I embarked on this Holidailies project as a way to get into a discipline of writing, because I was NOT in one. Not a regular writing appointment, daily, with a journal. I thought it would be good to have/establish one.
But I find that there is a larger problem afoot. Not only do I have too many distractions and things that take me out of writing (such as crafts, constant housework, new games on the goggle box, movies, etc.), but I'm also finding that my depression is waxing and waning, mostly waxing.
The most alarming "symptom" at this point is that the usual voices in my head (hush - not the crazy ones, but the fiction ones - the characters in my stories) HAVE STOPPED TALKING. It's lonely and cold without them. It's been a few weeks since I stopped to write something down, or even thought "I need to write that down."
Have I lost the Muse? Have I lost my will to write? This is far more alarming that missing a week or more in a project that I voluntarily took on.
The remedy that I know of for this problem is to quiet my mind. Christmas Day was lovely (the Eve as well) because a sudden snowstorm shut everything down early. I went out for walks in it. A pretty but blowy and dangerous storm, actually. For this area. But it hushed everything. It stilled my mind just long enough for me to realize that the internal dialogue had stopped.
To quiet my mind, I have decided to rid myself of projects and only tackle those that a) earn my living and b) make life conducive to the creative side. There are stories to tell. I feel that I will not survive if I don't tell them. Time for writing, yoga, fewer screens, more ink, more walks with my dog. Distractions are necessary or life will not be balanced, but from now on, I'm choosing to pursue as many distractions as I can that nurture the creative me.
December 26, 2009
December 16, 2009
Photography as Entry Point for Writing
(A found handout from my days of teaching next door to the Center for Creative Photography in Tucson, Arizona. "Visual literacy" is the buzzword, but the media-saturated students are consumers not critics. Photography provides a "safe" space for them to exercise their critical wings.)
When you are looking at a black and white photograph, you are looking at something already at least two degrees from reality. One, it’s a representation of a moment from real life (still life, portrait, etc), AND it’s removed of color. So you have a frozen moment AND an abstraction.
Consider the following –
Genre
Many genres of photography are used to categorize and understand their subjects. As with poetry and prose (sonnet, drama, novel, blank verse), there are many different types of b/w photograph: photojournalistic, documentary, creative, abstract, still life, portrait, commercial.
Composition
Darkroom techniques can enhance a photo, turn it “sepia” and “old-fashioned” or layer it with other images.
Color, light, shadow
Try this: take a photo and put it on a copier which is programmed to read only BLACK or WHITE. See what is lost in the copy from the photo.
In b/w, you don’t just have black and white. There are hundreds of grays, a deep dark black, a black with some shapes of darker black, a completely white area. You want to look for “information” in each area — is that a technical flaw or is that intentionally a purely black area on the photograph? Are the grays warm or cold? Look for positive and negative areas, which can be black, white, or gray, depending on the subject.
Point of View/Angle
Imagine yourself standing behind the photographer, imagine yourself in the photo, and imagine yourself as the photographer.
Context
From the title and date (if there is one), what can you tell about the photograph? List all the contextual elements that might be weighing on the photograph, invisibly. What larger body of work is this photo part of? What other works/artists are like this photo/photographer?
Personal Response
Finally, how does this photograph have significance to you in your lifespan? As a part of this country, as part of the human race? How might the photo have significance to YOUR reader? What would you like to say to the reader if you were looking at the photo together?
When you are looking at a black and white photograph, you are looking at something already at least two degrees from reality. One, it’s a representation of a moment from real life (still life, portrait, etc), AND it’s removed of color. So you have a frozen moment AND an abstraction.
Consider the following –
Genre
Many genres of photography are used to categorize and understand their subjects. As with poetry and prose (sonnet, drama, novel, blank verse), there are many different types of b/w photograph: photojournalistic, documentary, creative, abstract, still life, portrait, commercial.
Composition
Darkroom techniques can enhance a photo, turn it “sepia” and “old-fashioned” or layer it with other images.
Color, light, shadow
Try this: take a photo and put it on a copier which is programmed to read only BLACK or WHITE. See what is lost in the copy from the photo.
In b/w, you don’t just have black and white. There are hundreds of grays, a deep dark black, a black with some shapes of darker black, a completely white area. You want to look for “information” in each area — is that a technical flaw or is that intentionally a purely black area on the photograph? Are the grays warm or cold? Look for positive and negative areas, which can be black, white, or gray, depending on the subject.
Point of View/Angle
Imagine yourself standing behind the photographer, imagine yourself in the photo, and imagine yourself as the photographer.
Context
From the title and date (if there is one), what can you tell about the photograph? List all the contextual elements that might be weighing on the photograph, invisibly. What larger body of work is this photo part of? What other works/artists are like this photo/photographer?
Personal Response
Finally, how does this photograph have significance to you in your lifespan? As a part of this country, as part of the human race? How might the photo have significance to YOUR reader? What would you like to say to the reader if you were looking at the photo together?
December 13, 2009
Santa Lives!
Holidailies offers a prompt today, asking for new iconic figures for the holidays if one is tired of Santa.
I won't go all Yes, Virginia on my readers, but I have a button that reads SANTA LIVES! And he does. He's peeking over my monitor at me right now. That is the very wee Santa finger puppet who lives in my office, along with Capt. Jack Sparrow, Buddha, Cobra Bubbles (from Lilo & Stitch), and Ned Flanders (a burger toy). Ned has since departed this mortal coil, actually. And somewhere around here is a felted lab mouse with a very pink tail. There are other toys too: the Night Bus from Harry Potter, done in Lego; a handful of "intelligent" toys for executives and a handheld Yahtzee game. But my favorites are the little people who work with me.
I shall never tire of characters. In the same way that I wrote about the stories earlier this week, I feel as passionately about characters. Natalie Goldberg, a guru of mine, poses a writing task for practice: Describe everything about a person that you can in one sentence.
Today, on my walk with my dog, I saw a man in a brown coat, tennis shoes and a black hat, carrying the newspaper still in its plastic bag while he walked two small dirty white dogs who seemed very excited to be going anywhere.
As I was musing, my dog sniffed the air, trying to see what they were up to, but they were too far away. I imagined little story capsules for this man and his dogs...
A woman was waiting for him inside the house, a bit impatiently because she wanted to drink her coffee and read the paper but he insisted on walking the dogs before he brought it in. She thought that her coffee might get too cold, and it would all be ruined unless he came in before three minutes had passed.
***
The man, whose name is Sidney, lost his wife a year ago, and he really only enjoys the Sunday morning walk with the dogs. The rest of Sunday is one long lonely time, punctuated by phone calls from his daughters who both live far away now.
***
The dogs were rescued from his neighbor's house last week where there had been a fire. The owners were still in the hospital, and the man was beginning to enjoy walking them. Even after the neighbors came home, he planned to walk their dogs. Or maybe get his own dog.
***
Etc. No, I can never get tired of Santa. Whether he's a jolly old elf, a bad enabler for wanton consumerism, a corruption of "the reason for the season," or a magical realism coyote trickster who brings coal, switches or Barbies, Santa is a perfectly good icon and I'll keep him, thank you.
Besides, he really likes the cookies and brandy I set out for him every year.
I won't go all Yes, Virginia on my readers, but I have a button that reads SANTA LIVES! And he does. He's peeking over my monitor at me right now. That is the very wee Santa finger puppet who lives in my office, along with Capt. Jack Sparrow, Buddha, Cobra Bubbles (from Lilo & Stitch), and Ned Flanders (a burger toy). Ned has since departed this mortal coil, actually. And somewhere around here is a felted lab mouse with a very pink tail. There are other toys too: the Night Bus from Harry Potter, done in Lego; a handful of "intelligent" toys for executives and a handheld Yahtzee game. But my favorites are the little people who work with me.
I shall never tire of characters. In the same way that I wrote about the stories earlier this week, I feel as passionately about characters. Natalie Goldberg, a guru of mine, poses a writing task for practice: Describe everything about a person that you can in one sentence.
Today, on my walk with my dog, I saw a man in a brown coat, tennis shoes and a black hat, carrying the newspaper still in its plastic bag while he walked two small dirty white dogs who seemed very excited to be going anywhere.
As I was musing, my dog sniffed the air, trying to see what they were up to, but they were too far away. I imagined little story capsules for this man and his dogs...
A woman was waiting for him inside the house, a bit impatiently because she wanted to drink her coffee and read the paper but he insisted on walking the dogs before he brought it in. She thought that her coffee might get too cold, and it would all be ruined unless he came in before three minutes had passed.
***
The man, whose name is Sidney, lost his wife a year ago, and he really only enjoys the Sunday morning walk with the dogs. The rest of Sunday is one long lonely time, punctuated by phone calls from his daughters who both live far away now.
***
The dogs were rescued from his neighbor's house last week where there had been a fire. The owners were still in the hospital, and the man was beginning to enjoy walking them. Even after the neighbors came home, he planned to walk their dogs. Or maybe get his own dog.
***
Etc. No, I can never get tired of Santa. Whether he's a jolly old elf, a bad enabler for wanton consumerism, a corruption of "the reason for the season," or a magical realism coyote trickster who brings coal, switches or Barbies, Santa is a perfectly good icon and I'll keep him, thank you.
Besides, he really likes the cookies and brandy I set out for him every year.
December 12, 2009
Writing Essentials
Writing is not about the words or the art or the stories, really. That’s reading. When you sit and read what someone has written, you are carried away by the beauty of the words, the engine of a great plot (or even a bad one), and the other world you occupy for just a while.
But writing itself? The essentials really boil down to this: the chair, the keyboard, the retreat.
Everything else is distraction.
Let’s define our terms. The chair: that place from which you apply pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. It might be standing up, as we hear reports of Hemingway having done. (That might explain his simpler sentence structure.) It might be a mahogany desk and carved matching chair, a camp stool in Africa, or a spare dining room chair pulled up to a card table.
For me, it’s a really uncomfortable broken-down office chair that wants replacing. It squeaks. I have a Herman Miller Aeron chair in my Amazon shopping cart, but what is the guarantee that even a $600 chair won’t end up killing my back after three hours of sitting? A chiropractor told me that, after 45 minutes, ANY chair is going to be bad for you.
But the chair is that object that you keep your butt in so that you can continue to put words on a page. That's the only way I know for writing to get written.
The keyboard: The writing instrument, really. These days, it’s a keyboard. My fingers fly faster this way, and tap out words almost as fast as I can think them. I have a typewriter that got me started about 40 years ago, and every now and then, I tap on it. If I had to do that now, I think it would cause sudden and permanent carpal tunnel. I also have writing instruments called pens. My favorites are Uniball pens in purple and blue. It says “waterproof” but they are not.
Of course, you must connect the keyboard to a computer, or the typewriter and pen to paper, but these days, paper just doesn’t matter. I’m not sure I could make the cognitive switch to a Kindle or Sony reader, but that day is coming, sooner or later. I still write and imagine the feel of my book in my hands. But paper or screen, it matters not to me.
Finally, the retreat. By this, I mean the quiet house, the silenced cell phone, the kids occupied at something or out of the house so that the whispers from the Muse can get through. But also, the distractions must be minimized to keep one from checking email or seeing if Amazon has dropped the price on a box of pens or a new keyboard (because I need both). However, it cannot be too quiet. Birds outside the window, the pacing border collie wishing for a walk, the steady hum of the spin cycle. These are happy noises that keep the words coming....
Now that this writing is done, it’s time to tend to folding the laundry, putting away the dishes and walking the dog. But perhaps there will be more writing later today... unless I succumb to the thousand distractions conspiring to keep me from chair, keyboard and retreat.
But writing itself? The essentials really boil down to this: the chair, the keyboard, the retreat.
Everything else is distraction.
Let’s define our terms. The chair: that place from which you apply pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. It might be standing up, as we hear reports of Hemingway having done. (That might explain his simpler sentence structure.) It might be a mahogany desk and carved matching chair, a camp stool in Africa, or a spare dining room chair pulled up to a card table.
For me, it’s a really uncomfortable broken-down office chair that wants replacing. It squeaks. I have a Herman Miller Aeron chair in my Amazon shopping cart, but what is the guarantee that even a $600 chair won’t end up killing my back after three hours of sitting? A chiropractor told me that, after 45 minutes, ANY chair is going to be bad for you.
But the chair is that object that you keep your butt in so that you can continue to put words on a page. That's the only way I know for writing to get written.
The keyboard: The writing instrument, really. These days, it’s a keyboard. My fingers fly faster this way, and tap out words almost as fast as I can think them. I have a typewriter that got me started about 40 years ago, and every now and then, I tap on it. If I had to do that now, I think it would cause sudden and permanent carpal tunnel. I also have writing instruments called pens. My favorites are Uniball pens in purple and blue. It says “waterproof” but they are not.
Of course, you must connect the keyboard to a computer, or the typewriter and pen to paper, but these days, paper just doesn’t matter. I’m not sure I could make the cognitive switch to a Kindle or Sony reader, but that day is coming, sooner or later. I still write and imagine the feel of my book in my hands. But paper or screen, it matters not to me.
Finally, the retreat. By this, I mean the quiet house, the silenced cell phone, the kids occupied at something or out of the house so that the whispers from the Muse can get through. But also, the distractions must be minimized to keep one from checking email or seeing if Amazon has dropped the price on a box of pens or a new keyboard (because I need both). However, it cannot be too quiet. Birds outside the window, the pacing border collie wishing for a walk, the steady hum of the spin cycle. These are happy noises that keep the words coming....
Now that this writing is done, it’s time to tend to folding the laundry, putting away the dishes and walking the dog. But perhaps there will be more writing later today... unless I succumb to the thousand distractions conspiring to keep me from chair, keyboard and retreat.
December 9, 2009
Why I Teach
This is why I teach, because of moments like this.
I’m sitting here reading finals. I asked two essay questions. One posited some rather sweeping and outlandish proposals for “improvements” around the campus. Fewer parking spaces, reduction in tech support and access, etc.
The other prompt asked students to reflect on their writing selves - their process, their self-discoveries, how writing will help them in the future.
All of them are up at arms about the proposed changes. They are hanging on tooth and nail to keep their campus/college accessible, functional and NOT put up any more barriers to education. This is a demographic that has to fight traffic, the demands of home and work, the stigma of failure at other institutions, the delay of finishing college to come every day and get an education. They are PASSIONATE about keeping the opportunity to learn. I am moved.
One student is freakishly smart, making me wonder why he’s here. There’s a story, but I don’t need to know it. “Mark” is funny and tells me that I have saved his writing from being too dry and academic. He doesn’t need to erect that wall between his thoughts and his personality anymore. His paper made me laugh out loud. Truly.
Another student "Callie" relates the therapy she discovered, when at age 10, she witnessed her father fall into the Grand Canyon on a family trip. In therapy, she started journaling and now wants to pursue a writing career. No, she MUST pursue that career.
I slag on students, I roll my eyes, and some of them do fluffy and silly things that are entertaining. “The Teacher’s Lounge” is a figurative and sometimes real place where we vent and cackle because it is a little bit like M*A*S*H sometimes. We laugh so we don't cry or beat our heads on the desk. This semester (with hamthrax, the usual complement of grandparent death, and late late papers) has been a long strange trip, but sitting here, reading finals, moved to tears is not exactly where I thought I would end the semester.
The privilege of associating with these funny, broken and tender souls, when they finally shyly reveal themselves, is worth the weeks of frustration. My time with them is over, but I hope I said or did something so that their time with me is not over. The privilege of being an influence is very very special, and not something I take lightly. It is an honor, and I will gladly go into the classroom again in five weeks, ready to take up arms against student ditziness and stupidity, hoping there’s at least one or two Callies and Marks in the crowd.
I’m sitting here reading finals. I asked two essay questions. One posited some rather sweeping and outlandish proposals for “improvements” around the campus. Fewer parking spaces, reduction in tech support and access, etc.
The other prompt asked students to reflect on their writing selves - their process, their self-discoveries, how writing will help them in the future.
All of them are up at arms about the proposed changes. They are hanging on tooth and nail to keep their campus/college accessible, functional and NOT put up any more barriers to education. This is a demographic that has to fight traffic, the demands of home and work, the stigma of failure at other institutions, the delay of finishing college to come every day and get an education. They are PASSIONATE about keeping the opportunity to learn. I am moved.
One student is freakishly smart, making me wonder why he’s here. There’s a story, but I don’t need to know it. “Mark” is funny and tells me that I have saved his writing from being too dry and academic. He doesn’t need to erect that wall between his thoughts and his personality anymore. His paper made me laugh out loud. Truly.
Another student "Callie" relates the therapy she discovered, when at age 10, she witnessed her father fall into the Grand Canyon on a family trip. In therapy, she started journaling and now wants to pursue a writing career. No, she MUST pursue that career.
I slag on students, I roll my eyes, and some of them do fluffy and silly things that are entertaining. “The Teacher’s Lounge” is a figurative and sometimes real place where we vent and cackle because it is a little bit like M*A*S*H sometimes. We laugh so we don't cry or beat our heads on the desk. This semester (with hamthrax, the usual complement of grandparent death, and late late papers) has been a long strange trip, but sitting here, reading finals, moved to tears is not exactly where I thought I would end the semester.
The privilege of associating with these funny, broken and tender souls, when they finally shyly reveal themselves, is worth the weeks of frustration. My time with them is over, but I hope I said or did something so that their time with me is not over. The privilege of being an influence is very very special, and not something I take lightly. It is an honor, and I will gladly go into the classroom again in five weeks, ready to take up arms against student ditziness and stupidity, hoping there’s at least one or two Callies and Marks in the crowd.
December 8, 2009
The Stories
I am wrapping up teaching a course on Myths today. And I want to try and wrap up the perplexing course material for them. I already know I will fail, and that the one very mouthy student will tell me I'm wrong, or "that depends on your belief." I have said over and over that the urge to form language, to communicate and to transmit ideas and stories is deeper than religion, belief or even conscious thought. We dabbled in Jung, but again, "that's just his opinion."
What I see, though, is that we are hungry for stories. HUNGRY. Turn on the TV and see hundreds of shows during a week that are stories - ongoing, long, slow, quick, one-episode, mini-series, feature-length, dramatic, funny, intriguing, "real" and fictional. Look at the bookshelves in the airport: magazines, books and newspapers loaded with stories. Tales of people in other places and other skins. In fact, it is an embarrassment of riches. We are story-laden, media-heavy in modern culture.
Something must be missing when the mass quantity of stories does not satisfy us. We continue to seek out new stories, new twists on the old plots, new characters for whom the same old story is playing out. (I'm thinking of a particular athlete whose story of infidelity is all over the news, even NPR. STILL. After a week.) Replace the main character in that story with a politician? with a desperate housewife? with a car salesman? Pretty much the same story, heard on E! News, talk shows, Oscar-winning feature movies and the headlines of the tabloids. And yet we listen, we rubberneck, we gawk and we stop to listen, or to read the headlines or the entire article (if we’re waiting at the dentist’s office).
Why? Why are we so obsessed with stories? What is missing?
My belief, based on a little reading and a little life experience, is that we are indeed missing the vital cultural components to properly absorb the "meat" of the myth. In the same way that rice and beans complement and provide a "complete" protein (remember Diet for a Small Planet?), too many stories and not enough deep structure cause cravings and even dysfunctional consumption of our stories.
Even Joseph Campbell talks about this quest for stories, the desire to tell and hear the stories, even to re-enact the major tropes of human culture in our own lives. The hero quest, the revenge story, the creation/flood/recreation motif. He writes about the "monomyth" that guides all of human striving. Clifford Geertz (and others) called it "deep structure" and Jung called it “the collective unconscious.”
True, we have plenty of stories but if we are not skilled enough to read the purpose and structure of these stories, if we cannot derive meaning from them a satisfying way, or learn to live, to pursue a proper practice, we will continue to binge and purge ourselves on stories.
Will the stories ever end? Will we ever get our fill? Not likely – without the rituals, taboos and prescriptions from our ancestors' time, we might understand our lack and supplement our stories with academic knowledge, but we won't be able to digest the moral fiber and make it a part of ourselves.
Campbell’s answer to those who wish to understand, to know the meaning of life: “Follow your bliss.” This cryptic answer is not satisfying and does not provide that key to why we crave stories so much. But it does however suggest that simply by doing our own lives, by creating our own story authentically, we will be participating in the mythmaking, in the storytelling, rather than consuming the easy-to-chew but ultimately unfulfilling vicarious stories of others.
Follow your bliss. Write your own ticket. Make your own kind of music. Do it “your way.” Or else, continue to live an attenuated, mediated, voyeuristic, shallow life. (Next piece of homework? finding the thinkers who have written about this “hell in a handbasket” view of media.)
When it's all said and done, however, we do still have the stories. Charlotte's Web. Black Beauty. Sophie's Choice. War and Peace. The Exodus. To Kill a Mockingbird. There are truths in our stories, and we cherish the capacity of these books (and retellings on film) to teach us and improve us. But only if we move from consumer to participant. One does not have to write in order to participate, but critical reading and active digestion of the stories might also be a way to "follow your bliss."
For now, following my bliss as a writer involves clearing away the fog and clutter, and getting to the real nugget of my novel.
And that is something I hope to get to... on Saturday, when the semester is over. For now, it's time to give a final or two.
What I see, though, is that we are hungry for stories. HUNGRY. Turn on the TV and see hundreds of shows during a week that are stories - ongoing, long, slow, quick, one-episode, mini-series, feature-length, dramatic, funny, intriguing, "real" and fictional. Look at the bookshelves in the airport: magazines, books and newspapers loaded with stories. Tales of people in other places and other skins. In fact, it is an embarrassment of riches. We are story-laden, media-heavy in modern culture.
Something must be missing when the mass quantity of stories does not satisfy us. We continue to seek out new stories, new twists on the old plots, new characters for whom the same old story is playing out. (I'm thinking of a particular athlete whose story of infidelity is all over the news, even NPR. STILL. After a week.) Replace the main character in that story with a politician? with a desperate housewife? with a car salesman? Pretty much the same story, heard on E! News, talk shows, Oscar-winning feature movies and the headlines of the tabloids. And yet we listen, we rubberneck, we gawk and we stop to listen, or to read the headlines or the entire article (if we’re waiting at the dentist’s office).
Why? Why are we so obsessed with stories? What is missing?
My belief, based on a little reading and a little life experience, is that we are indeed missing the vital cultural components to properly absorb the "meat" of the myth. In the same way that rice and beans complement and provide a "complete" protein (remember Diet for a Small Planet?), too many stories and not enough deep structure cause cravings and even dysfunctional consumption of our stories.
Even Joseph Campbell talks about this quest for stories, the desire to tell and hear the stories, even to re-enact the major tropes of human culture in our own lives. The hero quest, the revenge story, the creation/flood/recreation motif. He writes about the "monomyth" that guides all of human striving. Clifford Geertz (and others) called it "deep structure" and Jung called it “the collective unconscious.”
True, we have plenty of stories but if we are not skilled enough to read the purpose and structure of these stories, if we cannot derive meaning from them a satisfying way, or learn to live, to pursue a proper practice, we will continue to binge and purge ourselves on stories.
Will the stories ever end? Will we ever get our fill? Not likely – without the rituals, taboos and prescriptions from our ancestors' time, we might understand our lack and supplement our stories with academic knowledge, but we won't be able to digest the moral fiber and make it a part of ourselves.
Campbell’s answer to those who wish to understand, to know the meaning of life: “Follow your bliss.” This cryptic answer is not satisfying and does not provide that key to why we crave stories so much. But it does however suggest that simply by doing our own lives, by creating our own story authentically, we will be participating in the mythmaking, in the storytelling, rather than consuming the easy-to-chew but ultimately unfulfilling vicarious stories of others.
Follow your bliss. Write your own ticket. Make your own kind of music. Do it “your way.” Or else, continue to live an attenuated, mediated, voyeuristic, shallow life. (Next piece of homework? finding the thinkers who have written about this “hell in a handbasket” view of media.)
When it's all said and done, however, we do still have the stories. Charlotte's Web. Black Beauty. Sophie's Choice. War and Peace. The Exodus. To Kill a Mockingbird. There are truths in our stories, and we cherish the capacity of these books (and retellings on film) to teach us and improve us. But only if we move from consumer to participant. One does not have to write in order to participate, but critical reading and active digestion of the stories might also be a way to "follow your bliss."
For now, following my bliss as a writer involves clearing away the fog and clutter, and getting to the real nugget of my novel.
And that is something I hope to get to... on Saturday, when the semester is over. For now, it's time to give a final or two.
December 7, 2009
Holidailies
I'm trying something new for this blog - it's a writing practice that might prove to be fruitful. But if not, then I'm dropping it in favor of my early Saturday morning writing session.
Holidailies is a group of bloggers who write each day of the holidays. There are some fantastic and interesting writers – some who inspire me, some who teach me, some who struggle with the same stuff I do.
My writing goal for December is to crack through the block I have. After NaNo, I realized that my characters are still bodies moving through space. They haven't yet come to inhabit themselves like humans. I feel like what I have is an elaborate character sketch with the promise of a plot. This is not a good feeling.
Of course, the goal also is to push past the procrastination and downright laziness, colored by my moody depression. I call it that because it does come and go like a mood, rather than a clinical cloud of deep grey fog.
Bust out the red and green and gold; stock up on the scented candles; and keep a pair of warm socks handy (my feet get cold in this office) because the holidays are coming, and I hope the Writing Santa brings me something lovely.
Edited to add: Welcome to the new readers from Holidailies! You can follow me on Twitter jcmaxwell and also Facebook J.C. Maxwell, where I occasionally say or post something worth reading.
Holidailies is a group of bloggers who write each day of the holidays. There are some fantastic and interesting writers – some who inspire me, some who teach me, some who struggle with the same stuff I do.
My writing goal for December is to crack through the block I have. After NaNo, I realized that my characters are still bodies moving through space. They haven't yet come to inhabit themselves like humans. I feel like what I have is an elaborate character sketch with the promise of a plot. This is not a good feeling.
Of course, the goal also is to push past the procrastination and downright laziness, colored by my moody depression. I call it that because it does come and go like a mood, rather than a clinical cloud of deep grey fog.
Bust out the red and green and gold; stock up on the scented candles; and keep a pair of warm socks handy (my feet get cold in this office) because the holidays are coming, and I hope the Writing Santa brings me something lovely.
Edited to add: Welcome to the new readers from Holidailies! You can follow me on Twitter jcmaxwell and also Facebook J.C. Maxwell, where I occasionally say or post something worth reading.
October 31, 2009
Insomnia
Can I turn this insomnia into a novel? It would certainly make good use of the time during National Novel Writing Month, in which I am participating again this year.
The day before, though, I am just rattling around in my own head, filled with anxiety about my two jobs, filled with dread about my parenting, and (so typical for a NaNo writer) wondering how I can turn this inner turmoil and personal life crisis into word count.
But first things first: I am going to get a new keyboard, going to set up another computer in the office, and liberate my laptop semi-permanently from the desk. I do have a dual hookup box thingey, where I used to have the lad's PC and Mac sharing the same monitor, but he stopped using the Mac a while back, and I took the computer when the laptop was in the shop.
Make no mistake: the laptop is on its last months of service. I may have to take it in as the mouse and touch pad are sorta hosed.... hmmm, it started after the last "fix" now that I think of it.
I will also spend a good deal of time cleaning house this weekend, in advance of starting to write at midnight Nov. 1. Either this will provide a "clean slate" for novel writing, OR it will remove certain procrastination objects from my sight.
However, all of this busyness comes at a price, and all of this insomnia exacts its own pound of flesh (but in reverse). I'm overweight-er than ever, and desperately in need of a vacation from "crunch time" at two jobs. One job will let up around Dec. 5th, and the other not until Jan. 23.
So, yeah, I'm pretty insane right now, and doubly so because I'm taking on NaNo yet again. The fourth year for me. Mind-boggling! I'll be following Julia Cameron's rubric of three pages a day, and also walking my dog daily. That's the extent of my plan. Perhaps it's diabolically simple, or perhaps it's just simple.
The day before, though, I am just rattling around in my own head, filled with anxiety about my two jobs, filled with dread about my parenting, and (so typical for a NaNo writer) wondering how I can turn this inner turmoil and personal life crisis into word count.
But first things first: I am going to get a new keyboard, going to set up another computer in the office, and liberate my laptop semi-permanently from the desk. I do have a dual hookup box thingey, where I used to have the lad's PC and Mac sharing the same monitor, but he stopped using the Mac a while back, and I took the computer when the laptop was in the shop.
Make no mistake: the laptop is on its last months of service. I may have to take it in as the mouse and touch pad are sorta hosed.... hmmm, it started after the last "fix" now that I think of it.
I will also spend a good deal of time cleaning house this weekend, in advance of starting to write at midnight Nov. 1. Either this will provide a "clean slate" for novel writing, OR it will remove certain procrastination objects from my sight.
However, all of this busyness comes at a price, and all of this insomnia exacts its own pound of flesh (but in reverse). I'm overweight-er than ever, and desperately in need of a vacation from "crunch time" at two jobs. One job will let up around Dec. 5th, and the other not until Jan. 23.
So, yeah, I'm pretty insane right now, and doubly so because I'm taking on NaNo yet again. The fourth year for me. Mind-boggling! I'll be following Julia Cameron's rubric of three pages a day, and also walking my dog daily. That's the extent of my plan. Perhaps it's diabolically simple, or perhaps it's just simple.
October 16, 2009
Months and Months Ago
.... meanwhile, back at the ranch, Bess is trying to tame the wind.
I started teaching half-time, three classes, three preps AND I'm editing - with the workload increasing without check by anyone but my guilt. And thus, I haven't had one moment to write for myself.
Another thing happened and then didn't happen (a relationship), and that sapped my energy and ambition for writing, or any creativity at all. Which was a red flag. I don't know if it's possible, but I seek the kind of relationship where I am encouraged and inspired to hit the studio/keyboard/sewing machine, rather than feel burdened with yet another thing to schedule.
It's a combo of all these things NOT one in particular. And it's just life. As Joseph Campbell says, "work and family in themselves are a form of meditation." I just wish I didn't always feel so tired.
Tired to the point of insomnia and anxiety. Isn't that ironic!? So tired that you cannot get rest. Ha ha, big cosmic joke.
However, National Novel Writing Month is coming, and I believe it suits me. It suits me to try (essayer) and even if the exercise is simply to carve out the creative space, then it's good.
I've been sewing lately, creating a sea tapesty from marine quilting fabrics, using new (to me) products (WonderUnder, stabilizers, etc.), so again, this has helped me get to the creative zone.
I hope to be posting more as the novel progresses and the whining mounts.
I started teaching half-time, three classes, three preps AND I'm editing - with the workload increasing without check by anyone but my guilt. And thus, I haven't had one moment to write for myself.
Another thing happened and then didn't happen (a relationship), and that sapped my energy and ambition for writing, or any creativity at all. Which was a red flag. I don't know if it's possible, but I seek the kind of relationship where I am encouraged and inspired to hit the studio/keyboard/sewing machine, rather than feel burdened with yet another thing to schedule.
It's a combo of all these things NOT one in particular. And it's just life. As Joseph Campbell says, "work and family in themselves are a form of meditation." I just wish I didn't always feel so tired.
Tired to the point of insomnia and anxiety. Isn't that ironic!? So tired that you cannot get rest. Ha ha, big cosmic joke.
However, National Novel Writing Month is coming, and I believe it suits me. It suits me to try (essayer) and even if the exercise is simply to carve out the creative space, then it's good.
I've been sewing lately, creating a sea tapesty from marine quilting fabrics, using new (to me) products (WonderUnder, stabilizers, etc.), so again, this has helped me get to the creative zone.
I hope to be posting more as the novel progresses and the whining mounts.
June 7, 2009
Various Things and an Excerpt
It's been a month? Geez. Weird.
I've been dealing with pain and a lot of stress. I'm working on a deadline and have just another week of heavy action. After that, it's batting clean-up, and then vacation time around the 4th.
I haven't exercised at all, and will cancel my Y membership. I'm just not going and I need to face it. For all the wasted months of membership, I could have... well, it's money/water under the bridge.
But there is good news: I conducted a writer's workshop as part of my contract job, and got good feedback. It was fun putting it together, and presenting it.
Yesterday, we took a long day trip southwest of here, and instead of freeways, I ended up on some back roads. It was great! The boy was busy reading, so I had loads of head time.
And a short story formed itself. Double bonus, we got back into town in time to hear a short story writer on the radio talking about how short stories differ from novels in that a novelist must create a whole world, whereas a short story only has to capture a moment. That is my stock in trade, I think, capturing those ordinary, essential moments in life.
So this morning, I opened a window and started writing. Between 9am and 2pm, I wrote 5,400 words and have a complete first draft. I don't have a title yet, but here is an excerpt. I still need to work it over more, make it tight and better, but I'm really happy with the story.
I've been dealing with pain and a lot of stress. I'm working on a deadline and have just another week of heavy action. After that, it's batting clean-up, and then vacation time around the 4th.
I haven't exercised at all, and will cancel my Y membership. I'm just not going and I need to face it. For all the wasted months of membership, I could have... well, it's money/water under the bridge.
But there is good news: I conducted a writer's workshop as part of my contract job, and got good feedback. It was fun putting it together, and presenting it.
Yesterday, we took a long day trip southwest of here, and instead of freeways, I ended up on some back roads. It was great! The boy was busy reading, so I had loads of head time.
And a short story formed itself. Double bonus, we got back into town in time to hear a short story writer on the radio talking about how short stories differ from novels in that a novelist must create a whole world, whereas a short story only has to capture a moment. That is my stock in trade, I think, capturing those ordinary, essential moments in life.
So this morning, I opened a window and started writing. Between 9am and 2pm, I wrote 5,400 words and have a complete first draft. I don't have a title yet, but here is an excerpt. I still need to work it over more, make it tight and better, but I'm really happy with the story.
Jeanine stabbed the sturdy little plastic gardening cultivator at the earth, digging its tines into the hard crust of earth over the abandoned square of weeds and paver stones. What she really needed was one with metal tines, sharper tines. But she was not up to making a special trip to the store for that. It would be ok. She didn’t mind taking longer at the digging. No one else was helping, so she could suit herself.
She had received permission, in the form of a shrug and dismissal, to start this little garden again on the grounds of her son’s private school.
“Parent-volunteers are encouraged to help in a variety of ways at Mercy Heights Academy. Share your time and talents with us to enrich student experience and help keep our tuition costs low.” That is what the parent handbook said. Jeanine noticed it one day when she was sorting through a bunch of papers. She has often wondered why no one took care of the little garden. It got great sun, was situated in a corner of the playground where kids wouldn’t simply run over it in their play, and a split rail fence had already been put up around it. It seemed like an easy project to tackle — one that Jeanine could handle. One where a sudden onslaught of weeping wouldn’t interfere with the task.
The dirt parted grudgingly where the cultivator raked it. Sandy but hard, with very few air pockets in it. This ground seemed to sparkle just a little. The soil in this area was known for mica, and perhaps that accounted for the sheen. Or it could be glitter from the children’s art projects. Maybe it somehow got out into the earth of this abandoned garden. On her knees, wearing a baggy pair of mom pants and a floppy hat, Jeanine worked the earth in the four little squares making up the larger square, preparing it for the seed packets she had brought today.
It was important for the kids to see things grow from seed.
The previous week, she had put seeds in clear glass baby food jars with a strip of wet paper towel. One for each child in the kindergarten. The jars had their names on them, done in fat black Sharpee with curlicues and squiggles. It was the lettering she used for cake decorating too.
But the garden needed to have fresh seeds planted, marked in neat rows. She had the popsicle sticks and tape to mark each row. She knew the children would come look at the garden — the more thoughtful ones, anyway. And would then be able to see the word “carrot” with the seed packet picture of a carrot.
The sun warmed her back as she worked. It had been several weeks since she spent so much time outdoors. It felt good. She wondered why she hadn’t remembered how much she loved being outside. So many things had been lost. She was still counting them. How long does it take to finish a miscarriage? It had been months and she was still realizing the things she had lost.
May 5, 2009
Update, Cinco de Mayo
I woke at 5:30 to go work out but was hit by a wave of dread and despair. Probably PMS though that doesn't help me shake it off. I ended up not going to the gym. Later in the day, I ate a very high calorie meal which satisfied me, and now I'm just left with the lethargy, left leg pain and twitching and a sense of hopelessness that I'll never be able to fully function again.
Yeah. Really conducive to writing.
I did get the NY Times puzzle really fast today, and I bought some M&Ms. Any port in a storm.
Yeah. Really conducive to writing.
I did get the NY Times puzzle really fast today, and I bought some M&Ms. Any port in a storm.
Just Here
I'm just here. Not writing. Exercising is hard, and makes my body hurt. Since I came up with the brilliant theory that I will hurt with or without exercise, I'm going with the "with"...
Lots of hot flashes at night, interrupting sleep.
Am reading Nicholas Sparks for tips on the craft of just getting on with the story, without all the business.
I expect that my period will start soon, and this is the pre-game show. When I am exercising, I feel strong and jockish... but things quickly deteriorate when I contemplate where my life has ended up.
I'm so far from home. So far from where I thought I'd be, or even imagined where I might be. So very far.
Lots of hot flashes at night, interrupting sleep.
Am reading Nicholas Sparks for tips on the craft of just getting on with the story, without all the business.
I expect that my period will start soon, and this is the pre-game show. When I am exercising, I feel strong and jockish... but things quickly deteriorate when I contemplate where my life has ended up.
I'm so far from home. So far from where I thought I'd be, or even imagined where I might be. So very far.
April 25, 2009
The P Word
Procrastination. There. I said it.
I spent a half-hearted hour on my novel today. I cannot get over the fact that a lot of what is already written is overworked and off-target. It's not feeling or sounding like I want it to.
The only solution is to get myself into a state where the right voice comes out to play... and the only way to get to that point is to sit here and plod along, writing and trying. That's the way to become "inspired." Sit here and do the work.
Except the floors are dirty, the dishes need to be put away, laundry is piling up, the dog needs walking, etc. etc. etc. Yes, there is always something to pull me away.
I am meeting with a writing buddy later today, so that will motivate me to have something to show/talk about. And I am hoping to have a good solid three hours tomorrow to write. Maybe another hour today?
I just have to be ready to write when that voice arrives.
I spent a half-hearted hour on my novel today. I cannot get over the fact that a lot of what is already written is overworked and off-target. It's not feeling or sounding like I want it to.
The only solution is to get myself into a state where the right voice comes out to play... and the only way to get to that point is to sit here and plod along, writing and trying. That's the way to become "inspired." Sit here and do the work.
Except the floors are dirty, the dishes need to be put away, laundry is piling up, the dog needs walking, etc. etc. etc. Yes, there is always something to pull me away.
I am meeting with a writing buddy later today, so that will motivate me to have something to show/talk about. And I am hoping to have a good solid three hours tomorrow to write. Maybe another hour today?
I just have to be ready to write when that voice arrives.
April 21, 2009
Too Much
"The Muse does not tolerate chaos." -- Stephen Pressfield, The War of Art
I stopped cold in my tracks when I read this very near the end of the book. I realized that I am so bogged down by clutter, stuff, things, chores, toys and oddments that my creativity is trying to swim in this bog.
Fully aware of this, I've been working to collect items for a yard sale. I halfheartedly planned to have it last weekend, but it rained. I realize that I was completely unprepared to hold a sale, but now, I'm eyeballing all the things that clutter corners, and see that they provide a rough surface for my mind's eye to catch on. So creativity is dampened. So much to do before I can really sit down and write, so much to keep at bay while I am sitting down writing.
I suppose I'm not making much sense, but I know it's an all-too-familiar problem with a deceptively simple solution. Sort the stuff: keep, sell, give away. While I try to whittle down my keep pile, I must face one simple truth. I have too many interests outside of writing. Too many books, too many hobbies, too many toys. Some of them required an investment of equipment or stuff, that still has value. That's the big problem now. Sell it? Yes, sell it! But that takes time and energy too.
Do I get rid of stuff with obvious value, store it safely against the day I'll get back to that, or just CLEAR IT OUT at any cost? That's where I am right now.
Another writer who struggled with juggling family and writing said, "Writing is a crime punishable by guilt." That rings true for me. Right now. I just want to sweep everything into the three piles and have it all just dealt with. So I can write.
Maybe it's time to get a bigger broom. Or blinders.
I stopped cold in my tracks when I read this very near the end of the book. I realized that I am so bogged down by clutter, stuff, things, chores, toys and oddments that my creativity is trying to swim in this bog.
Fully aware of this, I've been working to collect items for a yard sale. I halfheartedly planned to have it last weekend, but it rained. I realize that I was completely unprepared to hold a sale, but now, I'm eyeballing all the things that clutter corners, and see that they provide a rough surface for my mind's eye to catch on. So creativity is dampened. So much to do before I can really sit down and write, so much to keep at bay while I am sitting down writing.
I suppose I'm not making much sense, but I know it's an all-too-familiar problem with a deceptively simple solution. Sort the stuff: keep, sell, give away. While I try to whittle down my keep pile, I must face one simple truth. I have too many interests outside of writing. Too many books, too many hobbies, too many toys. Some of them required an investment of equipment or stuff, that still has value. That's the big problem now. Sell it? Yes, sell it! But that takes time and energy too.
Do I get rid of stuff with obvious value, store it safely against the day I'll get back to that, or just CLEAR IT OUT at any cost? That's where I am right now.
Another writer who struggled with juggling family and writing said, "Writing is a crime punishable by guilt." That rings true for me. Right now. I just want to sweep everything into the three piles and have it all just dealt with. So I can write.
Maybe it's time to get a bigger broom. Or blinders.
April 19, 2009
Meanwhile
Amidst all the drama and whining about my physical pain and its mystery, I am managing to spend at least an hour a day writing. Yesterday it was something like three hours.
I'm re-working the draft from the beginning. I have a tendency to overwrite scenes, having too much in the first draft but missing large pieces that make sense. Or missing obvious "moments" of show-don't-tell. This time, as well, I'm keeping a timeline with characters and locations for reference. It helps with chronology and minor characters, so that Robert doesn't become Roger halfway through the book.
There is also a young woman from Mexico in the drawing class, and I have her number. I need to call her and interview her to understand these little Mexican villages better. I don't think I'll be able to go visit one anytime soon, though that might be possible in the summer.
I'm reading a fantastic book called The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles
, which is a profound yet simple treatise on The Muse and the invisible but real threshold between amateur and professional writer. In some ways, I have been writing fiction as an amateur, and that has to stop. It's time to push the boat out and cast off. I recommend this book for anyone who wants to examine a plausible reason why they are "blocked" or why they struggle with finishing a project.
Next on the stack is Stephen King's On Writing
.
I am replacing one or two hours of television and movies each day with reading these books. It's much easier to zone out in other people's stories, but I just can't afford that kind of creative drain right now. I even find myself thinking in petulant almost resentful terms: hrmpf, the writers have done a story kind of like mine already on XYZ show so why should I bother? NOT GOOD for creativity. Period. So my Netflix is on hold, and the remote is farther away than the stack of books.
If I can push through the physical stuff, this book might get written.
I'm re-working the draft from the beginning. I have a tendency to overwrite scenes, having too much in the first draft but missing large pieces that make sense. Or missing obvious "moments" of show-don't-tell. This time, as well, I'm keeping a timeline with characters and locations for reference. It helps with chronology and minor characters, so that Robert doesn't become Roger halfway through the book.
There is also a young woman from Mexico in the drawing class, and I have her number. I need to call her and interview her to understand these little Mexican villages better. I don't think I'll be able to go visit one anytime soon, though that might be possible in the summer.
I'm reading a fantastic book called The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles
, which is a profound yet simple treatise on The Muse and the invisible but real threshold between amateur and professional writer. In some ways, I have been writing fiction as an amateur, and that has to stop. It's time to push the boat out and cast off. I recommend this book for anyone who wants to examine a plausible reason why they are "blocked" or why they struggle with finishing a project.Next on the stack is Stephen King's On Writing
.I am replacing one or two hours of television and movies each day with reading these books. It's much easier to zone out in other people's stories, but I just can't afford that kind of creative drain right now. I even find myself thinking in petulant almost resentful terms: hrmpf, the writers have done a story kind of like mine already on XYZ show so why should I bother? NOT GOOD for creativity. Period. So my Netflix is on hold, and the remote is farther away than the stack of books.
If I can push through the physical stuff, this book might get written.
April 18, 2009
Coffee, Tea or Halcion?
How long should I be concerned that I'm tired and prefer staying in bed to doing housework, cooking, doing errands and fun stuff with the kid? This is shaping up to be the third day this week.
Here's a little list of "advice" from a friendly website on self-care tips:
Set priorities and simplify tasks to reduce stress.
Stay physically active.
Make time for activities you enjoy.
Get about eight hours of sleep a night.
Connect with supportive family and friends.
Eat more healthy foods, including fruits, vegetables and whole grains.
HA HA HA! Very funny. When you're feeling ill and/or blue, the last thing you want to do is set priorities, make time for anything or connect with people. Stay physically active? Zzzzzzzzzzz.
This just proves my everlasting point that one cannot rely on the Internet for medical, legal or financial advice. EVER.
I think I'll make a cup of caffeinated coffee and see if that "perks" me up. If it gives me the heebies, then I'll know it was the wrong step. But this might be a good time to use caffeine for the drug that it is.
Here's a little list of "advice" from a friendly website on self-care tips:
Set priorities and simplify tasks to reduce stress.
Stay physically active.
Make time for activities you enjoy.
Get about eight hours of sleep a night.
Connect with supportive family and friends.
Eat more healthy foods, including fruits, vegetables and whole grains.
HA HA HA! Very funny. When you're feeling ill and/or blue, the last thing you want to do is set priorities, make time for anything or connect with people. Stay physically active? Zzzzzzzzzzz.
This just proves my everlasting point that one cannot rely on the Internet for medical, legal or financial advice. EVER.
I think I'll make a cup of caffeinated coffee and see if that "perks" me up. If it gives me the heebies, then I'll know it was the wrong step. But this might be a good time to use caffeine for the drug that it is.
April 17, 2009
Pain, Loathing, Painting
This will probably be the MOST self-indulgent entry in this very self-indulgent journal.
I have spent four hours in bed so far today, and it looks like I'll spend another four and then it's bedtime! I went to painting studio today which means standing on a concrete floor for hours. I don't notice anything until after lunchtime, usually. I did get thoroughly annoyed by the woman who thought that coming out onto the outer patio studio area to talk loudly on her cell phone was completley ok. I think next time I take a call, I will go into her classroom and stand next to her desk. Otherwise, it was quiet and studious out there. (Same woman came out to glue some shit to her canvas, humming all the while. I plugged in my iPod and tuned her out.)
Anyway, today, right on schedule after lunch, I thought, "Gee, I should sit down." So I went to the computer for about 30 minutes of Photoshop work in a crappy chair.
When I went back to the studio, a few more painters had arrived and the radio was loudly blasting classical music - the drippy noodly kind, and yes, blasting, as in too loud to tune out but not loud enough to appreciate.
I decided to pack it in, and felt rather bitchy about it. As I was leaving, I stopped to hear the instructor talk about someone's painting. It was really discouraging because she is a non-representational painter like me, and everything he was praising her for is stuff that I do. Do I ever hear the praise? No, he keeps telling me that I need to paint 100 paintings before I can really "define" my style. He also says shit like, "maybe you could hang this asymmetrically."
I am not wrong. This is the fourth time or so that I've gotten "damned with faint praise." My painting doesn't interest him at all, and so I get canned, inconsequential comments. I have tried to take his critique and commentary and implement it, but it's just all covered in wrong sauce.
The environment there is COMPLETELY not conducive to creativity. I left. I may not return. Not to be all flouncy, but I just can't afford to spend my time with diminishing returns.
It had rained heavily all morning, but was clearing up once I got to the car. By the time I was turning onto the street, I was in full-blown morose mood. I came home, dove into bed and napped for about an hour. The body pain hit during the nap.
While I managed to get dinner for the kid, I'm back in bed and thinking about pain relief. And chocolate.
Air pressure, humidity, cold, overexertion, disappointment, the big steak I ate last night... all possible factors, but I just don't know which one. And maybe it was nothing. This is the joy of post-polio. It's a hardware problem some days, and some days, it's a software issue. Ask any computer tech – that's the short road to madness.
I have spent four hours in bed so far today, and it looks like I'll spend another four and then it's bedtime! I went to painting studio today which means standing on a concrete floor for hours. I don't notice anything until after lunchtime, usually. I did get thoroughly annoyed by the woman who thought that coming out onto the outer patio studio area to talk loudly on her cell phone was completley ok. I think next time I take a call, I will go into her classroom and stand next to her desk. Otherwise, it was quiet and studious out there. (Same woman came out to glue some shit to her canvas, humming all the while. I plugged in my iPod and tuned her out.)
Anyway, today, right on schedule after lunch, I thought, "Gee, I should sit down." So I went to the computer for about 30 minutes of Photoshop work in a crappy chair.
When I went back to the studio, a few more painters had arrived and the radio was loudly blasting classical music - the drippy noodly kind, and yes, blasting, as in too loud to tune out but not loud enough to appreciate.
I decided to pack it in, and felt rather bitchy about it. As I was leaving, I stopped to hear the instructor talk about someone's painting. It was really discouraging because she is a non-representational painter like me, and everything he was praising her for is stuff that I do. Do I ever hear the praise? No, he keeps telling me that I need to paint 100 paintings before I can really "define" my style. He also says shit like, "maybe you could hang this asymmetrically."
I am not wrong. This is the fourth time or so that I've gotten "damned with faint praise." My painting doesn't interest him at all, and so I get canned, inconsequential comments. I have tried to take his critique and commentary and implement it, but it's just all covered in wrong sauce.
The environment there is COMPLETELY not conducive to creativity. I left. I may not return. Not to be all flouncy, but I just can't afford to spend my time with diminishing returns.
It had rained heavily all morning, but was clearing up once I got to the car. By the time I was turning onto the street, I was in full-blown morose mood. I came home, dove into bed and napped for about an hour. The body pain hit during the nap.
While I managed to get dinner for the kid, I'm back in bed and thinking about pain relief. And chocolate.
Air pressure, humidity, cold, overexertion, disappointment, the big steak I ate last night... all possible factors, but I just don't know which one. And maybe it was nothing. This is the joy of post-polio. It's a hardware problem some days, and some days, it's a software issue. Ask any computer tech – that's the short road to madness.
April 16, 2009
Follow-Up
After I wrote the entry yesterday, "Lamentations," I felt ill. It started with a mental malaise - moodiness, pissiness. I talked on the phone to a couple of people and found them to be completely idiotic and unhelpful. Then my son came home and I was pissy with him.
WAIT. Hold the phone.
I realized that he was blameless and therefore, this must be Something Going On With Me. I decided that indeed retreat was necessary. So I took a bath, put on PJs and got into bed. At 5pm. Sad but true. Lucy, my champion, laid down with me, curled up and altogether placid and deliciously sweet.
I got up about an hour later and ate some salmon and crackers. By this time, the malaise had become a physical one. I was achy, twitchy, twingy and altogether suffering from whatever it is that the post-polio presents.
I stayed in bed all evening, getting up just a couple of times, and went to sleep right around 11pm. I woke at 4, went back to sleep to crazy niteflix dreams and then woke at 7am. Nearly eight hours of sleep, and I have no body pain today.
So, it was somewhat useful to realize that moodiness and bitchiness precedes these physical symptoms. Maybe it's a signal of some kind?
I shall continue to monitor it.
Another follow-up, perhaps of something unspoken on this blog, but something in my heart: I am no longer in love with the person who did not love me back, though I miss him - the idea of him, the feel of him and the imagined future that will never be.
One more follow-up: The A-team called me from the gym. Not the B-team who answered the phone yesterday. They have new equipment, a new room for the yoga class, and they can downgrade my membership to save about $22 a month. So at least for another month, I'm in.
WAIT. Hold the phone.
I realized that he was blameless and therefore, this must be Something Going On With Me. I decided that indeed retreat was necessary. So I took a bath, put on PJs and got into bed. At 5pm. Sad but true. Lucy, my champion, laid down with me, curled up and altogether placid and deliciously sweet.
I got up about an hour later and ate some salmon and crackers. By this time, the malaise had become a physical one. I was achy, twitchy, twingy and altogether suffering from whatever it is that the post-polio presents.
I stayed in bed all evening, getting up just a couple of times, and went to sleep right around 11pm. I woke at 4, went back to sleep to crazy niteflix dreams and then woke at 7am. Nearly eight hours of sleep, and I have no body pain today.
So, it was somewhat useful to realize that moodiness and bitchiness precedes these physical symptoms. Maybe it's a signal of some kind?
I shall continue to monitor it.
Another follow-up, perhaps of something unspoken on this blog, but something in my heart: I am no longer in love with the person who did not love me back, though I miss him - the idea of him, the feel of him and the imagined future that will never be.
One more follow-up: The A-team called me from the gym. Not the B-team who answered the phone yesterday. They have new equipment, a new room for the yoga class, and they can downgrade my membership to save about $22 a month. So at least for another month, I'm in.
April 15, 2009
Lamentations
Today is the day that my gym membership auto-renews and charges me for another month. I've gone back and forth for days about whether or not to cancel it. It's quite pathetic that I cannot decide.
On one hand, I want to be the self-determined person who just goes and does it. Who shows up, swims, works out, gets sweaty and heads home. There are decent resources there (no sauna or spa). But I just haven't gone. For three months now. I need to put a stop to the hemorrhage of money, or I need to use the membership.
Of course, I could walk around the block, ride my bike, go to the city pool (somewhere around here) to swim.There are loads of other gyms, and classes to take... I suppose what I lack is the motivation to get off my lardass and JFDI. Any of it.
What I think I need is that cocoon of safety for working out. The happy place where no one will really pay any attention to me at all, but there are people around me who do not get in my way or piss me off. With some kind of external motivation, though.
You'd think that $50 a month would be motivating enough, but apparently, it's not yet to the tipping point.
There is also a part of me who sees myself in the groove of going to the pool at 6am, swimming and showering and making it home in time to get the boy off to school.
But most of all, I want to be comfortable in this body and I want to feel better.
If someone has that magic formula, or the secret (not "The Secret"), then I'm all ears. And it might be worth $50 a month.
As I pause to edit this entry, I have downloaded the schedules for classes and the pool. Again. I'm trying to imagine myself going up there at these times. WHAT IS STOPPING ME?!
I honestly don't know. And just thinking about it some more makes me want to go lie down and nap.
On one hand, I want to be the self-determined person who just goes and does it. Who shows up, swims, works out, gets sweaty and heads home. There are decent resources there (no sauna or spa). But I just haven't gone. For three months now. I need to put a stop to the hemorrhage of money, or I need to use the membership.
Of course, I could walk around the block, ride my bike, go to the city pool (somewhere around here) to swim.There are loads of other gyms, and classes to take... I suppose what I lack is the motivation to get off my lardass and JFDI. Any of it.
What I think I need is that cocoon of safety for working out. The happy place where no one will really pay any attention to me at all, but there are people around me who do not get in my way or piss me off. With some kind of external motivation, though.
You'd think that $50 a month would be motivating enough, but apparently, it's not yet to the tipping point.
There is also a part of me who sees myself in the groove of going to the pool at 6am, swimming and showering and making it home in time to get the boy off to school.
But most of all, I want to be comfortable in this body and I want to feel better.
If someone has that magic formula, or the secret (not "The Secret"), then I'm all ears. And it might be worth $50 a month.
As I pause to edit this entry, I have downloaded the schedules for classes and the pool. Again. I'm trying to imagine myself going up there at these times. WHAT IS STOPPING ME?!
I honestly don't know. And just thinking about it some more makes me want to go lie down and nap.
April 12, 2009
Easter Rain
It rained this morning, Easter morning.
And I am writing. I mulled and stewed and stirred some ideas around yesterday, and have a direction for the new beginning to the novel. Not sure if it's any good yet, but it's more focused on the topic rather than the dark character sketches that began the first draft.
Thinking about the journeys that these characters undertake, eliminating some of the business, MAYBE even eliminating one of the characters... I still don't know where she fits in. She'll tell me, I guess.
(After composing this and editing it, I realized that Marge and Mike know each other, and are very similar. So... indeed Marge did tell me who she is and where she fits in.)
It is definitely a good thing to completely shut out the world - no TV, no radio, no talking, no phones. My stomach is growling though, and I'll have to go into the kitchen. Dishes, Easter eggs to dye and food preparation await, and I'll probably get sucked into my day.
But I'm back to liking my characters again. One of them is very dark but compulsive in his desire to help people. He's killing himself with that, but he helps people. So I have to cling to that in order to get myself into his head.
Makes me wonder what murder mystery writers do about their evil murdering characters. Do they create some unpublished backstory for them that makes it bearable to write about unspeakable things?
As the dog snores here close to me, I might write another 500 words before my stomach completely takes me over.
And I am writing. I mulled and stewed and stirred some ideas around yesterday, and have a direction for the new beginning to the novel. Not sure if it's any good yet, but it's more focused on the topic rather than the dark character sketches that began the first draft.
Thinking about the journeys that these characters undertake, eliminating some of the business, MAYBE even eliminating one of the characters... I still don't know where she fits in. She'll tell me, I guess.
(After composing this and editing it, I realized that Marge and Mike know each other, and are very similar. So... indeed Marge did tell me who she is and where she fits in.)
It is definitely a good thing to completely shut out the world - no TV, no radio, no talking, no phones. My stomach is growling though, and I'll have to go into the kitchen. Dishes, Easter eggs to dye and food preparation await, and I'll probably get sucked into my day.
But I'm back to liking my characters again. One of them is very dark but compulsive in his desire to help people. He's killing himself with that, but he helps people. So I have to cling to that in order to get myself into his head.
Makes me wonder what murder mystery writers do about their evil murdering characters. Do they create some unpublished backstory for them that makes it bearable to write about unspeakable things?
As the dog snores here close to me, I might write another 500 words before my stomach completely takes me over.
April 11, 2009
The Writer's Swamp
It's not writer's block, because I can open a window on a blog and blather away. Or an email to a friend.
But last night, I opened a new window in my novel, and was rather stumped. All the good ideas I had for a second draft were spent in about three sentences. Three very very bad sentences.
I have never had this problem. I've always seen things in my head and been able to write them down. I don't get it at all.
My plan is to read the stack of writing and creativity help books I have piled up, and take furious notes. It worked in the past. I'm not sure why this novel is so hard.
It's a little Christmas story. It's supposed to be charming, quirky and rather simple. There are some huge dark forces at play in the novel, as embodied in the characters (3 main characters, 2 minor), but the darkness and trouble is sorta suspended for the time of the novel, and in some cases, worked out and lightened. Maybe I'm all bogged down in the darkness right now.
For example, there's cancer, hospice care, Mexican drug cartel violence, poverty and crass commercialism. That just screams Christmas, doesn't it? Think Little Miss Sunshine or Love, Actually.
Anyway, I think I need to write this out, but cannot get past the beginning. I have one beginning but it starts too big, too far back. I need to roll those first draft beginnings into the seoncd draft as flashbacks.
Now, about those books: I have Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit, The War of Art (How to win the inner creative battles, etc.), No Plot? No Problem by the NaNo creator, The Plot Thickens by Lukeman, The First Five Pages by Lukeman, and The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing. Usually what happens for me is that I read along for a few pages and then am overcome with the urge to write.
Let's hope that happens next, and that it's productive writing, not the usual self-indulgent noodling I've been doing.
And if I go too far down that road, ALL of novel writing is self-indulgent noodling. The purpose of the first draft is to get down the rough framework and see if you have any kind of spark, or even tinder that a spark can ignite. I think I've done that, at least, to my eye. I am not sure any outside reader could look at this drivel and see a novel. When I tell the plot to people, they do respond somewhat favorably.
So then, the purpose of a second draft is to actually make it something of a novel, with a beginning, middle and end. Adding what needs to be added, subtracting, deleting, altering, shifting and re-organizing (or organizing in the first place).
I am really not sure what mindset is required for this. And I'm not sure if it isn't a screenplay. However, I know that I want the end result to be a novel. Thinking in screenplay terms is NOT helping, and so I am thinking that I might need to declare a moratorium on TV and movies. Which will be terribly difficult for me... I really don't have much else going on but my handful of shows during the week. That's how I'm coping with the pressures of getting through the day.
Helping my son with a language arts project has been good. To hear/read the young adult fiction reminds me that I do have the skills. But seeing the book jackets, esp J.K. Rowling's monster fame, is strangely intimidating.
So, I'm at a somewhat bitter and scary crossroads, and maybe that's what writer's block is about. I have to choose to step off the road and into the swamp, wading knee-deep through the tangle of mud, reeds, vines and frogs. No breadcrumb trail is possible either. Tie a rope around my waist? If I pull three times, haul me in?
But last night, I opened a new window in my novel, and was rather stumped. All the good ideas I had for a second draft were spent in about three sentences. Three very very bad sentences.
I have never had this problem. I've always seen things in my head and been able to write them down. I don't get it at all.
My plan is to read the stack of writing and creativity help books I have piled up, and take furious notes. It worked in the past. I'm not sure why this novel is so hard.
It's a little Christmas story. It's supposed to be charming, quirky and rather simple. There are some huge dark forces at play in the novel, as embodied in the characters (3 main characters, 2 minor), but the darkness and trouble is sorta suspended for the time of the novel, and in some cases, worked out and lightened. Maybe I'm all bogged down in the darkness right now.
For example, there's cancer, hospice care, Mexican drug cartel violence, poverty and crass commercialism. That just screams Christmas, doesn't it? Think Little Miss Sunshine or Love, Actually.
Anyway, I think I need to write this out, but cannot get past the beginning. I have one beginning but it starts too big, too far back. I need to roll those first draft beginnings into the seoncd draft as flashbacks.
Now, about those books: I have Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit, The War of Art (How to win the inner creative battles, etc.), No Plot? No Problem by the NaNo creator, The Plot Thickens by Lukeman, The First Five Pages by Lukeman, and The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing. Usually what happens for me is that I read along for a few pages and then am overcome with the urge to write.
Let's hope that happens next, and that it's productive writing, not the usual self-indulgent noodling I've been doing.
And if I go too far down that road, ALL of novel writing is self-indulgent noodling. The purpose of the first draft is to get down the rough framework and see if you have any kind of spark, or even tinder that a spark can ignite. I think I've done that, at least, to my eye. I am not sure any outside reader could look at this drivel and see a novel. When I tell the plot to people, they do respond somewhat favorably.
So then, the purpose of a second draft is to actually make it something of a novel, with a beginning, middle and end. Adding what needs to be added, subtracting, deleting, altering, shifting and re-organizing (or organizing in the first place).
I am really not sure what mindset is required for this. And I'm not sure if it isn't a screenplay. However, I know that I want the end result to be a novel. Thinking in screenplay terms is NOT helping, and so I am thinking that I might need to declare a moratorium on TV and movies. Which will be terribly difficult for me... I really don't have much else going on but my handful of shows during the week. That's how I'm coping with the pressures of getting through the day.
Helping my son with a language arts project has been good. To hear/read the young adult fiction reminds me that I do have the skills. But seeing the book jackets, esp J.K. Rowling's monster fame, is strangely intimidating.
So, I'm at a somewhat bitter and scary crossroads, and maybe that's what writer's block is about. I have to choose to step off the road and into the swamp, wading knee-deep through the tangle of mud, reeds, vines and frogs. No breadcrumb trail is possible either. Tie a rope around my waist? If I pull three times, haul me in?
April 7, 2009
Weight Loss, For the Last Time
About a month ago, I started Weight Watchers again. Previously, I lost about 18 pounds, but gained it all back when my grief hit the big time (and I hit the Texas state line). I did my rounds of Popeye's, chicken fried steaks, Tex-Mex and cobbler. But then it became time to lose it. For good.
By counting the WW points, I write everything down and thus, I account for everything, including booze. I detach myself from any guilt or encouragement or feelings re: food because the last thing I need is to "celebrate" food victories with food. So no celebration when I weigh less... just progress reports.
My goals are to lose back to where I can fit into the summer pants I already own. I have other vain goals, but that's the practical one. I also know that I'll sleep better and feel better if I weigh less (ie, less body pain). My ultimate goal (one of the vain ones) is to look hot in jeans and a white dress shirt.
I also use my weekly points and if I'm running low, I either do some activity, or I just skip a meal. I'm working slowly back into yoga, walking and swimming, and hope to add dog agility into the mix when I get in better shape.
What works out for me over the years is to shop and keep foods that are healthy for me. I have eliminated certain entire classes of food. I don't have soda, cookies or snacks in the house. This makes me creative w/r/t snacking. But it takes more effort to eat a snack than it does to not eat, or grab an apple. If we are out, I go ahead and have the thing I'm craving because if I don't, I'll obsess on it and eat double when I finally do break down and eat it, but I write it down and count the points.
I weigh things, and I measure things. I don't eat fat free anything that is supposed to be a fat. I eat the real food. I put real sugar in my tea. I measured how much I use? and it's 16 calories. Except we have started eating "light" cream cheese.
I'm trying to LIVE, not diet. I stopped all the excuses and justifications. I've had all the Church's fried chicken I "deserve" in my life... I don't feel deprived if I don't get a dessert or a main dish. I still love food, and have found that if we indulge a bit on Monday and Tuesday, our week goes by much better. Last night, we had two kinds of ice cream and tater tots. That was my dinner.
Tonight, I plan something chaste like fish and asparagus. But it has to take totally delicious. I've discovered that if I'm not satisfied, I will continue to eat. That aspect of WW is new, and has been useful. They ask you to rate your hunger. Just adding that to my post-meal calculations brings awareness to the fact that I'm FULL and HUNGRY. Oh. That's a different non-food problem.
So, it goes. My reward system is a little odd: when I lose 10 lbs, I'm getting new underwear. When I lose 25, I'm getting a pony. Maybe.
By counting the WW points, I write everything down and thus, I account for everything, including booze. I detach myself from any guilt or encouragement or feelings re: food because the last thing I need is to "celebrate" food victories with food. So no celebration when I weigh less... just progress reports.
My goals are to lose back to where I can fit into the summer pants I already own. I have other vain goals, but that's the practical one. I also know that I'll sleep better and feel better if I weigh less (ie, less body pain). My ultimate goal (one of the vain ones) is to look hot in jeans and a white dress shirt.
I also use my weekly points and if I'm running low, I either do some activity, or I just skip a meal. I'm working slowly back into yoga, walking and swimming, and hope to add dog agility into the mix when I get in better shape.
What works out for me over the years is to shop and keep foods that are healthy for me. I have eliminated certain entire classes of food. I don't have soda, cookies or snacks in the house. This makes me creative w/r/t snacking. But it takes more effort to eat a snack than it does to not eat, or grab an apple. If we are out, I go ahead and have the thing I'm craving because if I don't, I'll obsess on it and eat double when I finally do break down and eat it, but I write it down and count the points.
I weigh things, and I measure things. I don't eat fat free anything that is supposed to be a fat. I eat the real food. I put real sugar in my tea. I measured how much I use? and it's 16 calories. Except we have started eating "light" cream cheese.
I'm trying to LIVE, not diet. I stopped all the excuses and justifications. I've had all the Church's fried chicken I "deserve" in my life... I don't feel deprived if I don't get a dessert or a main dish. I still love food, and have found that if we indulge a bit on Monday and Tuesday, our week goes by much better. Last night, we had two kinds of ice cream and tater tots. That was my dinner.
Tonight, I plan something chaste like fish and asparagus. But it has to take totally delicious. I've discovered that if I'm not satisfied, I will continue to eat. That aspect of WW is new, and has been useful. They ask you to rate your hunger. Just adding that to my post-meal calculations brings awareness to the fact that I'm FULL and HUNGRY. Oh. That's a different non-food problem.
So, it goes. My reward system is a little odd: when I lose 10 lbs, I'm getting new underwear. When I lose 25, I'm getting a pony. Maybe.
March 30, 2009
Redemption
While teaching writing is not nearly as satisfying as writing, it is less work in some ways. And there is a limit to how much you can give to your students, and how long you will work on an assignment.
All that said, I am grateful to be back in the classroom, albeit on something of a lark. There has been no contract to sign, I have completed paperwork but received no official notification from anyone that I am the instructor of record. No, I just showed up with good intention, and the office staff also showed intention by making me a mail folder and being patient with my stupid somewhat irritated questions. The paperwork may come eventually, and I think I have to wait eight weeks for the first miniscule check.
I don't get paid enough, and neither do they. So we're all in this collective that decided to do this community service project, and make it look like college. The trick is that the accreditation people take this very seriously, as they should, and so we must all act like it is a very very important thing we do.
But in the end, it isn't all that important. I show up to work, I do some good, I go home. The student show up, think about stuff and go home to their lives. That's how it should be, really. I'm no saint, I'm no better than my students. I just have a body of experience and knowledge that they have some murky idea that they "need." What they want is not to spend three hours in a room with me twice a week, but if that's what it takes, then they are willing. They will gladly pay that in order to get the reward.
The best thing about these international students is that they have overcome big obstacles to get here, even if it was simply a matter of travelling many hours, filing the right paperwork and coping with the weird life here in America. One student from the Middle East appears to be from one of those mega-wealthy families, but he is the only one who has that air of entitlement, and it's hardly noticeable.
They are polite, filled with gratitude, eager to learn and somewhat shaky at the prospect of doing a full-on writing class IN a FOREIGN language where proficiency is expected rather than coached. And they show up.
So must I. But it beats asking "whip or no whip? skinny? decaf?" I too am grateful. Why? There's a darker reason.
Many years ago, in another state, I had the fortune of teaching at both community college and university in a town where writers were a dime a dozen. Swing a sack of dirty socks and you could hit a writer. But somehow I had an inside track on this shadow life of contractual employment, semester-to-semester.
Except for the time when my father had a stroke, and I missed several weeks to be by his side, cheering him with crossword puzzles and specially prepared thick soups and other things. And I missed all kinds of deadlines for re-applying for work. I was simply NOT available when the call came, and I found myself in November buying groceries on credit cards, and by December, I was buying wine on credit cards.
It was a dark time. I took temporary employment as an admin with a machine shop for three days, and walked out after lunch on the fourth day. I also made up some dramatic story why I had to quit the data entry job. I could not go into good honest labor. I felt ruined.
Somehow, someone needed an English instructor at a distant, new community college campus - some place just south of town where a large percentage of Hispanic and tribal folks took classes. In a weak and reluctant moment, I agree to teach two classes, both at the worst possible times.
Too far away from my house, too far away from my regular haunts, too far away from my recovering father who was not quite the same, not enough money to make ends meet, I felt compelled to do something unforgiveable. I was also applying for full-time jobs, and I agreed to take one MID-TERM. It was about 6 or 8 class meetings into the semester. I cannot remember if I had graded a set of papers or not.
But I quit. I told the dean, who could barely disguise her displeasure. She shifted quickly and professionally into CYA mode, finding someone to cover my classes and minimize the damage to students. My replacement was much less forgiving. I met both classes with him, introducing him and then slinking out like the ratfink I was.
I left town two weeks later to take that job, near my parents in my home town.
Though I returned to teaching four years after that, I never did penance, really. I justified and rationalized my actions. But this morning, as I prepare for class, I see clearly and objectively that I violated a near-sacred trust. I left my students in the middle of a semester. Granted my schedule prevented any other jobs, and of course the pay was horrible. I would not have been able to sustain myself for the full 16 weeks, so what happened, happened.
Many years later, though, unbeknownst to them, my students are providing me with something very important: the opportunity to meet the challenge, to foster their education, and to redeem myself on a karmic level. Even though I am compensated, it's not enough for the hours and work. But this is me paying it back (paying it forward) in a roundabout way. When the semester is done, we're even, and I can move forward.
But no way am I going to tell them that, nor should I. It will be my little secret. And ours.
All that said, I am grateful to be back in the classroom, albeit on something of a lark. There has been no contract to sign, I have completed paperwork but received no official notification from anyone that I am the instructor of record. No, I just showed up with good intention, and the office staff also showed intention by making me a mail folder and being patient with my stupid somewhat irritated questions. The paperwork may come eventually, and I think I have to wait eight weeks for the first miniscule check.
I don't get paid enough, and neither do they. So we're all in this collective that decided to do this community service project, and make it look like college. The trick is that the accreditation people take this very seriously, as they should, and so we must all act like it is a very very important thing we do.
But in the end, it isn't all that important. I show up to work, I do some good, I go home. The student show up, think about stuff and go home to their lives. That's how it should be, really. I'm no saint, I'm no better than my students. I just have a body of experience and knowledge that they have some murky idea that they "need." What they want is not to spend three hours in a room with me twice a week, but if that's what it takes, then they are willing. They will gladly pay that in order to get the reward.
The best thing about these international students is that they have overcome big obstacles to get here, even if it was simply a matter of travelling many hours, filing the right paperwork and coping with the weird life here in America. One student from the Middle East appears to be from one of those mega-wealthy families, but he is the only one who has that air of entitlement, and it's hardly noticeable.
They are polite, filled with gratitude, eager to learn and somewhat shaky at the prospect of doing a full-on writing class IN a FOREIGN language where proficiency is expected rather than coached. And they show up.
So must I. But it beats asking "whip or no whip? skinny? decaf?" I too am grateful. Why? There's a darker reason.
Many years ago, in another state, I had the fortune of teaching at both community college and university in a town where writers were a dime a dozen. Swing a sack of dirty socks and you could hit a writer. But somehow I had an inside track on this shadow life of contractual employment, semester-to-semester.
Except for the time when my father had a stroke, and I missed several weeks to be by his side, cheering him with crossword puzzles and specially prepared thick soups and other things. And I missed all kinds of deadlines for re-applying for work. I was simply NOT available when the call came, and I found myself in November buying groceries on credit cards, and by December, I was buying wine on credit cards.
It was a dark time. I took temporary employment as an admin with a machine shop for three days, and walked out after lunch on the fourth day. I also made up some dramatic story why I had to quit the data entry job. I could not go into good honest labor. I felt ruined.
Somehow, someone needed an English instructor at a distant, new community college campus - some place just south of town where a large percentage of Hispanic and tribal folks took classes. In a weak and reluctant moment, I agree to teach two classes, both at the worst possible times.
Too far away from my house, too far away from my regular haunts, too far away from my recovering father who was not quite the same, not enough money to make ends meet, I felt compelled to do something unforgiveable. I was also applying for full-time jobs, and I agreed to take one MID-TERM. It was about 6 or 8 class meetings into the semester. I cannot remember if I had graded a set of papers or not.
But I quit. I told the dean, who could barely disguise her displeasure. She shifted quickly and professionally into CYA mode, finding someone to cover my classes and minimize the damage to students. My replacement was much less forgiving. I met both classes with him, introducing him and then slinking out like the ratfink I was.
I left town two weeks later to take that job, near my parents in my home town.
Though I returned to teaching four years after that, I never did penance, really. I justified and rationalized my actions. But this morning, as I prepare for class, I see clearly and objectively that I violated a near-sacred trust. I left my students in the middle of a semester. Granted my schedule prevented any other jobs, and of course the pay was horrible. I would not have been able to sustain myself for the full 16 weeks, so what happened, happened.
Many years later, though, unbeknownst to them, my students are providing me with something very important: the opportunity to meet the challenge, to foster their education, and to redeem myself on a karmic level. Even though I am compensated, it's not enough for the hours and work. But this is me paying it back (paying it forward) in a roundabout way. When the semester is done, we're even, and I can move forward.
But no way am I going to tell them that, nor should I. It will be my little secret. And ours.
March 28, 2009
I Really Do
I see dead people.
In my dreams.
Last night, it was my brother. He was around the house, organizing or bossing something, and I ignored him. Later in the dream, I had to turn to him and apologize.
"Oh, I'm SO sorry. I was ignoring you as is my wont. But I forgot that you're dead, and so that was rude of me when you've come to visit me." Forehead slap. "Want a beer?"
I then had to go out in the front yard to ask the neighbors to move their cars from my front lawn. In the dream, that is. They were very polite, so for now, they were not zombies.
In my dreams.
Last night, it was my brother. He was around the house, organizing or bossing something, and I ignored him. Later in the dream, I had to turn to him and apologize.
"Oh, I'm SO sorry. I was ignoring you as is my wont. But I forgot that you're dead, and so that was rude of me when you've come to visit me." Forehead slap. "Want a beer?"
I then had to go out in the front yard to ask the neighbors to move their cars from my front lawn. In the dream, that is. They were very polite, so for now, they were not zombies.
Big Living
It's Saturday, and I have no intention of going anywhere, unless it's to get gas, buy a book with a 40% coupon, pick up a CD I want (yes, I am old school - I like to hold the factory product in my hands), and maybe buy some crickets.
I live big.
What felt a few weeks ago like surrender and not caring anymore now feels like harmony, if not peace. I don't get much done. The floors are still not swept, though the dishes are done and new ones accumulating. I have laundry to fold and more loads to process. It gets done, eventually.
I'm cleaning out a couple of dusty and hairy corners in the dining room, trying to make it a room where art will get done OR dinner eaten. It used to be that I could whip up dinner at the table from 3 hours to 30 minutes. Now? It's been at least a month since anyone has sat at that table, much less eaten.
This is another thing I tried to get my shrink to address: my list. I could sit down and write a list of all the things I need to do. That part is easy. It's doing them. I never actually got to show up my list, much less come up with strategies for accomplishing things. I realize now that I was pretty much just wasting my time with him, though I'm sure it was nice to have him "be my friend" for that year. In retrospect, he wasn't exactly listening to me, and he had no agenda for "our work." His main goal seemed to be getting me to take anti-depressants. When I succumbed and tried 3 weeks of Vitamin P, I had such a panic attack at the gym no less, that I didn't go back for 3 months and I quit Vit. P on the spot.
So, though he was handsome and laughed at my jokes, it was a wash. Now where am I? wishing I had someone to talk to in a therapeutic environment? probably. Wishing for a grief group? maybe so. Lately, a nice hearty cup of tea has chased away the anxiety, but a cup of real coffee can trigger it. At least caffeine is a legal and very cheap drug.
A bright spot: I am good at something. I mean really really good. At Luxor. Ha! I lost my one game where I had 8 million points and was pwning everything the game dished out. So I had to start from scratch. Two hours later, and I'm back to 2.5 millions. PWN!
I found some sketches by the lad and decided that I would make a "coloring book" of his work, along with my dad's. Kind of like an album, except it's their drawings, maybe for coloring, maybe with some colors. The photo album thing in iPhoto is perfect for this sort of thing. That feels good. That's a nice kind of productive.
Back to the dining room. The lad is out of the house for a party, and will come home unhungry, but maybe tomorrow we'll eat in there.
I live big.
What felt a few weeks ago like surrender and not caring anymore now feels like harmony, if not peace. I don't get much done. The floors are still not swept, though the dishes are done and new ones accumulating. I have laundry to fold and more loads to process. It gets done, eventually.
I'm cleaning out a couple of dusty and hairy corners in the dining room, trying to make it a room where art will get done OR dinner eaten. It used to be that I could whip up dinner at the table from 3 hours to 30 minutes. Now? It's been at least a month since anyone has sat at that table, much less eaten.
This is another thing I tried to get my shrink to address: my list. I could sit down and write a list of all the things I need to do. That part is easy. It's doing them. I never actually got to show up my list, much less come up with strategies for accomplishing things. I realize now that I was pretty much just wasting my time with him, though I'm sure it was nice to have him "be my friend" for that year. In retrospect, he wasn't exactly listening to me, and he had no agenda for "our work." His main goal seemed to be getting me to take anti-depressants. When I succumbed and tried 3 weeks of Vitamin P, I had such a panic attack at the gym no less, that I didn't go back for 3 months and I quit Vit. P on the spot.
So, though he was handsome and laughed at my jokes, it was a wash. Now where am I? wishing I had someone to talk to in a therapeutic environment? probably. Wishing for a grief group? maybe so. Lately, a nice hearty cup of tea has chased away the anxiety, but a cup of real coffee can trigger it. At least caffeine is a legal and very cheap drug.
A bright spot: I am good at something. I mean really really good. At Luxor. Ha! I lost my one game where I had 8 million points and was pwning everything the game dished out. So I had to start from scratch. Two hours later, and I'm back to 2.5 millions. PWN!
I found some sketches by the lad and decided that I would make a "coloring book" of his work, along with my dad's. Kind of like an album, except it's their drawings, maybe for coloring, maybe with some colors. The photo album thing in iPhoto is perfect for this sort of thing. That feels good. That's a nice kind of productive.
Back to the dining room. The lad is out of the house for a party, and will come home unhungry, but maybe tomorrow we'll eat in there.
March 26, 2009
Random
I've had quite a few thoughts in the past couple of days. Not sure if any of them will get fleshed out, but this is a journal, right?
It's high time I wrote a book, published it and all. Question is, which one? I have two novels in the works, a novella, a couple of short stories, more ideas for short stories. I have a number of guidebooks and e-books to write for "passive revenue streams!" Rock on. I have a couple of workbooks and a non-fiction book about creativity in draft somewhere.
I have a coloring book idea to develop, and a couple of patterns to write up (mostly embroidery and little felt figures for sewing).
I really should do something with my father's sketches - I have hundreds of them.
If I win the lottery, I want to get this house fixed up, buy another house with a pool, and a vacation home somewhere. Then I'll have enough wall space to hang all the art I own and want to make.
The car and garage need cleaning out. Working at home is very difficult for me, as I'm completely isolated and barely productive. But working FT in an office is hard because I get so tired, there's all that OFFICE nonsense and I despise wasting my day indoors.
I am filled with contradictory beliefs about life. "The Secret" for me is to reconcile them, not simply to (buy a book and then) imagine how it will be.
I believe chocolate is part of a balanced diet.
Incompetence and mediocrity (mine and esp. that of others) are the bane of my existence.
Sometimes even junk mail triggers my anxiety.
I would like a week's paid vacation, complete with maid service and a personal chef. Someone to do the morning school run would be heavenly too. Massage 4X that week, a hair and pedicure appointment, and perhaps a nice lunch in the sunshine with my erstwhile main squeeze.
The other night, when I wasn't sleeping, I had a complete and total epiphany about how Photoshop and Illustrator work, and the difference between them. It was rather profound, and everything has been easy since I figured that out. Now, THAT'S a Secret that works!
And here it is: Illustrator works as vector art, using points on the X/Y axes. Single points, and you tell those points what to do with each other. That's it.
Photoshop works like a grid, using ALL the points (72, 150, 300 dpi, or higher) in a square, along with "millions" of colors. Each pixel has be one of 256/1028/millions of colors, and they combine to make images. (When you think about inks, overlays and separations, it gets more complicated.)
But the simple explanation: Illustrator is a small collection of points in 2D, along the X or Y axis. Photoshop is a grid and each box in it must have a color value, even if it is black or white. And this stuff matters to the machines that are used to reproduce the images. It matters a LOT.
Neat, huh?
I dreamed the other night of asking for my old job and salary back. I think that's because I'm stressing about money, and also about moving forward. Going backwards in time is psychologically safer because it's a known.
My mind is a dark and scary neighborhood where no one should have to go alone.
It's high time I wrote a book, published it and all. Question is, which one? I have two novels in the works, a novella, a couple of short stories, more ideas for short stories. I have a number of guidebooks and e-books to write for "passive revenue streams!" Rock on. I have a couple of workbooks and a non-fiction book about creativity in draft somewhere.
I have a coloring book idea to develop, and a couple of patterns to write up (mostly embroidery and little felt figures for sewing).
I really should do something with my father's sketches - I have hundreds of them.
If I win the lottery, I want to get this house fixed up, buy another house with a pool, and a vacation home somewhere. Then I'll have enough wall space to hang all the art I own and want to make.
The car and garage need cleaning out. Working at home is very difficult for me, as I'm completely isolated and barely productive. But working FT in an office is hard because I get so tired, there's all that OFFICE nonsense and I despise wasting my day indoors.
I am filled with contradictory beliefs about life. "The Secret" for me is to reconcile them, not simply to (buy a book and then) imagine how it will be.
I believe chocolate is part of a balanced diet.
Incompetence and mediocrity (mine and esp. that of others) are the bane of my existence.
Sometimes even junk mail triggers my anxiety.
I would like a week's paid vacation, complete with maid service and a personal chef. Someone to do the morning school run would be heavenly too. Massage 4X that week, a hair and pedicure appointment, and perhaps a nice lunch in the sunshine with my erstwhile main squeeze.
The other night, when I wasn't sleeping, I had a complete and total epiphany about how Photoshop and Illustrator work, and the difference between them. It was rather profound, and everything has been easy since I figured that out. Now, THAT'S a Secret that works!
And here it is: Illustrator works as vector art, using points on the X/Y axes. Single points, and you tell those points what to do with each other. That's it.
Photoshop works like a grid, using ALL the points (72, 150, 300 dpi, or higher) in a square, along with "millions" of colors. Each pixel has be one of 256/1028/millions of colors, and they combine to make images. (When you think about inks, overlays and separations, it gets more complicated.)
But the simple explanation: Illustrator is a small collection of points in 2D, along the X or Y axis. Photoshop is a grid and each box in it must have a color value, even if it is black or white. And this stuff matters to the machines that are used to reproduce the images. It matters a LOT.
Neat, huh?
I dreamed the other night of asking for my old job and salary back. I think that's because I'm stressing about money, and also about moving forward. Going backwards in time is psychologically safer because it's a known.
My mind is a dark and scary neighborhood where no one should have to go alone.
March 24, 2009
Introvert v. Extrovert
(please note, Keirsey people: it is EXTROVERT, not extravert, for the love of god.)
As previously mentioned, I have started testing as an I instead of an E in the MBTI personality type tests. I have two theories about this.
1. I have always been a "slightly expressed extrovert." That is, I was a few degrees into E territory. Now that I've lived a while, and gotten used to myself, know myself more, I am now testing more on the other side of neutral, as "slightly expressed introvert." A change by a few degrees, but nothing earth-shattering.
2. I am grieving and DIFFERENT, and am testing as an introvert, because of the decided lack of interest that everyone has for interacting with someone who is grieving. No one wants to hear about it past a month. No one cares, apparently. You get a lot of "I wish I knew what to say." Yeah, well, if you have that much trouble reaching within to find something for me, then either you are shallow and not good friend material, OR you have some block about the whole thing, and I really need friends who grok the grief thing, even if they are projecting, intuiting and guessing, rather than working from experience.
Maybe it's both. I find myself feeling closer to people who have lost someone they love to death. It's not enough that they don't get along, or have been shunned or whatever. There's still a chance of a conversation.
I remember acutely hearing my mother's voice on the answering machine months after she died. I saved and saved that message. When I changed accounts, I made a special point to record the message so I would have it always. I know the words by heart.... it wasn't her last message to me but it was the "wedding" call.
When I went to record it, somehow it was gone. I'd saved and saved it... for months. Resaved and resaved. But it was just ... gone.
Yeah.
So maybe I'm not a very fun person to be around, and that's why I withdraw from folks. My interactions lately are not satisfying and "energizing" me. They deplete me. (Ha ha, Jerry McGuire joke.) I just cleared out my In Box, for example. At least four messages have made me physically cringe. I'm cutting down on the volume of email, but still having to deal with it pulls me down.
The phone calls. Thank god for Caller ID.
It's almost mind-numbing to think of how taxing it all is lately.
And so what I wonder is: is this permanent? will it change when I'm "done" grieving? what am I missing by not "getting back on the horse"?
If I were to get back on the horse, where the hell is it?
(Jots down on list "Look for the Horses.")
As previously mentioned, I have started testing as an I instead of an E in the MBTI personality type tests. I have two theories about this.
1. I have always been a "slightly expressed extrovert." That is, I was a few degrees into E territory. Now that I've lived a while, and gotten used to myself, know myself more, I am now testing more on the other side of neutral, as "slightly expressed introvert." A change by a few degrees, but nothing earth-shattering.
2. I am grieving and DIFFERENT, and am testing as an introvert, because of the decided lack of interest that everyone has for interacting with someone who is grieving. No one wants to hear about it past a month. No one cares, apparently. You get a lot of "I wish I knew what to say." Yeah, well, if you have that much trouble reaching within to find something for me, then either you are shallow and not good friend material, OR you have some block about the whole thing, and I really need friends who grok the grief thing, even if they are projecting, intuiting and guessing, rather than working from experience.
Maybe it's both. I find myself feeling closer to people who have lost someone they love to death. It's not enough that they don't get along, or have been shunned or whatever. There's still a chance of a conversation.
I remember acutely hearing my mother's voice on the answering machine months after she died. I saved and saved that message. When I changed accounts, I made a special point to record the message so I would have it always. I know the words by heart.... it wasn't her last message to me but it was the "wedding" call.
When I went to record it, somehow it was gone. I'd saved and saved it... for months. Resaved and resaved. But it was just ... gone.
Yeah.
So maybe I'm not a very fun person to be around, and that's why I withdraw from folks. My interactions lately are not satisfying and "energizing" me. They deplete me. (Ha ha, Jerry McGuire joke.) I just cleared out my In Box, for example. At least four messages have made me physically cringe. I'm cutting down on the volume of email, but still having to deal with it pulls me down.
The phone calls. Thank god for Caller ID.
It's almost mind-numbing to think of how taxing it all is lately.
And so what I wonder is: is this permanent? will it change when I'm "done" grieving? what am I missing by not "getting back on the horse"?
If I were to get back on the horse, where the hell is it?
(Jots down on list "Look for the Horses.")
Inconsolable
One thing my shrink did help me with (though I still have issues with how he left things with no closure, like stale bread)... my moods do seem to dictate how I'm doing re: grief. When I'm rested and well-fed, exercised and satisfied, I am in a pretty good mood and therefore, I can handle the grief and loss. (or is it the other way around? when I'm coping ok with the grief, my mood is good?)
but a critical mass of sleepy/tired, hungry, angry and lonely, and watch out - everything is hell in a henbasket (ha ha). I'm bordering on that for a couple of reasons.
One, I started a new teaching job and it's demanding a big amount of energy. Sustained energy for prep and for actual teaching. It's a long class so there's no way I can just skate. However, I am learning about pacing, and giving them time to talk. And they are a good group. Not a bunch of entitled snobbish teenagers, which was the "gene pool" I used to teach.
But still, that's a lot of human contact, responsibility and focus, and there is no ramp-up. Come classtime, it is ON, and I'm in charge. Not sure exactly how I feel about that anymore.
Secondly, tomorrow is the anniversary of my brother's death. His ashes are still not completely dealt with, and the family is having trouble coming to a consensus on dates for scattering. It involves a rather elaborate trip somewhere to honor his wishes... while I know he doesn't care wherever he is, which he believed was nowhere... it is a dangling chad that needs to be dealt with.
Thirdly (did I say only two things?), I haven't been sleeping well at all. Like hardly at all. I am aware of the passage of time, I sleep so lightly. I had a dream last night about moving back to my old town and asking for my old job back, and that somehow it would be all wonderful and cheerful with those co-irkers that I really really couldn't stand (which is why I left in the first place!). So, yeah, very very weird dream.
In the end, I'm really at a loss on how to grieve. I need to move on, but there are still so many dangling chads. I wonder if time will heal them, or if I need to actively do something. I'm so busy, and not in a really good way either. And I get no feedback from my dead family members. That's the roughest thing. I want to tell them, "hey, this is what I'm doing to honor you, to remember you. I miss you all." Just a little contact, a little encouragement from them would be nice.
So yeah, that's why I feel inconsolable. There doesn't seem to be any closure to this grief stuff. No consoling, no satisfaction. I understand now why married couples sometimes die close to one another... it's easier to do that, than it is to figure out how to move on. But I'm a young (ish) woman with a half-grown kid, so I'm in the big middle of life. Waiting for death is not an option.
but a critical mass of sleepy/tired, hungry, angry and lonely, and watch out - everything is hell in a henbasket (ha ha). I'm bordering on that for a couple of reasons.
One, I started a new teaching job and it's demanding a big amount of energy. Sustained energy for prep and for actual teaching. It's a long class so there's no way I can just skate. However, I am learning about pacing, and giving them time to talk. And they are a good group. Not a bunch of entitled snobbish teenagers, which was the "gene pool" I used to teach.
But still, that's a lot of human contact, responsibility and focus, and there is no ramp-up. Come classtime, it is ON, and I'm in charge. Not sure exactly how I feel about that anymore.
Secondly, tomorrow is the anniversary of my brother's death. His ashes are still not completely dealt with, and the family is having trouble coming to a consensus on dates for scattering. It involves a rather elaborate trip somewhere to honor his wishes... while I know he doesn't care wherever he is, which he believed was nowhere... it is a dangling chad that needs to be dealt with.
Thirdly (did I say only two things?), I haven't been sleeping well at all. Like hardly at all. I am aware of the passage of time, I sleep so lightly. I had a dream last night about moving back to my old town and asking for my old job back, and that somehow it would be all wonderful and cheerful with those co-irkers that I really really couldn't stand (which is why I left in the first place!). So, yeah, very very weird dream.
In the end, I'm really at a loss on how to grieve. I need to move on, but there are still so many dangling chads. I wonder if time will heal them, or if I need to actively do something. I'm so busy, and not in a really good way either. And I get no feedback from my dead family members. That's the roughest thing. I want to tell them, "hey, this is what I'm doing to honor you, to remember you. I miss you all." Just a little contact, a little encouragement from them would be nice.
So yeah, that's why I feel inconsolable. There doesn't seem to be any closure to this grief stuff. No consoling, no satisfaction. I understand now why married couples sometimes die close to one another... it's easier to do that, than it is to figure out how to move on. But I'm a young (ish) woman with a half-grown kid, so I'm in the big middle of life. Waiting for death is not an option.
March 22, 2009
Exhausted
It's 1130 on Sunday night, and I'm tired but not sleepy. I'm in pain, and stewing over something minor. About 15 minor somethings. This is the time when it would be nice to have some anti-anxiety meds. But when you ask an MD to Rx them for you, they think you are drug-seeking. Well, duh. I am. But really? seriously? 10 last me for six months. TEN. And I split them in half.
I start a new PT job tomorrow and will have students for the first time in 7 years.
It was a good Sunday... we walked in the park with dogs and it was gorgeous and windy. No one was out because people in this town are either godly or too cool for a park where there's a tad of mud and wind. I say bring it on.
Had an awesome lunch and a beer. Had a good nap, but now? I'm a little antsy and so all the demons are right there, ready to plague me. I hope I can sleep soon, but the alarm will go off at 6am, and spring break is over.
So many bittersweet thoughts, so much sadness. I see on Facebook how people are having lives, chit-chatting, making plans with friends, reporting on events. I got nothing. I have work where no one really knows me or cares to know me. I have the new job where I'll be as foreign as my students, and I have .... not much else.
It's this untetheredness that bothers me most. It's not having someone who really cares where I am, what I'm doing, if I'm ok. I do have the compassion and friendship of some awesome online folks. I cherish that. But it's not a substitute for the RL connections. The phone calls, the plans, the events, the chit-chat, the nicknames.
This could all change, but how? I just don't know. It's been like this since we moved here. And it doesn't help that I get email from someone I used to love (and could again) that confuses me and makes me pine away. And ponder what went wrong. We are so right for each other
Time to hit the sack again, tame the aches and pains and see if sleep comes.
The lad is good... he told me that his spring break was awesome. That's solid gold.
I start a new PT job tomorrow and will have students for the first time in 7 years.
It was a good Sunday... we walked in the park with dogs and it was gorgeous and windy. No one was out because people in this town are either godly or too cool for a park where there's a tad of mud and wind. I say bring it on.
Had an awesome lunch and a beer. Had a good nap, but now? I'm a little antsy and so all the demons are right there, ready to plague me. I hope I can sleep soon, but the alarm will go off at 6am, and spring break is over.
So many bittersweet thoughts, so much sadness. I see on Facebook how people are having lives, chit-chatting, making plans with friends, reporting on events. I got nothing. I have work where no one really knows me or cares to know me. I have the new job where I'll be as foreign as my students, and I have .... not much else.
It's this untetheredness that bothers me most. It's not having someone who really cares where I am, what I'm doing, if I'm ok. I do have the compassion and friendship of some awesome online folks. I cherish that. But it's not a substitute for the RL connections. The phone calls, the plans, the events, the chit-chat, the nicknames.
This could all change, but how? I just don't know. It's been like this since we moved here. And it doesn't help that I get email from someone I used to love (and could again) that confuses me and makes me pine away. And ponder what went wrong. We are so right for each other
Time to hit the sack again, tame the aches and pains and see if sleep comes.
The lad is good... he told me that his spring break was awesome. That's solid gold.
March 21, 2009
World Poker Tour
As I move through this new phase in my life, I am sorting through what used to make me happy, what used to turn me on, and what now does. Also what totally backfires for me now.
Used to give me a buzz:
eating almost anything
a cold can of Coca-Cola
food
herbal cigarettes (this was a long long time ago)
going to bars
drinking esp. tequila, gin, vodka, wine
pesto (mmmmm)
chocolate (mmmm)
Blue Bell
writing
reading esp. fiction
lots of other things
Given that my cholesterol, body pain and grief have become much larger factors in my life, I don't get the same buzz from booze. I love collecting wine and enjoying A glass, but it's a slippery slope after two glasses. I stopped getting a buzz, and began to get the hangover right away.
I need to lose 25 lbs. I lost 17 but gained it back. So I'm doing WW. But it doesn't give me a buzz. It's slightly annoying, but the results are worth it.
No, what gives me more pleasure now are non-caloric things.
expensive yarn
sometimes, knitting with that yarn
my walking fur pelts (dogs, two)
shooting (video games, arrows, guns)
watching Mr. Curmudgeon himself, Dr. House
and
the World Poker Tour.
Oh boy, the thrill of professionals playing Texas Hold Em, for millions in chips... the sweaty upper lips, the tells, the hushed commentary... the WINNING. Oh yeah! awesome!
Yes, it makes me happy. But wow, what an old fogey I've become. Who the hell am I?
(And where the hell did my love of reading go? is it my glasses? is it the crapification of fiction these days? all those chick novels and the pulpy airplane fodder? this dilemma - it's maddening!)
Used to give me a buzz:
eating almost anything
a cold can of Coca-Cola
food
herbal cigarettes (this was a long long time ago)
going to bars
drinking esp. tequila, gin, vodka, wine
pesto (mmmmm)
chocolate (mmmm)
Blue Bell
writing
reading esp. fiction
lots of other things
Given that my cholesterol, body pain and grief have become much larger factors in my life, I don't get the same buzz from booze. I love collecting wine and enjoying A glass, but it's a slippery slope after two glasses. I stopped getting a buzz, and began to get the hangover right away.
I need to lose 25 lbs. I lost 17 but gained it back. So I'm doing WW. But it doesn't give me a buzz. It's slightly annoying, but the results are worth it.
No, what gives me more pleasure now are non-caloric things.
expensive yarn
sometimes, knitting with that yarn
my walking fur pelts (dogs, two)
shooting (video games, arrows, guns)
watching Mr. Curmudgeon himself, Dr. House
and
the World Poker Tour.
Oh boy, the thrill of professionals playing Texas Hold Em, for millions in chips... the sweaty upper lips, the tells, the hushed commentary... the WINNING. Oh yeah! awesome!
Yes, it makes me happy. But wow, what an old fogey I've become. Who the hell am I?
(And where the hell did my love of reading go? is it my glasses? is it the crapification of fiction these days? all those chick novels and the pulpy airplane fodder? this dilemma - it's maddening!)
Data Point
Here is a quick check-in after seven hours up and somewhat active: I have virtually no body pain. It's a good feeling. I did gobble 3 ibuprofen when I got up, and have moved around a bit cleaning the kitchen and sweeping.
Didn't go work out. Yet. If I intend to keep to my promise of not totally screwing up my Weight Watchers weekly point allowance, I need to do some serious activity today and tomorrow. Or all just tomorrow, which could be very bad, and overexerting.
But I scored myself as a 1 on the pain scale about an hour ago. Which is excellent for me. I rarely get 1s!!
I also ate pork on Wednesday, Thursday and today. I am trying to figure out if beef causes me body pain, which it has seemed to in the past, but here is a pork test and no direct results.
So. That was a lot of data points.
Didn't go work out. Yet. If I intend to keep to my promise of not totally screwing up my Weight Watchers weekly point allowance, I need to do some serious activity today and tomorrow. Or all just tomorrow, which could be very bad, and overexerting.
But I scored myself as a 1 on the pain scale about an hour ago. Which is excellent for me. I rarely get 1s!!
I also ate pork on Wednesday, Thursday and today. I am trying to figure out if beef causes me body pain, which it has seemed to in the past, but here is a pork test and no direct results.
So. That was a lot of data points.
Body Issues, Pt. 1
I used to think I was fortunate in that I didn't have major hang-ups about my body. I've always liked it, and it's served me well in the sex department. However, that's a good and functional coping mechanism for what happened when I was a kid, and now overall as I age.
From age 3, I was sick a lot. Various things, mostly "normal childhood diseases." But I did somehow get hepatitis when I was 3, and then I had strep about every three months for a number of years. I remember getting measles and mumps. Measles - "both kinds" I recall my mother saying. I did not die. People get vaccines for these things now. But still, I was sick a lot.
When the polio vaccine came out, there were two version of that. Live and killed. Polio had been killing people, and injuring them for some 30 years in this country, and it was believed to be a miracle from somewhere... so sure, line 'em up and vax 'em down! Except no one in the military (I'm a military brat) heeded the precaution that those with weakened immune systems might not be good candidates for the vaccine. No, it was soldier up and take the medicine.
So, I got vaccine-dogpiled. And got polio from the vaccine. I have no way of knowing if my parents were ever apprised of the risks v. benefits, or just what. Or if they were told that I got polio FROM the VACCINE. It is clear that is what happened. And they told me as a child that "we caught it just in time" and the case of polio I got was "mild" because of their timeliness. But when I brought up this new awareness to them in the early 90s, they were in complete and total denial. Get it from the vaccine? No way, that's not what they told us! They had even forgotten that I was sick for months, on antibiotics nearly every month for a solid year before the vaccine.
I used to have my medical records from early early on, because we "hand-carried" them out of military life into retirement. As a single mom with baby on hip, I took them with me to Australia where I had planned to use them to assist with the anit-vax efforts down there, but that didn't work out at all. Sheer oversight on my part, I left them on a shelf in the home where I was staying, and when I left, it was not on good terms. So not good that the homeowner never replied to my requests for these valuable documents. That loss is keen. Still today. Losing them is probably the deepest wound I got from the whole experience. (The rest of my trip was quite wonderful - Australia is a lovely and beautiful place and its people are awesome. Perhaps more on that in future entries?)
My point is this: without my medical records, I could now never prove anything to anyone about the vax injury. But also the aftermath. There were at least 90 pages of physical therapy notes (extensive testing, these days not documented in as much detail), surgical notes for three surgeries, and similar. It would be important to me, in further medical care, in writing about my illness, to have those records. It would be important to others, I feel. Yes, the loss of those records is keen.
However, I do have the body still. The records only describe what was done to it, and I have the original body. The paralysis I suffered from polio at age 6 went up my left leg entirely stopping at my hip. I could not walk for a good three or four months. I did not lose function, at the time, in my right leg. The growth in that leg was stunted, but more importantly, the protocol after polio was to "take it easy." That was the exact wrong advice. After all the PT, wherein I learned to walk again, further exercise should have been allowed to build muscles and functionality. I grew but the left leg didn't catch up. There was an unequal leg difference and my slight limp became more pronounced as I grew taller. Scoliosis developed and I was put in a Milwaukee brace - from neck to hips. Special shoes were entertained for a few months but they helped nothing and caused pain, so I abandoned them.
You can imagine the social implications of this. Yeah, playground kids LOVE someone who limps. Oh, and the fun of 7th and 8th grade. Yeah. Good times.
Anyway, I had a permanent PE excuse. Great, except I was a very athletic-minded person. I wanted to be running, doing, riding bikes and horses, playing kickball, etc. I did as much as I could without incurring the wrath of my mom, but she never took the hint. I could stay out all day, come home completely dirty, sweaty and happy, and then get up the next day and do it all over again. But still they kept me away from sports and organized activity. After school, once we'd moved to the country, I was out every day with my dog, exploring the woods, climbing trees, trying to catch the neighbor's horses.
Which is why it is so hard for me now to get off my lardass and get to the the gym, or ride my bike, or whatever. But I'm going to do that now, as an experiment, so I can write about it here. It is so difficult to overcome the mental obstacles every.single.time I want to be active. Plus, there's the physical ones - constant physical limitations due to weight gain and now the onset of post-polio syndrome, with constant moderate back pain.
So when it's time to exercise, I can find a million reasons not to, most of which relate to the avoidance of pain, but a sizeable and significant handful of reasons are mental. First of all, it's just not fun for me to deal with all this. The fun is greatly lessened by the time I get into it. Secondly, it is not fun to be having fun and then suddenly lose balance or have a knee buckle and take a tumble, wrenching something in my back. That sucks, in fact. Thirdly, it's just rotten horrible lousy awful to be cranking along on weights or the elliptical, and have some idiot make an idiot comment. My anger at the whole thing is bubbling there just under the surface, and I want to throttle the unsuspecting idiot and remove them from the gene pool. Or hide.
See? Exercise is a good deterrent for depression and stress. Ha!
Stay tuned for Part 2 of Body Issues, post work-out.
From age 3, I was sick a lot. Various things, mostly "normal childhood diseases." But I did somehow get hepatitis when I was 3, and then I had strep about every three months for a number of years. I remember getting measles and mumps. Measles - "both kinds" I recall my mother saying. I did not die. People get vaccines for these things now. But still, I was sick a lot.
When the polio vaccine came out, there were two version of that. Live and killed. Polio had been killing people, and injuring them for some 30 years in this country, and it was believed to be a miracle from somewhere... so sure, line 'em up and vax 'em down! Except no one in the military (I'm a military brat) heeded the precaution that those with weakened immune systems might not be good candidates for the vaccine. No, it was soldier up and take the medicine.
So, I got vaccine-dogpiled. And got polio from the vaccine. I have no way of knowing if my parents were ever apprised of the risks v. benefits, or just what. Or if they were told that I got polio FROM the VACCINE. It is clear that is what happened. And they told me as a child that "we caught it just in time" and the case of polio I got was "mild" because of their timeliness. But when I brought up this new awareness to them in the early 90s, they were in complete and total denial. Get it from the vaccine? No way, that's not what they told us! They had even forgotten that I was sick for months, on antibiotics nearly every month for a solid year before the vaccine.
I used to have my medical records from early early on, because we "hand-carried" them out of military life into retirement. As a single mom with baby on hip, I took them with me to Australia where I had planned to use them to assist with the anit-vax efforts down there, but that didn't work out at all. Sheer oversight on my part, I left them on a shelf in the home where I was staying, and when I left, it was not on good terms. So not good that the homeowner never replied to my requests for these valuable documents. That loss is keen. Still today. Losing them is probably the deepest wound I got from the whole experience. (The rest of my trip was quite wonderful - Australia is a lovely and beautiful place and its people are awesome. Perhaps more on that in future entries?)
My point is this: without my medical records, I could now never prove anything to anyone about the vax injury. But also the aftermath. There were at least 90 pages of physical therapy notes (extensive testing, these days not documented in as much detail), surgical notes for three surgeries, and similar. It would be important to me, in further medical care, in writing about my illness, to have those records. It would be important to others, I feel. Yes, the loss of those records is keen.
However, I do have the body still. The records only describe what was done to it, and I have the original body. The paralysis I suffered from polio at age 6 went up my left leg entirely stopping at my hip. I could not walk for a good three or four months. I did not lose function, at the time, in my right leg. The growth in that leg was stunted, but more importantly, the protocol after polio was to "take it easy." That was the exact wrong advice. After all the PT, wherein I learned to walk again, further exercise should have been allowed to build muscles and functionality. I grew but the left leg didn't catch up. There was an unequal leg difference and my slight limp became more pronounced as I grew taller. Scoliosis developed and I was put in a Milwaukee brace - from neck to hips. Special shoes were entertained for a few months but they helped nothing and caused pain, so I abandoned them.
You can imagine the social implications of this. Yeah, playground kids LOVE someone who limps. Oh, and the fun of 7th and 8th grade. Yeah. Good times.
Anyway, I had a permanent PE excuse. Great, except I was a very athletic-minded person. I wanted to be running, doing, riding bikes and horses, playing kickball, etc. I did as much as I could without incurring the wrath of my mom, but she never took the hint. I could stay out all day, come home completely dirty, sweaty and happy, and then get up the next day and do it all over again. But still they kept me away from sports and organized activity. After school, once we'd moved to the country, I was out every day with my dog, exploring the woods, climbing trees, trying to catch the neighbor's horses.
Which is why it is so hard for me now to get off my lardass and get to the the gym, or ride my bike, or whatever. But I'm going to do that now, as an experiment, so I can write about it here. It is so difficult to overcome the mental obstacles every.single.time I want to be active. Plus, there's the physical ones - constant physical limitations due to weight gain and now the onset of post-polio syndrome, with constant moderate back pain.
So when it's time to exercise, I can find a million reasons not to, most of which relate to the avoidance of pain, but a sizeable and significant handful of reasons are mental. First of all, it's just not fun for me to deal with all this. The fun is greatly lessened by the time I get into it. Secondly, it is not fun to be having fun and then suddenly lose balance or have a knee buckle and take a tumble, wrenching something in my back. That sucks, in fact. Thirdly, it's just rotten horrible lousy awful to be cranking along on weights or the elliptical, and have some idiot make an idiot comment. My anger at the whole thing is bubbling there just under the surface, and I want to throttle the unsuspecting idiot and remove them from the gene pool. Or hide.
See? Exercise is a good deterrent for depression and stress. Ha!
Stay tuned for Part 2 of Body Issues, post work-out.
March 20, 2009
I See Dead People
I am certain that one of the most primary factors of what is going on with me right now is that I see dead people.
They are everywhere. In my house, in my life, in my heart. My mother died in 2003, my father and eldest brother in 2007, within six weeks of each other. I have one brother remaining, a handful of nieces and nephews and cousins who are distant.
I am divorced too, single mother to one son. The (ill-advised) marriage died, perhaps before it ever drew breath.
Somewhere in all this dying, divorce and turmoil of the past few years, I died too. I look in the mirror and I see someone else. 20 lbs heavier, I type-out on the MBTI as an I now, where about 10 years ago, I was an E. (Extrovert v. introvert).
My aunt died last fall. She was the one who had all the family memories. She was sharp as a tack until the last time she laid down in her bed at home. They broke out the emergency pain meds, and she floated out on morphine and terminal cancer. And all those memories died too. All the stories. The artifacts remain - those that she kept and that my cousin did not throw away. Those artifacts are in a box in my office. They are unconnected dots because the family is dead.
Everything I've ever known about who I am and what family I come from is gone. All I have is memories, disconnected. I've got a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle and only about half of the pieces anymore. Most people could enjoy the bit of lake that did get put together, or half of a big-eyed kitten. I'm only able to see the gaps, the lost pieces.
I've spent more than 10 years being a Good Mom. Now that the lad has begun to turn into teenager, all that hard work seems to be for naught. No one looks at the mother of a teen and says, "ah, what a good mom." The pudding is cooked, so to speak. Though I do know there are important months and years of parenting still to come, my 24x7 vigilance is not essential.
So what do I have left? Visions of people dying, young and old (brother died at 60 - that's young.). I held my mother as she died, I spent many hours with my father at the end, and I witnessed my brother in extremis. I've looked into the faces of the people I love, the people who made me, who raised me, and I've seen death.
Moreover, I've seen myself old and dying. I've seen it like it was today. And the way I feel in my body, the way I feel in my heart, it IS today. And so I wake up every day like it's the last. That, unlike the country songs, makes me feel like it's over, not like it's time to live. Or at least it's an uphill climb to live, to function like I'm part of the world here and now, instead of the world that is gone from my sight.
The emotions and moods come and go, but the simple loss of identity, the loss of people who cared about me on a cellular level - that's the hardest thing to deal with. The world that passed is more real to me. The world I live in now is foreign, bewildering, difficult.
Maybe I am coping... grieving, as the shrinks like to say, but it's just vastly different, and a lot less glamorous, than I thought it would be.
Edited to add: while I say that I wake up every day like it's the last, I do still wake up and have some kind of interest and impetus for living. I always look forward to what the day might bring. I'm decidedly NOT suicidal. I don't WANT to die at all. I don't WANT to be in this limbo between life and the beloved dead, but I am.
They are everywhere. In my house, in my life, in my heart. My mother died in 2003, my father and eldest brother in 2007, within six weeks of each other. I have one brother remaining, a handful of nieces and nephews and cousins who are distant.
I am divorced too, single mother to one son. The (ill-advised) marriage died, perhaps before it ever drew breath.
Somewhere in all this dying, divorce and turmoil of the past few years, I died too. I look in the mirror and I see someone else. 20 lbs heavier, I type-out on the MBTI as an I now, where about 10 years ago, I was an E. (Extrovert v. introvert).
My aunt died last fall. She was the one who had all the family memories. She was sharp as a tack until the last time she laid down in her bed at home. They broke out the emergency pain meds, and she floated out on morphine and terminal cancer. And all those memories died too. All the stories. The artifacts remain - those that she kept and that my cousin did not throw away. Those artifacts are in a box in my office. They are unconnected dots because the family is dead.
Everything I've ever known about who I am and what family I come from is gone. All I have is memories, disconnected. I've got a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle and only about half of the pieces anymore. Most people could enjoy the bit of lake that did get put together, or half of a big-eyed kitten. I'm only able to see the gaps, the lost pieces.
I've spent more than 10 years being a Good Mom. Now that the lad has begun to turn into teenager, all that hard work seems to be for naught. No one looks at the mother of a teen and says, "ah, what a good mom." The pudding is cooked, so to speak. Though I do know there are important months and years of parenting still to come, my 24x7 vigilance is not essential.
So what do I have left? Visions of people dying, young and old (brother died at 60 - that's young.). I held my mother as she died, I spent many hours with my father at the end, and I witnessed my brother in extremis. I've looked into the faces of the people I love, the people who made me, who raised me, and I've seen death.
Moreover, I've seen myself old and dying. I've seen it like it was today. And the way I feel in my body, the way I feel in my heart, it IS today. And so I wake up every day like it's the last. That, unlike the country songs, makes me feel like it's over, not like it's time to live. Or at least it's an uphill climb to live, to function like I'm part of the world here and now, instead of the world that is gone from my sight.
The emotions and moods come and go, but the simple loss of identity, the loss of people who cared about me on a cellular level - that's the hardest thing to deal with. The world that passed is more real to me. The world I live in now is foreign, bewildering, difficult.
Maybe I am coping... grieving, as the shrinks like to say, but it's just vastly different, and a lot less glamorous, than I thought it would be.
Edited to add: while I say that I wake up every day like it's the last, I do still wake up and have some kind of interest and impetus for living. I always look forward to what the day might bring. I'm decidedly NOT suicidal. I don't WANT to die at all. I don't WANT to be in this limbo between life and the beloved dead, but I am.
I'm Just Here
I started a new blog. I've backed away from blogs for a very long time, and tried my hand at noveling. I work online, in writing and editing, so the very last thing I want to do in my "free" time is sit at the computer and write. MSWord feels like work to me. I've tried other GUIs such as Scrivener and some different blogging software for "local" use ie, just for the computer.
But it is unsatisfying. Blogging is good because one can blather away in a little window, hit publish, edit, revise, hit publish again, and then move on into the next day. A little instant gratification, with publishing at the end of the writing process.
I want to write, and I'm good at it - at least people pay me money to do it. But I've reached an impasse on Writing. On life. On inspiration, on mothering, on earning money doing things I like to do. I'm just coasting along. I find myself with several hours to kill, and I'm either overwhelmed by choices of what I need to get done, or a complete and total lack of jack's interest.
I think there's a reason for that, but the rest of the world is swirling on without me. I am treading water here, but floundering a bit. A lot.
And before you say, ah, you need therapy. Been there, done that, taking a break.
I hit a dead space with my latest counselor. He was very good for a while, but so far out of his zone of expertise (addiction and substance abuse)... I show up with my recent, fresh "complicated" grief, my decided distaste for anti-depressants, and my need to break through the barrier. I've lost my ability to give a damn. I've lost my desire, my yearning and my persistent questing. Our last session, he said something like, "what about girlfriends? Don't you have any? You're such a hoot." Dude, if I had girlfriends in whom I could confide like I can a therapist, I wouldn't be here. And if I had girlfriends who could withstand the full force of what I'm going through, they would be worth every penny I'm paying YOU.
He also thinks I'm not taking enough sam-E. Well, pal, for one thing, the sam-E is for body pain and has an aftereffect of helping with depression (of a certain type). Plus it's pricey, and yes, I know that Prozac is cheaper, but not if you don't have health insurance, which is the case with me, which you know... but apparently, have forgotten.
I just got exasperated when he failed for the third time to hear me ask him to help me with a specific list I'd brought in... he veered off topic and, well, it was just an off day for him. A super off day for me, and I decided I didn't need that shit.
So, here I am. Needing a place to just spill it all out, unfettered, unfiltered, and unadulterated with keywords and SEO and worry about this being tied to my livelihood. I don't expect this to be more than a place to write it all down. It's easier for me to type (which is another thing that bothers me.... I don't write longhand anymore, and I'm thinking I'll lose the ability to do so. A minor worry, really.).
This is the last house on the block. My line in the sand. I cannot go lower than here. I must put my back up against this rock solid wall, down here in the bunker (ha ha, that's funny if you know who I am from a certain circle of crazy people)... but this is where the iron rations are, the extra blankets and the oxygen masks.
If I don't make it out of here, into the next good phase of my life, then I stay until the grub runs out and the zombies come for me.
But it is unsatisfying. Blogging is good because one can blather away in a little window, hit publish, edit, revise, hit publish again, and then move on into the next day. A little instant gratification, with publishing at the end of the writing process.
I want to write, and I'm good at it - at least people pay me money to do it. But I've reached an impasse on Writing. On life. On inspiration, on mothering, on earning money doing things I like to do. I'm just coasting along. I find myself with several hours to kill, and I'm either overwhelmed by choices of what I need to get done, or a complete and total lack of jack's interest.
I think there's a reason for that, but the rest of the world is swirling on without me. I am treading water here, but floundering a bit. A lot.
And before you say, ah, you need therapy. Been there, done that, taking a break.
I hit a dead space with my latest counselor. He was very good for a while, but so far out of his zone of expertise (addiction and substance abuse)... I show up with my recent, fresh "complicated" grief, my decided distaste for anti-depressants, and my need to break through the barrier. I've lost my ability to give a damn. I've lost my desire, my yearning and my persistent questing. Our last session, he said something like, "what about girlfriends? Don't you have any? You're such a hoot." Dude, if I had girlfriends in whom I could confide like I can a therapist, I wouldn't be here. And if I had girlfriends who could withstand the full force of what I'm going through, they would be worth every penny I'm paying YOU.
He also thinks I'm not taking enough sam-E. Well, pal, for one thing, the sam-E is for body pain and has an aftereffect of helping with depression (of a certain type). Plus it's pricey, and yes, I know that Prozac is cheaper, but not if you don't have health insurance, which is the case with me, which you know... but apparently, have forgotten.
I just got exasperated when he failed for the third time to hear me ask him to help me with a specific list I'd brought in... he veered off topic and, well, it was just an off day for him. A super off day for me, and I decided I didn't need that shit.
So, here I am. Needing a place to just spill it all out, unfettered, unfiltered, and unadulterated with keywords and SEO and worry about this being tied to my livelihood. I don't expect this to be more than a place to write it all down. It's easier for me to type (which is another thing that bothers me.... I don't write longhand anymore, and I'm thinking I'll lose the ability to do so. A minor worry, really.).
This is the last house on the block. My line in the sand. I cannot go lower than here. I must put my back up against this rock solid wall, down here in the bunker (ha ha, that's funny if you know who I am from a certain circle of crazy people)... but this is where the iron rations are, the extra blankets and the oxygen masks.
If I don't make it out of here, into the next good phase of my life, then I stay until the grub runs out and the zombies come for me.
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