's hand as we stepped into the
auditorium.
Before I could sit down, a woman approached me. "Excuse me, but you'll
need to sit toward the front with him. By the exit." My heart sank. I
knew exactly where this was going. Suddenly, we weren't just
customers; we were the pink elephant in the room. Everyone whispered
and pointed to us, What's that baby doing trying to look at our stars?
I grudgingly took Samadhi to the front, and we plopped into the only
straight-backed folding chairs in a sea of slightly tilted, padded
theatre seats.
I felt second class, as if I were being punished because I was a mom
who wanted to take my kid out to an event that wasn't baby-centric.
Just once, I wanted to spend a Friday night with my son free of giant
commercial puppets trying to overtake my home with unnecessarily
noisy, expensive, junk.
This did not sit well. I was upset about being singled out, and
Samadhi felt it. He became restless, and naturally began to misbehave.
The same woman turned to us and said loudly, "I'm sorry, this just
isn't working." We were escorted out before the show ever began.
Most people would say, "He's a toddler, they can't sit still for long
periods." My son sat through an entire performance of Joseph and the
Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat and didn't make a peep. Assuming he
wouldn't be able to handle an experience like this was unfair, and
singling us out added insult to injury. As we left, Samadhi asked,
"What happened to stars, mama?" How do you explain to a little one
why they are being left out?
It's time to acknowledge children as a part of our society, instead of
politely banning them from events. These exclusionary practices aren't
working. Our children should share in our lives, and be welcome to
experience wonder alongside adults to learn how the world works
firsthand.
Sunday
Saturday
mystical visions and cosmic vibrations
according to wikipedia: Shaman perform a plethora of functions depending upon the society wherein they practise their art: healing; leading a sacrifice; preserving the tradition by storytelling and songs; fortune-telling; acting as a psychopomp (literal meaning, “guide of souls”). In some cultures, a shaman may fulfill several functions in one person.
it's always an interesting conversation to reflect on connectedness while using a personal isolation device. this is the name i've given to socially deconstructive devices like cell phones, laptops, and ipods. while drawing away from each other, we are longing to connect. the sounds and images we seek in solitude are being seen simultaneously by others, so in that sense, we are building a collective consciousness. but i believe there is something more that binds us together.
i've always been a closet mystic, conducting studies in the night and away from the prying eyes of others who might misunderstand and judge. i can't make everyone happy, but it's important for me to try and make myself understand what is happening.i would even say it's become a compulsion, this search. leaving no metaphysical rock unturned, i seeking answers from dreams and visions. i read tarot cards, tea leaves, clouds, and personal effects. i always have. some might dissapprove, but it's capturing me, helping me to hold on to some connection with the world around me. and then there's the touching thing.
anyone who knows me can tell you i'm pretty much against being touched. on occasion, i meet people who i feel perfectly at ease with, and can maintain some form personal intimacy, but for the most part, i like to keep my distance. it's not because i'm anti-social per se. it's more about the actual repercussions of physical contact. it's difficult to explain, but i'll make an effort. when people touch me, it affects me emotionally. the only way i can ever relate it to anyone else is by using a story about jesus. it's luke 8:40-47, and it goes like this:
40 And it came to pass, that, when Jesus was returned, the people gladly received him: for they were all waiting for him. 41 And, behold, there came a man named Jairus, and he was a ruler of the synagogue: and he fell down at Jesus' feet, and besought him that he would come into his house: 42 For he had one only daughter, about twelve years of age, and she lay a dying. But as he went the people thronged him.43 And a woman having an issue of blood twelve years, which had spent all her living upon physicians, neither could be healed of any, 44 Came behind him, and touched the hem of his garment: and immediately her issue of blood stanched. 45 And Jesus said, Who touched me? When all denied, Peter and they that were with him said, Master, the multitude throng thee and press thee, and sayest thou, Who touched me? 46 And Jesus said, Somebody hath touched me: for I perceive that power is gone out of me. 47 And when the woman saw that she was not hid, she came trembling, and falling down before him, she declared unto him before all the people for what cause she had touched him, and how she was healed immediately. "
i know that's a far stretch, but something goes from me when people touch me, especially without my permission. there is an emotional drain that happens. people think i'm just being rude, but it's because it makes me sick. there are others who can help me with the simplest touch, people i press against in sleep and surrender, one of the few places i can find rest and escape from the maddness.
it's been a long time since i've had that rest, and i think i've gone and missed my opportunity. life is coming fast, and faster every day. i am seeking rest against the noise of the world inside myself. everything happens in due time.
“my home...it is my retreat and resting place from wars, i try to keep this corner as a haven against the tempest outside, as i do another corner in my soul.”
-michel de montaigne
it's always an interesting conversation to reflect on connectedness while using a personal isolation device. this is the name i've given to socially deconstructive devices like cell phones, laptops, and ipods. while drawing away from each other, we are longing to connect. the sounds and images we seek in solitude are being seen simultaneously by others, so in that sense, we are building a collective consciousness. but i believe there is something more that binds us together.
i've always been a closet mystic, conducting studies in the night and away from the prying eyes of others who might misunderstand and judge. i can't make everyone happy, but it's important for me to try and make myself understand what is happening.i would even say it's become a compulsion, this search. leaving no metaphysical rock unturned, i seeking answers from dreams and visions. i read tarot cards, tea leaves, clouds, and personal effects. i always have. some might dissapprove, but it's capturing me, helping me to hold on to some connection with the world around me. and then there's the touching thing.
anyone who knows me can tell you i'm pretty much against being touched. on occasion, i meet people who i feel perfectly at ease with, and can maintain some form personal intimacy, but for the most part, i like to keep my distance. it's not because i'm anti-social per se. it's more about the actual repercussions of physical contact. it's difficult to explain, but i'll make an effort. when people touch me, it affects me emotionally. the only way i can ever relate it to anyone else is by using a story about jesus. it's luke 8:40-47, and it goes like this:
40 And it came to pass, that, when Jesus was returned, the people gladly received him: for they were all waiting for him. 41 And, behold, there came a man named Jairus, and he was a ruler of the synagogue: and he fell down at Jesus' feet, and besought him that he would come into his house: 42 For he had one only daughter, about twelve years of age, and she lay a dying. But as he went the people thronged him.43 And a woman having an issue of blood twelve years, which had spent all her living upon physicians, neither could be healed of any, 44 Came behind him, and touched the hem of his garment: and immediately her issue of blood stanched. 45 And Jesus said, Who touched me? When all denied, Peter and they that were with him said, Master, the multitude throng thee and press thee, and sayest thou, Who touched me? 46 And Jesus said, Somebody hath touched me: for I perceive that power is gone out of me. 47 And when the woman saw that she was not hid, she came trembling, and falling down before him, she declared unto him before all the people for what cause she had touched him, and how she was healed immediately. "
i know that's a far stretch, but something goes from me when people touch me, especially without my permission. there is an emotional drain that happens. people think i'm just being rude, but it's because it makes me sick. there are others who can help me with the simplest touch, people i press against in sleep and surrender, one of the few places i can find rest and escape from the maddness.
it's been a long time since i've had that rest, and i think i've gone and missed my opportunity. life is coming fast, and faster every day. i am seeking rest against the noise of the world inside myself. everything happens in due time.
“my home...it is my retreat and resting place from wars, i try to keep this corner as a haven against the tempest outside, as i do another corner in my soul.”
-michel de montaigne
Monday
laws control the lesser man. right conduct controls the greater one.
10.20.08
every society honors its live conformists, and its dead troublemakers.
~mignon mclaughlin, the neurotics notebook, 1960
it's been a long time since the last update, informal or otherwise. since public allies, i've found my employment inconsistent but steady . i'm finding it difficult to be gainfully employed without compromising my ethics.
i find satisfaction in my freedom, and in helping others. it seems that these two objectives are rarely found in an employment situation, especially one tha allows me to survive while supporting myself and my son. the results are stressful, more than i'd initially anticipated.
adding to this stress is the full course load i decided to take on at alverno. i've always been the type of student teachers love to hate: seldom completing assignments in a timely fashion, often working alone, always acing the test. i understand the materials, engage the eteachers and others in class, and feel satisfied with myself. the difficulty is being satisfied, but not going to the ends to prove my learning to the professors in the traditional way.
i find myself asking, "why can't i just shut up and do it?" it's as if there is this inherent desire for nonconformity in my genetic make-up. god knows life would be simpler for me. i'd be happier, more content to simply do, rather than constantly question everything, and opt to go against it.
it's a tough road; one that inspires many philosophical discussions late at night. i am finind it hard to sustain this way of being, but do not want it any other way. the struggle to find balance is unsettling, and amazing at the same time. there are so many of us out there, feeling our way around in the darkness. someday we'll collide, finding each other in a moment of perfect harmony.
every society honors its live conformists, and its dead troublemakers.
~mignon mclaughlin, the neurotics notebook, 1960
it's been a long time since the last update, informal or otherwise. since public allies, i've found my employment inconsistent but steady . i'm finding it difficult to be gainfully employed without compromising my ethics.
i find satisfaction in my freedom, and in helping others. it seems that these two objectives are rarely found in an employment situation, especially one tha allows me to survive while supporting myself and my son. the results are stressful, more than i'd initially anticipated.
adding to this stress is the full course load i decided to take on at alverno. i've always been the type of student teachers love to hate: seldom completing assignments in a timely fashion, often working alone, always acing the test. i understand the materials, engage the eteachers and others in class, and feel satisfied with myself. the difficulty is being satisfied, but not going to the ends to prove my learning to the professors in the traditional way.
i find myself asking, "why can't i just shut up and do it?" it's as if there is this inherent desire for nonconformity in my genetic make-up. god knows life would be simpler for me. i'd be happier, more content to simply do, rather than constantly question everything, and opt to go against it.
it's a tough road; one that inspires many philosophical discussions late at night. i am finind it hard to sustain this way of being, but do not want it any other way. the struggle to find balance is unsettling, and amazing at the same time. there are so many of us out there, feeling our way around in the darkness. someday we'll collide, finding each other in a moment of perfect harmony.
Sunday
NaNoWriMo!!!!
it's almost october, which means that it's nearly november, which means that NaNoWriMo is nearly upon us!
what is NaNoWriMo? National Novel Writing Month, silly!
this is the delightful part of the year where i like to psyche myself up for an impossible task. every year, i say to myself, this time, i'm gonna make it. i just have to get past the outline and the awkward first chapters. this time, i'm going to be a WriMo!
so far, i've failed miserably, constructing nothing put more tension. but, rather than stressing myself out this year, i've decided to give myself a few outs. sure, i'm make another failed attempt, but then i'll nurse my spirits with a few more challenges.
1. writing fellowships
if artists can get paid to sit around and dream about the perfect piece, why shouldn't i be able to do the same with things that people actually care about? i mean, seriously, i need a patron...
2.the three day novel
a website that encourages you to do the same thing as NaNoWriMo, but in three days instead of thirty... i suppose my commitophobia would be best employed here. three very serious days of writing until i can't see anymore, that sounds like a dream. i'd planned on getting a cheap hotel room, locking myself in with a whole lot of booze a la hunter s. thompson, and writing my life's work.
3. the drinking and writing festival
there's also apparently a festival in chicago. i dare say i have found a harmonious marriage of two things i do rather well, and it's only a stone's throw (or hung-over megabus ride) away.
all that decided, it's time to brainstorm my NaNoWriMo novel. i'll take any suggestions, explicit photographys, or candy necklaces you aren't using...
what is NaNoWriMo? National Novel Writing Month, silly!
this is the delightful part of the year where i like to psyche myself up for an impossible task. every year, i say to myself, this time, i'm gonna make it. i just have to get past the outline and the awkward first chapters. this time, i'm going to be a WriMo!
so far, i've failed miserably, constructing nothing put more tension. but, rather than stressing myself out this year, i've decided to give myself a few outs. sure, i'm make another failed attempt, but then i'll nurse my spirits with a few more challenges.
1. writing fellowships
if artists can get paid to sit around and dream about the perfect piece, why shouldn't i be able to do the same with things that people actually care about? i mean, seriously, i need a patron...
2.the three day novel
a website that encourages you to do the same thing as NaNoWriMo, but in three days instead of thirty... i suppose my commitophobia would be best employed here. three very serious days of writing until i can't see anymore, that sounds like a dream. i'd planned on getting a cheap hotel room, locking myself in with a whole lot of booze a la hunter s. thompson, and writing my life's work.
3. the drinking and writing festival
there's also apparently a festival in chicago. i dare say i have found a harmonious marriage of two things i do rather well, and it's only a stone's throw (or hung-over megabus ride) away.
all that decided, it's time to brainstorm my NaNoWriMo novel. i'll take any suggestions, explicit photographys, or candy necklaces you aren't using...
Wednesday
the way the sunset looks off my balcony
the whole thing is sort of amazing, really. dusky purple overtaking flames of orange that die quietly at our fingertips. the end of an era each evening as we gaze longingly toward the west. there is magic in the twilight hours, as we've all come to know. i find myself waiting impatiently for those moments, pacing back and forth across the floor as if waiting for a lover.
the dream crossed twilight between birth and dying.
-t.s. eliot
this is how i've been feeling.
Una mattina mi son svegliato,
o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
Una mattina mi son svegliato,
e ho trovato l'invasor.
O partigiano, portami via,
o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
O partigiano, portami via,
ché mi sento di morir.
E se io muoio da partigiano,
(E se io muoio su la montagna)
o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
E se io muoio da partigiano,
(E se io muoio su la montagna)
tu mi devi seppellir'.
E seppellire lassù in montagna,
(E tu mi devi sepellire)
o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
E seppellire lassù in montagna,
(E tu mi devi sepellire)
sotto l'ombra di un bel fior.
Tutte le genti che passeranno,
(E tutti quelli che passeranno)
o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
Tutte le genti che passeranno,
(E tutti quelli che passeranno)
Mi diranno «Che bel fior!»
(E poi diranno «Che bel fior!»)
«È questo il fiore del partigiano»,
(E questo é il fiore del partigiano)
o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
«È questo il fiore del partigiano,
(E questo é il fiore del partigiano)
morto per la libertà!
i love a lot; i just hate people for making me regret my decision to love them.
walking through the rain, the night around us like a cheap blanket. passing strangers' silhouettes against siding. my toes slide across the surface of my sandals.
we hopscotch our way into the bar, one leg bent behind like a broken flamingo. you pull your sweater off against the heat and despair. we are young and flamboyant; the audience is melancholy and subdued. i feel guilty for smiling, rubbing my happy existence in their long porcelain faces.
i talk through the first set, hardly glancing back as the lonely troubadour marches in place, out of time. he looks longingly at all of us, focuses on you and i because we are the only ones with courage to stand, the only ones willing to roar laughter and stories into the suffocating atmosphere. he tries to silence us with those eyes, but we brush them off like a bad memory.
they don't matter, because what matters is this moment, and not that one.
sitting at the table, we find ourselves surrounded by a harem on beautiful strangers. introductions were made, but i've never been one for names. each one simply became a shade of her or she, blending into the background din only to be coaxed from it by a clever statement or mythological sorrow. (i forgot her all, soon enough.)
always, it is never a night without the cards. small, crisp and compact deck of wonder, everyone gathered round in a hush... almost reverently, they disbelieve. this isn't real, i have to know. i cease to be another one of them, and instantly am turned to a gypsy. or, the doomed prophetess fulfilling the duty of damned messenger once again.
Friday
terror seizes me from the chest.
"I am going to be passing through Milwaukee this weekend and then also during the beginning of the first week in September. I hear you are busy but I will give you a call. I'd like to get together and talk some things through. I hope that you and the kid are well."
these are all the words that he could conjure up after months of absence. of waiting, longing for the presence of what i came to understand as my "other half," whatever that is meaning to folks these days. 8 months since christmas, almost nine. looking daily at unfamiliar objects and longing for breakfast in bed. (coffee, or tea?)
neither, apparently.
feeling as if though i've been better than fair, better than good. giving opportunities for the door to be shut quietly and mess-lessly. anything but the dissolving of my heart, and my hopes.
IF, he once said. about coming back. somewhere, i must have filed that away in my mind, knowing how serious it can be to fall in love with a concept. an idea. a promise. (how does "the rest of our lives" sound as a concept/idea/promise?) IF i can come back to my senses, what am i to make of all this non-sense?
a photograph of him hugging his father on the bookshelf, connecting in tears with his family over his absence and the misery those promises brought me. what was i thinking? what am i still thinking?
there's a thing inside of me that hates myself because i can't help it- i know i love him. there's a thing inside of me that thinks, he'll come home eventually, and you'll get everything worked out. but there's another part of me that knows better. (it doesn't make me wish i were any less wrong.)
i've survived one more lunar eclipse. i can't look the moon in the face anymore without seeing his eyes laughing back at me.
"where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell."
edna st. vincent millay
these are all the words that he could conjure up after months of absence. of waiting, longing for the presence of what i came to understand as my "other half," whatever that is meaning to folks these days. 8 months since christmas, almost nine. looking daily at unfamiliar objects and longing for breakfast in bed. (coffee, or tea?)
neither, apparently.
feeling as if though i've been better than fair, better than good. giving opportunities for the door to be shut quietly and mess-lessly. anything but the dissolving of my heart, and my hopes.
IF, he once said. about coming back. somewhere, i must have filed that away in my mind, knowing how serious it can be to fall in love with a concept. an idea. a promise. (how does "the rest of our lives" sound as a concept/idea/promise?) IF i can come back to my senses, what am i to make of all this non-sense?
a photograph of him hugging his father on the bookshelf, connecting in tears with his family over his absence and the misery those promises brought me. what was i thinking? what am i still thinking?
there's a thing inside of me that hates myself because i can't help it- i know i love him. there's a thing inside of me that thinks, he'll come home eventually, and you'll get everything worked out. but there's another part of me that knows better. (it doesn't make me wish i were any less wrong.)
i've survived one more lunar eclipse. i can't look the moon in the face anymore without seeing his eyes laughing back at me.
"where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell."
edna st. vincent millay
Tuesday
for emily, wherever i may find her
i have a sister, older than me. i've not "met her" but her name is jill.
was. was jill. before my mother gave her up for adoption so many years ago, before she'd even met my father, or thought of any of us at all, her name was jill. jill was the first of 4 dynamic personalities that my mother would bring forth from her womb.
every year, my mother would lock herself in her room and cry. "it's her birthday today." jill's birthday, one of the many days i am certian that my mother thought about this lost little girl, celebrated with a curtian of tears. there have been curtians of tears, and little conversation.
checking messages, i listen. 16 new, after 5 days out of town. 4 from my mother, "call me." that standard exchange, nothing more. only, there is more. something desparate and urgent which is echoed in the voices of my sister and aunt. "call us." they are chanting there, leaving no clues.
my thoughts go first to my son, with his father the past few days. i have been dreaming in the east coast, making revolution and love. someone would have told me immediately somehow.... i move on. grandparents. brother. i think of everyone i know. something has happened. [what is it? won't somebody tell me what is happening?]my mother's phone goes to voicemail. i leave a hasty message and pace through the kitchen before calling my sister.
what is happening? "call mom."
we found her. what? who did we find? she found me. what are you saying?
that jill is alive and well.
i met her.
and she knows you.
breathing stops. what is happening here? the words i cannot find swirl in my head as i choke. choke. choke. her name is emily now, and she's your sister. you know her.
so, i do know her, though not well. i am fighting mental lions as i wait for the inevitable. this one's for emily, wherever i may find her.
was. was jill. before my mother gave her up for adoption so many years ago, before she'd even met my father, or thought of any of us at all, her name was jill. jill was the first of 4 dynamic personalities that my mother would bring forth from her womb.
every year, my mother would lock herself in her room and cry. "it's her birthday today." jill's birthday, one of the many days i am certian that my mother thought about this lost little girl, celebrated with a curtian of tears. there have been curtians of tears, and little conversation.
checking messages, i listen. 16 new, after 5 days out of town. 4 from my mother, "call me." that standard exchange, nothing more. only, there is more. something desparate and urgent which is echoed in the voices of my sister and aunt. "call us." they are chanting there, leaving no clues.
my thoughts go first to my son, with his father the past few days. i have been dreaming in the east coast, making revolution and love. someone would have told me immediately somehow.... i move on. grandparents. brother. i think of everyone i know. something has happened. [what is it? won't somebody tell me what is happening?]my mother's phone goes to voicemail. i leave a hasty message and pace through the kitchen before calling my sister.
what is happening? "call mom."
we found her. what? who did we find? she found me. what are you saying?
that jill is alive and well.
i met her.
and she knows you.
breathing stops. what is happening here? the words i cannot find swirl in my head as i choke. choke. choke. her name is emily now, and she's your sister. you know her.
so, i do know her, though not well. i am fighting mental lions as i wait for the inevitable. this one's for emily, wherever i may find her.
tcob with totb
what? for those of you who have missed the last week of my life (which is most of you, as i haven't seen anyone for months) i went to boston for this year's "think outside the bomb" conference. the whole thing was amazing. really. i made some incredible new friends, have created memories which will last a lifetime, etc etc. i definitely took care of business.
the best part, for me, was that i think i found a safe space in which to operate realistically. back home, it's hard to create that feeling with folks who could care less. i struggle to get involved with pre-established groups, but they're seemingly so caught up in their own pre-existing structures, that they aren't interested.
i met musicians, artists, activists, tarot-readers, story-tellers, and accordian players. a haitian, german, dane, etc. i met the sun's rays one morning on the rooftop of a revolutionary church in the heart of one of america's oldest cities, and that sunlight was ushered by the sound of a flute after a beautiful evening of real life humanity. i was moved. moved to speak, yes, but more importantly, moved to act. i made an action plan, which i will publish at another time in the near future. i have a responsibility as a citizen of the world to do what i can. there is music to be made, stories to be told, water-boarding to be committed (what?? long story... i heard it second-hand.)
i must say that i am certianly satisfied. it's good to be home.
Monday
breakfast at the pharmacy
there's something truly satisfying about being able to smoke a cigarette and read the times with your eggs done just so. the magic becomes hard to handle when that place isn't george webbs, but rather a locally-owned establishment dripping with old-timey pomp and unattractive waitresses outfitted in unflattering uniforms, balancing regular and decaf steaming in one hand, a plate of unappetising corned-beef hash in the other. the very simplicity of it makes me nostalgic for things i am not old enough to recall without a gentle tale from a great-grandparent.
i am singing the praise of the retiree's breakfast ritual. there is little more i wish than to be a septogenarian man, relishing in my old-oldness. i want simply to drink burnt hot coffee while arguing with the dehydrated, decrepid and wise. to eat a perpetual breakfast, indulging in a double portion of raisin toast, even if it means to sacrifice the enjoyment of other meals... overdone cholesteral from generously buttered slabs, doomed to cottage cheese or chicken salad with limited amounts of red meat. to be called "hon" by someone much younger than me in hopes of building enough rapport that i should feel guilty for leaving a 50 cent tip for a seven dollar meal consumed over a period of several hours. this is the life i fantasize about almost daily.
sadly, i shall probably never make it. due to birth consequences, i will never know the discomfort of erectile disfunction, nor shall i speak intimately about folk remedies for male pattern baldness. i will have to be content with my lot in life as a female secretly looking in on the lives of the regulars, sipping coffee while reading the paper, silver chains glistening hardly distinguishable from a forest of chest hair.
i am singing the praise of the retiree's breakfast ritual. there is little more i wish than to be a septogenarian man, relishing in my old-oldness. i want simply to drink burnt hot coffee while arguing with the dehydrated, decrepid and wise. to eat a perpetual breakfast, indulging in a double portion of raisin toast, even if it means to sacrifice the enjoyment of other meals... overdone cholesteral from generously buttered slabs, doomed to cottage cheese or chicken salad with limited amounts of red meat. to be called "hon" by someone much younger than me in hopes of building enough rapport that i should feel guilty for leaving a 50 cent tip for a seven dollar meal consumed over a period of several hours. this is the life i fantasize about almost daily.
sadly, i shall probably never make it. due to birth consequences, i will never know the discomfort of erectile disfunction, nor shall i speak intimately about folk remedies for male pattern baldness. i will have to be content with my lot in life as a female secretly looking in on the lives of the regulars, sipping coffee while reading the paper, silver chains glistening hardly distinguishable from a forest of chest hair.
Saturday
Cat Power's "Jukebox"
If you suddenly had piles of money just lying around, I might recommend purchasing a vial or two of Vincent Gallo’s million dollar sperm and pumping it into a drunken cellist beneath the full harvest moon? I imagine the results might be something nearing the edge of brilliance Chan Marshall has somehow managed to consistently deliver time and time again.
Jukebox, Cat Power's latest triumph, is the second cover album Chan has managed to pull of, pinning us to any audible speakers, leaving us sweating and slightly uncomfortable.
1. New York (Frank Sinatra) 2. Ramblin’ (Wo)man (Hank Williams)
3. Metal Heart (Cat Power *)
4. Silver Stallion (The Highwaymen)
5. Aretha, Sing One For Me (George Jackson)
6. Lost Someone (James Brown)
7. Lord, Help The Poor And Needy (Jessie Mae Hemphill)
8. I Believe In You (Bob Dylan)
9. Song To Bobby (Cat Power w. Matt Sweeney)
10. Don’t Explain (Billie Holiday)
11. Woman Left Lonely (Janis Joplin)
12. Blue (Joni Mitchell)
* original version on the ‘Moon Pix’ album
** first appearance of this song, co-written by Matt Sweeney
In addition, there will be a limited-edition silver foil deluxe package with a bonus disc containing the following 5 songs:
1. I Feel (Hot Boys)
2. Naked, If I Want To (Moby Grape)
3. Breathless (Nick Cave)
4. Angelitos Negros (Roberta Flack)
5. She’s Got You (Patsy Cline)
2. Naked, If I Want To (Moby Grape)
3. Breathless (Nick Cave)
4. Angelitos Negros (Roberta Flack)
5. She’s Got You (Patsy Cline)
clearly, chan is at it again.
Thursday
mediocrity in writing.
by rosy ricks
i attended a writer's conference last weekend in hopes of being challenged to a battle of writerly wits. to my chagrin, rather than being surrounded by the elite literati of the area, i found myself patronizing a well-read swap meet.
the focus of this festival was more sale than story structure. people wanted to know how and where to publish the heady magnificent volumes they had not yet written; unfinished manuscripts were passed from hand to quivering hand, with outlandish catchword-dripping synopsis: "well, it's a fake memoir about a bisexual vampire who wants to save humanity from aliens. it's also loosely based on my own experience as a middle school teacher and circus performer." to add to the charade, the published authors (drunk with power) held court in each workshop, advising hopefuls as if they'd won the pulitzer. most of them were local celebrities or veteran festival-goers, and that's not to say there's truly anything wrong with that. the problem i have isn't with the people associated with writing, per se. the odd mix of denizens that call themselves writers is part of the romance, the charm of belonging to a club of specialists. the problem i have is with the myth.
the writer's myth is a term i use to describe the lie haunting anyone who has ever found pleasure in their literary works, both great and small (or great, and not so great). it is the illusion that everyone is aching within the depths of their unworthy souls to devour willingly every letter that falls from the pen of anyone finds it fit to call themselves a writer. how i loathe the myth! i despise it, wish to end it through some act of mighty intellectual violence. i fantasize of slitting its throat and flaying the body, exposing the insides for all aspiring writers to see.
truth is, everyone isn't interested in reading your work. if you are writing for a specific niche, don't expect monumental cross-over and overnight international success. chances are, you are not the next dan brown, and if you do manage to get published, your name may remain in relative obscurity for the remainder of your days.
which brings me to my next point. as writers, many people believe that every drop of ink falling from the pen is deserving of a review in the times. the reality of the situation is that 99% of available published materials, and probably 99.5% of unpublished materials, are utter trash. while there are times one can accept the reality of being mediocre in certain areas and find great joy in the pursuit of the hobby, there are other times when being only slightly better than average doesn't cut the mustard. knowing how to use words properly does not a writer make. writing isn't given the same respect as other arts. it is abused by the masses, vomited into sub-par publications and used to exploit those who are addicted to story.
i can stand it no longer! i have come to accept i will never be a first-chair violinist, olympic athlete, or pilot, and never shall i entertain the idea. the time has come to kill the myth of achievable greatness. if everyone were intended to be above average, we'd have no need for the standard. we must apply this belief to our literary filter. there is a difference between marginal writing and a masterpiece. kill the myth! read with a discriminatory eye.
rosy ricks lives in milwaukee, wisconsin and is not a musician, scientist, or professional baseball player.
i attended a writer's conference last weekend in hopes of being challenged to a battle of writerly wits. to my chagrin, rather than being surrounded by the elite literati of the area, i found myself patronizing a well-read swap meet.
the focus of this festival was more sale than story structure. people wanted to know how and where to publish the heady magnificent volumes they had not yet written; unfinished manuscripts were passed from hand to quivering hand, with outlandish catchword-dripping synopsis: "well, it's a fake memoir about a bisexual vampire who wants to save humanity from aliens. it's also loosely based on my own experience as a middle school teacher and circus performer." to add to the charade, the published authors (drunk with power) held court in each workshop, advising hopefuls as if they'd won the pulitzer. most of them were local celebrities or veteran festival-goers, and that's not to say there's truly anything wrong with that. the problem i have isn't with the people associated with writing, per se. the odd mix of denizens that call themselves writers is part of the romance, the charm of belonging to a club of specialists. the problem i have is with the myth.
the writer's myth is a term i use to describe the lie haunting anyone who has ever found pleasure in their literary works, both great and small (or great, and not so great). it is the illusion that everyone is aching within the depths of their unworthy souls to devour willingly every letter that falls from the pen of anyone finds it fit to call themselves a writer. how i loathe the myth! i despise it, wish to end it through some act of mighty intellectual violence. i fantasize of slitting its throat and flaying the body, exposing the insides for all aspiring writers to see.
truth is, everyone isn't interested in reading your work. if you are writing for a specific niche, don't expect monumental cross-over and overnight international success. chances are, you are not the next dan brown, and if you do manage to get published, your name may remain in relative obscurity for the remainder of your days.
which brings me to my next point. as writers, many people believe that every drop of ink falling from the pen is deserving of a review in the times. the reality of the situation is that 99% of available published materials, and probably 99.5% of unpublished materials, are utter trash. while there are times one can accept the reality of being mediocre in certain areas and find great joy in the pursuit of the hobby, there are other times when being only slightly better than average doesn't cut the mustard. knowing how to use words properly does not a writer make. writing isn't given the same respect as other arts. it is abused by the masses, vomited into sub-par publications and used to exploit those who are addicted to story.
i can stand it no longer! i have come to accept i will never be a first-chair violinist, olympic athlete, or pilot, and never shall i entertain the idea. the time has come to kill the myth of achievable greatness. if everyone were intended to be above average, we'd have no need for the standard. we must apply this belief to our literary filter. there is a difference between marginal writing and a masterpiece. kill the myth! read with a discriminatory eye.
rosy ricks lives in milwaukee, wisconsin and is not a musician, scientist, or professional baseball player.
Wednesday
courting and release
the baby playing for the mama.
today, i step yet again into the court room for the well-being of my son. i am nervous as always. monday is also another hoop to jump through. this has gone on long enough, since before samadhi was even born.
people are saying all kinds of things about me, that i "abandoned" my son, that i don't want him. in the tiny town i grew up in, youngsters are gabbing, "so, what's the deal with her just dropping off her kid?"
everyone has a comment, an opinion; yet no one's spoken to me. no one has asked questions like, what happened or what's going on? how are you feeling? or maybe, is there anything i can do? instead it's just a nasty little chain of gossip from folks who couldn't stomach half of the struggles i've gone through.
up until about a month ago, i doubted the validity of my existence, the validity of my motherhood. i wondered if all of the things "they" were saying (some of my own family members, old friends, acquaintances, what have you) weren't true. wasn't i a bad person? wasn't i a drug addict? didn't i deserve everything that's come?
the answer is no. i do not deserve to be without my son, i do not deserve these behind-closed-doors judgements. i am not trash. in fact, i happen to think i'm a pretty great person. i've always worked hard, have never hurt anyone intentionally, and help whenever i can.
how many of these folks share my experience in social activism and community service? how many have been awarded experiential scholarships in art, writing, and leadership? more importantly, how many of them have had the courage to keep their children from conception?
why do we spend so much time tearing each other down? i am tired of the feelings of dread, tired of being judged. i am not going to stand for it anymore. i challenge anyone to live their lives as openly as i've lived mine. after that, i am welcome to any criticisms.
until then, i will take questions, and answer them to the best of my ability.
mustache, mustache.
this is the kind of thing life is all about. that's correct, mustaches.
me, personally, i'm more inclined to enjoy a fully clothed face, complete with connecting beard and lipwarmer. however, the mustache does have it's time and place.
my friends at the american mustache institute have done the glorious thing of making a top seven list of professions for men who wear their shame in public.
while i agree with most of this, i feel the mustache institute should have thought about this a little more. the most successful top lists start from the lowest level of awesomeness and work up. here, we see police officer immediately, and are set up for disappointment both comically and aesthetically. yes, cops (more effectively, state troopers) with mustaches are in fact a reliable go-to for a good mustache ride joke. but civil war re-enactor? also, for the sake of authenticity, does the term cop also cover mounties? and what about "psychopath" as top profession?
alas, i must say i do like the village people reference, but did one of my favorite golden girls deserve that? i think not. i suppose what i really want to see is a more clear hierarchy of facial hair. that is all. of course, if you're gonna go, you might as well go all the way:
Tuesday
i am going to charm school
we've been successful as a clan lately, it's been exciting. as it would happen, i actually got the spot for the charm school competition. this was the email i stumbled across this morning:
Hello,
Great SA. Would you mind if I printed it in our March issue? You are definitely in. We will contact you toward spring with more details.
Warmly,Melanie Beres
i am going to charm school. don't know what i'm talking about? see here. i am terribly excited once again.
upon entering my office this morning, i was in a pleasant mood. the ride to work was pleasant, my mother and i discussed my entry to the citigal charm school competition. i thought it was funny. we also talked about my little brother's success as a potential fellow at viterbo university in lacrosse, as well as his lead role in horlick's production of joseph and the amazing technicolor dream coat .
we are taking over, one institution at a time. who's next?
Hello,
Great SA. Would you mind if I printed it in our March issue? You are definitely in. We will contact you toward spring with more details.
Warmly,Melanie Beres
i am going to charm school. don't know what i'm talking about? see here. i am terribly excited once again.
upon entering my office this morning, i was in a pleasant mood. the ride to work was pleasant, my mother and i discussed my entry to the citigal charm school competition. i thought it was funny. we also talked about my little brother's success as a potential fellow at viterbo university in lacrosse, as well as his lead role in horlick's production of joseph and the amazing technicolor dream coat .
we are taking over, one institution at a time. who's next?
Thursday
How to Find a Job You Love in 10 Steps
1. Apply. Include well-tailored resume on fancy paper with no smudges or coffee stains.
2. After about a week, call back to touch base, or to remind them that you exist.
3. Arrange interview at an inconvenient time, for example: mid-shift at your current job, where your bosses are unaware of your attempt to jump ship.
4. Put on most uncomfortable professional outfit and smile. Promise to work at a modest (if not downright embarrassing) wage.
5. Put in your two week notice.
6. Send a thank you note instead of one that says “Seriously, hire me. I really need this job.”
7. Eat wasabi peas by the telephone while you wait for the coup de grace.
8. Pretend not to be upset when you are informed you have lost out on this job to someone “more qualified.” Imagine a stunning grad student with perfect teeth and a bright future.
9. Tell yourself you didn’t want this job anyway. Mumble incoherently. Use expletives.
10. Withdraw your two weeks’ notice. Head back to the drawing board.
Unfortunately, this is the way most of my job searches go. While I’ve an impressive array of skills and abilities, I haven’t had the opportunity to showcase them in a professional manner. Where in your resume do you list that you are a leader, after telemarketer or college drop-out?
Lack of professional experience and my age are enough to get me pushed right out of the rodeo doors of the corporate world. As a single mother at the age of twenty-one, I’ve got more skills with crib sheets than spreadsheets.
If I want to make this whole career thing work out for myself, I’m going to need all the help I can get. Enter Citigal Charm School. This is a chance to put myself out there for the world to see. Alright, fine, maybe just Milwaukee for now, but a gal’s got to start somewhere.
I have some experience, just nothing that wows. I’m working to fix that by serving as an Americorps member in the Public Allies program. I’ve been placed at the American Red Cross, but my ten month placement is halfway over. Then it’s back to my foolproof job hunting method in addition to juggling parenting and community service.
Why not kill two birds with one stone? If I’m able to hone my skills under the guidance of an experienced female mentor, it’s win-win. I get a great opportunity, the mentor gets to pass on her knowledge to someone up and coming, and the non-profits receive innovative fund-raising assistance. And hey, that thousand dollars doesn’t sound too bad, either.
So what do you say Citigal? I think I’m the one for this position. I can even send you a resume on fancy paper. Don’t be scared, I won’t disappoint. I’ll be next to the phone with the wasabi peas.
2. After about a week, call back to touch base, or to remind them that you exist.
3. Arrange interview at an inconvenient time, for example: mid-shift at your current job, where your bosses are unaware of your attempt to jump ship.
4. Put on most uncomfortable professional outfit and smile. Promise to work at a modest (if not downright embarrassing) wage.
5. Put in your two week notice.
6. Send a thank you note instead of one that says “Seriously, hire me. I really need this job.”
7. Eat wasabi peas by the telephone while you wait for the coup de grace.
8. Pretend not to be upset when you are informed you have lost out on this job to someone “more qualified.” Imagine a stunning grad student with perfect teeth and a bright future.
9. Tell yourself you didn’t want this job anyway. Mumble incoherently. Use expletives.
10. Withdraw your two weeks’ notice. Head back to the drawing board.
Unfortunately, this is the way most of my job searches go. While I’ve an impressive array of skills and abilities, I haven’t had the opportunity to showcase them in a professional manner. Where in your resume do you list that you are a leader, after telemarketer or college drop-out?
Lack of professional experience and my age are enough to get me pushed right out of the rodeo doors of the corporate world. As a single mother at the age of twenty-one, I’ve got more skills with crib sheets than spreadsheets.
If I want to make this whole career thing work out for myself, I’m going to need all the help I can get. Enter Citigal Charm School. This is a chance to put myself out there for the world to see. Alright, fine, maybe just Milwaukee for now, but a gal’s got to start somewhere.
I have some experience, just nothing that wows. I’m working to fix that by serving as an Americorps member in the Public Allies program. I’ve been placed at the American Red Cross, but my ten month placement is halfway over. Then it’s back to my foolproof job hunting method in addition to juggling parenting and community service.
Why not kill two birds with one stone? If I’m able to hone my skills under the guidance of an experienced female mentor, it’s win-win. I get a great opportunity, the mentor gets to pass on her knowledge to someone up and coming, and the non-profits receive innovative fund-raising assistance. And hey, that thousand dollars doesn’t sound too bad, either.
So what do you say Citigal? I think I’m the one for this position. I can even send you a resume on fancy paper. Don’t be scared, I won’t disappoint. I’ll be next to the phone with the wasabi peas.
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