Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Huck Finn
College was really easy and fun for me. I didn't go to many parties, but I liked my studies and happily read my assigned literature on weekends. I had a good sized circle of friends and stayed home only when I felt like it. Graduation was a given. I read Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain six times, once for fun in elementary school, once in junior high school for scary Mrs. Webb, once in Jr. year of high school for Honors English, and three times in college for Freshman Comp, American Literature, and Literary Criticism. By that time, I knew the drill: The River Is Life. The River Is Good. The River is Nature. The River is a Symbol of Life, and Nature, which is Good. Nothing bad happens to Huck and Jim on The River. Everything bad happens to Huck and Jim, on Land.. Huck and Jim are Not Gay. Huck is Natural Man, Jim, More So. Tom Sawyer, who intrudes at the end, Is Not Natural Man. I sort of wondered if I picked the right college, if I worked hard enough, if it should have been harder. I learned to write in high school. What exactly, did I learn in college? Arrogance, that happy youthful feeling that one has at 6, and 22.
Graduate school, in contrast, (note the use of signifier, Mrs. Collins, to show a change in idea) was not easy and not fun for me (note the use of repetition to indicate comparison, Mrs. Collins). I found that, because I apprenticed with so many conservators, I learned very little I hadn't known about before. However, their papers and exams were unlike any other kind of writing ever, a combination of art historical text and technical writing. The once-proclaimed "Brilliant Writer" was not. We were always introduced as members of the conservatorial elite, a member of The Society of Winterthur Fellows, and my class was called, collectively, the most impressive, most intimidating class, ever. We had lots of functions to go to, parties to attend (and they were not fun). I worked like a crazy person, harder than anybody else, perhaps, just to keep up, reviewing stuff I'd already seen before, but couldn't describe properly. Huck Finn was never mentioned. Not once.
Now, having worked through a tough graduate program and so close to graduation (again, having failed once), I feel, not confidence, but completely stupid. What have I learned? How to research art historical catalogs, suck up to graduate advisors, how to arrange a sandwich plate attractively, maybe, and that I'm really bad at all of it. I don't think I've learned to write reports well at all.
Everybody, myself included, thought I was a brilliant writer. My secret being that, I'd read Huck Finn six times. I thought I could do anything, and I chose art conservation because it was fun, it was challenging, there were lots of toys to play with and I was good with my hands. I could easily have been a grave robber, a potter, a dental hygienist, a tile setter, it answers the same requirements. There's no winning for a natural neurotic, too hard, too easy.
Graduate school, in contrast, (note the use of signifier, Mrs. Collins, to show a change in idea) was not easy and not fun for me (note the use of repetition to indicate comparison, Mrs. Collins). I found that, because I apprenticed with so many conservators, I learned very little I hadn't known about before. However, their papers and exams were unlike any other kind of writing ever, a combination of art historical text and technical writing. The once-proclaimed "Brilliant Writer" was not. We were always introduced as members of the conservatorial elite, a member of The Society of Winterthur Fellows, and my class was called, collectively, the most impressive, most intimidating class, ever. We had lots of functions to go to, parties to attend (and they were not fun). I worked like a crazy person, harder than anybody else, perhaps, just to keep up, reviewing stuff I'd already seen before, but couldn't describe properly. Huck Finn was never mentioned. Not once.
Now, having worked through a tough graduate program and so close to graduation (again, having failed once), I feel, not confidence, but completely stupid. What have I learned? How to research art historical catalogs, suck up to graduate advisors, how to arrange a sandwich plate attractively, maybe, and that I'm really bad at all of it. I don't think I've learned to write reports well at all.
Everybody, myself included, thought I was a brilliant writer. My secret being that, I'd read Huck Finn six times. I thought I could do anything, and I chose art conservation because it was fun, it was challenging, there were lots of toys to play with and I was good with my hands. I could easily have been a grave robber, a potter, a dental hygienist, a tile setter, it answers the same requirements. There's no winning for a natural neurotic, too hard, too easy.
Strange Dream
I have had a strange recurring dream lately.
I'm walking around, puttering around the house and I notice one way or another (sometimes, I see it in a reflection, other times, I touch my face, etc.) that I've got this huge pimple on my face. Enormous. Where was it when I brushed my teeth? I go to the bathroom and I touch it, prod it to see how tender it is. (Oh, come on, I know you do this too) It's not too bad, and I can see the little sebum plug in the middle of the redness. I rub the area a little, position my fingers and squeeze. Oh, sorry, you know, I apply pressure. Gently at first, and then stronger. I can see in the mirror the little plug wiggling and working loose. I apply further pressure and it pops, with such force that it hits the mirror with a little smack. (Oh, come on, you've done THAT too) Then the dream gets really weird: the little pore on my face is now fairly large, like maybe 5mm across. I keep squeezing, and firm sebaceous material flows out of my single pore in a translucent stream that looks like an overenthusiastic toothpaste-tube squeezing. Or PlayDoh Fuzzy Pumper Barbershop from my face. The sink fills. There is a slightly sweet smell. The flow finally stops and I stop squeezing. Rubbing gently, I can see my pore slowly contract to normal size. In my dream, I start looking for Noxema and some cotton balls to clean up the mess in the sink. I wake up with an odd feeling, that feeling of odd relief and emptiness after you take an enormous crap, except it's in my face.
What does this mean?!
I'm walking around, puttering around the house and I notice one way or another (sometimes, I see it in a reflection, other times, I touch my face, etc.) that I've got this huge pimple on my face. Enormous. Where was it when I brushed my teeth? I go to the bathroom and I touch it, prod it to see how tender it is. (Oh, come on, I know you do this too) It's not too bad, and I can see the little sebum plug in the middle of the redness. I rub the area a little, position my fingers and squeeze. Oh, sorry, you know, I apply pressure. Gently at first, and then stronger. I can see in the mirror the little plug wiggling and working loose. I apply further pressure and it pops, with such force that it hits the mirror with a little smack. (Oh, come on, you've done THAT too) Then the dream gets really weird: the little pore on my face is now fairly large, like maybe 5mm across. I keep squeezing, and firm sebaceous material flows out of my single pore in a translucent stream that looks like an overenthusiastic toothpaste-tube squeezing. Or PlayDoh Fuzzy Pumper Barbershop from my face. The sink fills. There is a slightly sweet smell. The flow finally stops and I stop squeezing. Rubbing gently, I can see my pore slowly contract to normal size. In my dream, I start looking for Noxema and some cotton balls to clean up the mess in the sink. I wake up with an odd feeling, that feeling of odd relief and emptiness after you take an enormous crap, except it's in my face.
What does this mean?!
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Decadence
The best book I read during graduate school was The Arcanum by Janet Gleeson. Augustus the Strong, King of Poland loves extravagances, women, and power. He's running out of money so he imprisons 19 year old Johann Frederick Bottger, who boasted of being able to make lead into gold. (Um, he can't.) Faced with losing his life, after many years of frantic and desperate experimentation, Bottger discovers the secret to making porcelain, another commodity, one monopolized by the Chinese. Bottger isn't rewarded with freedom; his discovery causes threats of war and he becomes a state secret, guarded and forcibly moved to strategic locations like a nuclear weapon so that neighboring powers can't kidnap him. Augustus forces him into founding the Meissen house of porcelain and continues to hound him for the formula for gold. Bottger, the inventor of European porcelain, dies at 37, insane, alcoholic, and probably a virgin, a victim of greed, governments and obsession.
Porcelain was an extraordinary material to those in the Age of Reason: translucent, light weight, strong, imparting no taste to whatever it holds. Enormous human and animal figures were created in the 18th and 19th centuries for use as centerpieces during grand dinners and balls. Such objects were so rare and extraordinarily lifelike to viewers that conversations afterwards would revolve around the objects, not the food served or the clothing worn. Imagine, now, a grand dinner served at Bill Gates' house, with Cindy Crawford paid to pose nude for hours as a centerpiece; what would you talk about afterwards?
Have you looked at your toilet lately? Wonder what's it made of? Hmmm. (Toilets were invented by Thomas Crapper in 1819. I kid you not.) Wood wouldn't last long. Plastic begins to absorb smells. Glass is very heavy. All that suffering, obsession and war, and now we use porcelain to dump in. Decadence.
Porcelain was an extraordinary material to those in the Age of Reason: translucent, light weight, strong, imparting no taste to whatever it holds. Enormous human and animal figures were created in the 18th and 19th centuries for use as centerpieces during grand dinners and balls. Such objects were so rare and extraordinarily lifelike to viewers that conversations afterwards would revolve around the objects, not the food served or the clothing worn. Imagine, now, a grand dinner served at Bill Gates' house, with Cindy Crawford paid to pose nude for hours as a centerpiece; what would you talk about afterwards?
Have you looked at your toilet lately? Wonder what's it made of? Hmmm. (Toilets were invented by Thomas Crapper in 1819. I kid you not.) Wood wouldn't last long. Plastic begins to absorb smells. Glass is very heavy. All that suffering, obsession and war, and now we use porcelain to dump in. Decadence.
Crying
Crying should be something one does when one feels something real. Great joy. Unbearable sorrow. Tremendous pain. At the very least, a well-stubbed toe.
A month ago, on Strattera, I cried when I heard John Ritter died. I cried because he died on September 11. I cried because he was so young. I cried because he died on his little daughter's 4th (?) birthday. I cried because his death was totally unexpected and shafts a whole showful of actors and crew. This is odd, because, um, uh, I was never, ever a big fan of John Ritter.
Around the same time, I distinguished myself by being the only person in the continental United States who cried upon hearing the news that Ben and Jennifer canceled the wedding. I cried over all those hothouse flowers that were grown, the original Vera Wang design, all the precious little details, all that time spent by all those vendors and caterers and seamstresses, all gone to waste. Again, this is odd, because I actively dislike the couple, the movies they make and the values they stand for.
Been on Lexapro 10mg for a month. Been on 20mg for one week - how do I sound? I don't feel any different. I'm still having good days and bad days.
Yesterday, Monday October 27 was a really good day. Without prompting, all by myself, I did the following:
I took the long-haired cat, Big Orange/Curly/Odo/Meow, to the groomer, and even helped wash; I took a 30 minute walk; I dropped off a prescription; I bought stationery and wrote a thank-you note; I bought two pillows for the guestroom; I bought cat food; I moved Big Orange/Curly/Odo/Meow's stuff from the garage (where he was convalescing) into the house and made a pen for him to meet the other cats; I did some laundry; I even stripped and re-caulked the guest room bathtub.
I haven't done much today. Wimper. I wonder if this means I've graduated to manic-depressive.
I've been listening to John Mayer's latest album, "Heavier Things." Happy Birthday, John - (he just turned 26, sigh. Oh, to be 26 again.) I don't think the new album is doing as well as the previous one. Critics hail it as good and write that he has "range, and the confidence to use it" (whereas, Norah Jones (whom I like) does not; i.e., her songs all sound the same(yeah, well, that's true, unfortunately)). All I kin say is, referencing what I've learned so far, white boys shouldn't attempt hip-hop, range or no range. It's not a bad album, but not as lyrical as the first two, IMHO. The songs are great, ok, they just didn't make me cry this time. Oh, wait, that might be because I changed my medication. Hmmm.
A month ago, on Strattera, I cried when I heard John Ritter died. I cried because he died on September 11. I cried because he was so young. I cried because he died on his little daughter's 4th (?) birthday. I cried because his death was totally unexpected and shafts a whole showful of actors and crew. This is odd, because, um, uh, I was never, ever a big fan of John Ritter.
Around the same time, I distinguished myself by being the only person in the continental United States who cried upon hearing the news that Ben and Jennifer canceled the wedding. I cried over all those hothouse flowers that were grown, the original Vera Wang design, all the precious little details, all that time spent by all those vendors and caterers and seamstresses, all gone to waste. Again, this is odd, because I actively dislike the couple, the movies they make and the values they stand for.
Been on Lexapro 10mg for a month. Been on 20mg for one week - how do I sound? I don't feel any different. I'm still having good days and bad days.
Yesterday, Monday October 27 was a really good day. Without prompting, all by myself, I did the following:
I took the long-haired cat, Big Orange/Curly/Odo/Meow, to the groomer, and even helped wash; I took a 30 minute walk; I dropped off a prescription; I bought stationery and wrote a thank-you note; I bought two pillows for the guestroom; I bought cat food; I moved Big Orange/Curly/Odo/Meow's stuff from the garage (where he was convalescing) into the house and made a pen for him to meet the other cats; I did some laundry; I even stripped and re-caulked the guest room bathtub.
I haven't done much today. Wimper. I wonder if this means I've graduated to manic-depressive.
I've been listening to John Mayer's latest album, "Heavier Things." Happy Birthday, John - (he just turned 26, sigh. Oh, to be 26 again.) I don't think the new album is doing as well as the previous one. Critics hail it as good and write that he has "range, and the confidence to use it" (whereas, Norah Jones (whom I like) does not; i.e., her songs all sound the same(yeah, well, that's true, unfortunately)). All I kin say is, referencing what I've learned so far, white boys shouldn't attempt hip-hop, range or no range. It's not a bad album, but not as lyrical as the first two, IMHO. The songs are great, ok, they just didn't make me cry this time. Oh, wait, that might be because I changed my medication. Hmmm.
Stupid Thing
Saw the dumbest Star Wars doodad the other day. Now, even I, diehard Star Wars fan, (I actually rather like Episode I, bad acting and all) will concede that Episode I was really really overboard with tie-in products and weird junk. (In Japanese markets, they were selling Star Wars Episode I seaweed sprinkles and boil-in-bag curry; I know, because I bought crates of the stuff.) This, this new thing I found, was the weirdest slapped-together thing I'd ever seen thus far, four full years after the release of Ep. I. I found it at the 99 cent store, and even I didn't want to buy it.
I found pine-scented ("forest-moon" !) body wash in a black bottle; the label had Star Wars graphics, a picture of Darth Vader and the Death Star, and the enormous bottlecap was in the shape of Queen Amidala's Ep. I head.
Consider: Death Star. Darth Vader. Forest Moon. Queen Amidala. That's references to Ep I, IV, and VI! What, wasn't V good enough? (The Empire Strikes Back was my favorite, thank you very much)
How random is that?!
Who would buy such a weird piece of stuck-together crap?!
Todd came home and surprised me with two bottles.
I found pine-scented ("forest-moon" !) body wash in a black bottle; the label had Star Wars graphics, a picture of Darth Vader and the Death Star, and the enormous bottlecap was in the shape of Queen Amidala's Ep. I head.
Consider: Death Star. Darth Vader. Forest Moon. Queen Amidala. That's references to Ep I, IV, and VI! What, wasn't V good enough? (The Empire Strikes Back was my favorite, thank you very much)
How random is that?!
Who would buy such a weird piece of stuck-together crap?!
Todd came home and surprised me with two bottles.
Monday, October 27, 2003
Update on the Cats
Doc and Wyatt: Our original two cats are not adjusting well to living with two other cats in the house. I am afraid to introduce the third cat, still subsisting in the garage, but will do it later today. Wyatt is doing ok on kitty Prozac; it makes him somewhat aggressive towards the females but at least the inappropriate urination/defecation behavior has stopped. Doc has started overgrooming his tummy and it is pink and hairless in spots, though Todd swears it's growing back. (I don't think so)Doc has begun looking for new places to colonize, like the tippy tippy top shelf of the entertainment center, a high climb for the other cats. Both of them think it's fun to pee in Little Black Kitty's litter box in the basement.
Jessie: The Queen of the TV room is currently the best-adjusted cat in the house. Her appetite is good, her sense of entitlement is strong, and she has begun playing (well, walking around with and licking a lot) with a new toy, a Eukanuba catnip-stuffed cotton cat. When she wants affection, she forces her way onto her target's lap and purrs aggressively at them. When she wants food, she pushes her bowl off the table, or eats Doc and Wyatt's food. When she wants protection from other cats on the prowl, she sits near Todd or me. She's civil to the other cats, nice to the house guests, never misses her sandbox and scratches on a post. I wish she'd poop more.
Little Black Kitty: LBK will never ever ever be social, but she has gotten tired of the basement and has begun invading the kitchen and living room. She avoids the TV room, aka the domain of Jessie. She is cowed by Doc and Wyatt (mostly Wyatt) who like to chase her back downstairs to her basement. She has recovered from being spayed and looks well. When she wants protection from wandering boy cats, she likes to sleep on the kitchen counter, like a forgotten furry black ski cap.
Curly Bill: My forlorn little orphan got his stitches and his shunt removed from his paw two weeks ago. He got his collar off 10 days ago. He is stronger, becoming playful and gaining weight. We introduced him to the other cats; he was excited and friendly but they, in turns, were not. Sigh. I discovered by accident that he answers to the word "Meow." I was explaining to someone how he has such a sad 'meow' and he came running at the mention of the word. What a stupid name for a cat: Meow. Big Orange/Curly/Meow was taken to the groomer today. A medium-haired cat, he's always dusty and he's constantly grooming himself and I have been worrying about his ingesting dust and ash. It will be nice to finally bring him into the house forever and we can park our cars in the garage again.
Every day is a new series of territory negotiations. And another bag of poop and wet litter.
Jessie: The Queen of the TV room is currently the best-adjusted cat in the house. Her appetite is good, her sense of entitlement is strong, and she has begun playing (well, walking around with and licking a lot) with a new toy, a Eukanuba catnip-stuffed cotton cat. When she wants affection, she forces her way onto her target's lap and purrs aggressively at them. When she wants food, she pushes her bowl off the table, or eats Doc and Wyatt's food. When she wants protection from other cats on the prowl, she sits near Todd or me. She's civil to the other cats, nice to the house guests, never misses her sandbox and scratches on a post. I wish she'd poop more.
Little Black Kitty: LBK will never ever ever be social, but she has gotten tired of the basement and has begun invading the kitchen and living room. She avoids the TV room, aka the domain of Jessie. She is cowed by Doc and Wyatt (mostly Wyatt) who like to chase her back downstairs to her basement. She has recovered from being spayed and looks well. When she wants protection from wandering boy cats, she likes to sleep on the kitchen counter, like a forgotten furry black ski cap.
Curly Bill: My forlorn little orphan got his stitches and his shunt removed from his paw two weeks ago. He got his collar off 10 days ago. He is stronger, becoming playful and gaining weight. We introduced him to the other cats; he was excited and friendly but they, in turns, were not. Sigh. I discovered by accident that he answers to the word "Meow." I was explaining to someone how he has such a sad 'meow' and he came running at the mention of the word. What a stupid name for a cat: Meow. Big Orange/Curly/Meow was taken to the groomer today. A medium-haired cat, he's always dusty and he's constantly grooming himself and I have been worrying about his ingesting dust and ash. It will be nice to finally bring him into the house forever and we can park our cars in the garage again.
Every day is a new series of territory negotiations. And another bag of poop and wet litter.
Potluck Supper
Went to a potluck supper honoring the new CSLA faculty. Todd was an honoree. He fixed his tofu chile relleno, which was runny. We pulled it out half-cooked because we were late. Stuck it in a hotdish carrier, where, I think, it cooked further on the drive over. I wish Todd had told me earlier (Oh, wait, he did.), I might have cooked something more reliable (Oh, whatever).
What kind of jackasses do a potluck in the middle of a grocery strike?!
I had to answer the same series of questions 8 times. I counted. "And what do you do?" (I'm almost finished with my MS in art conservation at the University of Delaware. I'm looking for a job.) and then "Oh, can you work at the Norton Simon? (No, they don't have a lab.) The Huntington Library? (No, they don't have a lab.) The Getty? (Been there. Done that. Rather not.)
Todd wants to know why I don't want to do anything else tonight. Whimper.
What kind of jackasses do a potluck in the middle of a grocery strike?!
I had to answer the same series of questions 8 times. I counted. "And what do you do?" (I'm almost finished with my MS in art conservation at the University of Delaware. I'm looking for a job.) and then "Oh, can you work at the Norton Simon? (No, they don't have a lab.) The Huntington Library? (No, they don't have a lab.) The Getty? (Been there. Done that. Rather not.)
Todd wants to know why I don't want to do anything else tonight. Whimper.
Thursday, October 23, 2003
Things That Scare Me
Lots of things used to worry me. Global warming. North Korea. Republicans. Grad school sucked out all my confidence and now little things scare me.
I made an appointment with a temp agency today, for Wednesday the 29th, for immediate part-time work. I suppose there's no harm in trying, but I've been out of industry so long, I'm afraid I'm unmarketable. Typing 80 wpm really isn't enough anymore. I don't know Excel. For that matter, I don't know any of the latest software. I'm not even as cute as I once was (oh, wait, I was never cute). Come to think of it, I've always worked for friends' parents - people who were willing to show me the ropes - but I've forgotten all the legal and medical terminology they so lovingly showed me. I never thought I'd be applying for another clerking job, or I wouldn't have gotten my tattoo. I dread the thought of wearing office wear again.
I wrote a letter affirming that my portfolio will be turned in December 8, and that my presentation will be done on January 5th 2004 today. I'm committing because everybody, psychiatrist, therapist, spouse and mentors all say I gotta just hurry up and finish. Get my confidence back. Get out of the program and out of these crazy people's lives. I am hoping that the parttime work gives me structure and helps me finish the coursework. I am scared it will eat up whatever serotonin I have left in my brain and I will collapse into a mushy heap of body parts, tears and Kleenex.
Todd applied for a car loan today because he wants a new car. For me, he says. My mother says I should trust Todd, that he wants to improve things for me.(Hello, I thought we were losing the house?! Why, oh why, are we going deeper into debt?!) Call me neurotic, but debt is not comforting to me, especially and certainly not when both cars are running dependably. Todd also likes to eat cereal and granola bars for the airline mile coupons on the back of the boxes. He was disappointed I didn't praise him enough when he hiked up our accounts enough for two free trips ... each.
Winning the lottery, now, that would cheer me up. Some.
I made an appointment with a temp agency today, for Wednesday the 29th, for immediate part-time work. I suppose there's no harm in trying, but I've been out of industry so long, I'm afraid I'm unmarketable. Typing 80 wpm really isn't enough anymore. I don't know Excel. For that matter, I don't know any of the latest software. I'm not even as cute as I once was (oh, wait, I was never cute). Come to think of it, I've always worked for friends' parents - people who were willing to show me the ropes - but I've forgotten all the legal and medical terminology they so lovingly showed me. I never thought I'd be applying for another clerking job, or I wouldn't have gotten my tattoo. I dread the thought of wearing office wear again.
I wrote a letter affirming that my portfolio will be turned in December 8, and that my presentation will be done on January 5th 2004 today. I'm committing because everybody, psychiatrist, therapist, spouse and mentors all say I gotta just hurry up and finish. Get my confidence back. Get out of the program and out of these crazy people's lives. I am hoping that the parttime work gives me structure and helps me finish the coursework. I am scared it will eat up whatever serotonin I have left in my brain and I will collapse into a mushy heap of body parts, tears and Kleenex.
Todd applied for a car loan today because he wants a new car. For me, he says. My mother says I should trust Todd, that he wants to improve things for me.(Hello, I thought we were losing the house?! Why, oh why, are we going deeper into debt?!) Call me neurotic, but debt is not comforting to me, especially and certainly not when both cars are running dependably. Todd also likes to eat cereal and granola bars for the airline mile coupons on the back of the boxes. He was disappointed I didn't praise him enough when he hiked up our accounts enough for two free trips ... each.
Winning the lottery, now, that would cheer me up. Some.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Pink and Irritated
The Santa Ana winds have started again. I had forgotten about those winds, the downside of Autumn in L.A. Some years, they don't come. Boy, I think I'm weird, but when the Santa Anas come, the firebugs come out and L.A. starts to sound like hell. Well, it's not; it's just awfully ashy, and the sky and your eyes become pink and irritated.
The first Japanese word I ever taught Todd was meiwaku. The biggest sin in Japanese culture is to impose on someone else for your own jollies. When you are the biggest pain in the ass around. When O.J. Simpson had that slow-speed chase, clogged all those highways because he was in a bad mood in his bronco? that was a meiwaku. When somebody jumps in front of the Metrolink trains because he wants to die and makes everybody late for work, that's a meiwaku. For that matter, the strongest reason I don't kill myself is that it would be meiwaku. Someone has to cut me down, pull me out, or otherwise somehow clean up my mess. (And then I know I am truly Japanese - when my fear of meiwaku is greater than my sense of despair.) Arsonists commit the most obnoxious kind of meiwaku, where people lose lives and homes.
Arson fires start other people committing meiwaku, which makes the whole thing worse. Homeowners start hosing down their homes , which pulls down water pressure for the whole neighborhood. Freaked out residents resist evacuation and then firemen hafta stop fighting the fire so they can rescue them later. And then there are vultures who loot victims' houses...(!)...like the evacuees don't have enough trouble.
I suppose people who live in the hills know the risks. And maybe they're too rich or too stupid to worry about it. (My brother-in-law lives in the hills above where I went to college. He gets evacuated annually and it doesn't seem to bother him. I dunno, sleeping on a cot in some high school gym annually would bother me. But then, thinking of his house, sitting on all that good fertile alluvial plain, just so he can have a McMansion decorated with some lawn gnomes...that would bother me, too.)
But I can't get over all the meiwaku going on.
The first Japanese word I ever taught Todd was meiwaku. The biggest sin in Japanese culture is to impose on someone else for your own jollies. When you are the biggest pain in the ass around. When O.J. Simpson had that slow-speed chase, clogged all those highways because he was in a bad mood in his bronco? that was a meiwaku. When somebody jumps in front of the Metrolink trains because he wants to die and makes everybody late for work, that's a meiwaku. For that matter, the strongest reason I don't kill myself is that it would be meiwaku. Someone has to cut me down, pull me out, or otherwise somehow clean up my mess. (And then I know I am truly Japanese - when my fear of meiwaku is greater than my sense of despair.) Arsonists commit the most obnoxious kind of meiwaku, where people lose lives and homes.
Arson fires start other people committing meiwaku, which makes the whole thing worse. Homeowners start hosing down their homes , which pulls down water pressure for the whole neighborhood. Freaked out residents resist evacuation and then firemen hafta stop fighting the fire so they can rescue them later. And then there are vultures who loot victims' houses...(!)...like the evacuees don't have enough trouble.
I suppose people who live in the hills know the risks. And maybe they're too rich or too stupid to worry about it. (My brother-in-law lives in the hills above where I went to college. He gets evacuated annually and it doesn't seem to bother him. I dunno, sleeping on a cot in some high school gym annually would bother me. But then, thinking of his house, sitting on all that good fertile alluvial plain, just so he can have a McMansion decorated with some lawn gnomes...that would bother me, too.)
But I can't get over all the meiwaku going on.
Saturday, October 18, 2003
Two Weeks
Our house is full of sleep. All day long, I check on the five cats. Cats sleep 80% of the time, and I can attest that all all five cats sleep most of the time during the day, and they're so cute. Each has staked out their own little territory, and they stay in the middle of it, all curled up. One hides her eyes with her paws. Another curls up with his tail covering his nose. Another flattens out in a sunny spot, waking up only to move with the shifting square of light from the window. Cats are supposed to do that.
Went to the psychiatrist today. Upped the Lexapro to 20mg a day, and this time, we're giving it two weeks to work. Things just can't continue the way they are going. Current side effects include constantly wanting to sleep, thinking daytime TV is really cool, and being unable to make decisions. Went to Whole Foods Market with a friend for lunch today, and couldn't decide what the heck to eat. That's sad. The clerk teased that if I didn't make a decision soon, they'd hafta hire me. That's very sad.
I told the MD., some days are like walking through water, and everything takes a lot of effort. Other days are like walking through Lucite, and I might just put off the whole day. Or the week. In two weeks, will I feel better? Or will I be reviewing this blog and griping some more?
The last time I kept human hours, I was in Las Vegas. I would wake up before Todd, get ready for work, and be at the Museum by 8. Or at least 8:10. Mornings weren't fun, (when are they, really?) but I would sing to the radio on the way in. I'd come home to Todd with some energy left, enough to chatter, help make or clean up dinner, or maybe run errands, and watch TV. Weekends, we would do stuff. Or putter.
I would like to wake up easily, and want to get out of bed. I would like to be awake and focusing. I would like to sing in the car again, when no one is watching. I would like to see something that needs to be done, (like, say, mopping?) and want to do it without feeling overwhelmed by it. I would like to stop watching TV as if it's oxygen. That shouldn't be so difficult, should it?
I don't want to be here, like this, keeping cat's hours.
Went to the psychiatrist today. Upped the Lexapro to 20mg a day, and this time, we're giving it two weeks to work. Things just can't continue the way they are going. Current side effects include constantly wanting to sleep, thinking daytime TV is really cool, and being unable to make decisions. Went to Whole Foods Market with a friend for lunch today, and couldn't decide what the heck to eat. That's sad. The clerk teased that if I didn't make a decision soon, they'd hafta hire me. That's very sad.
I told the MD., some days are like walking through water, and everything takes a lot of effort. Other days are like walking through Lucite, and I might just put off the whole day. Or the week. In two weeks, will I feel better? Or will I be reviewing this blog and griping some more?
The last time I kept human hours, I was in Las Vegas. I would wake up before Todd, get ready for work, and be at the Museum by 8. Or at least 8:10. Mornings weren't fun, (when are they, really?) but I would sing to the radio on the way in. I'd come home to Todd with some energy left, enough to chatter, help make or clean up dinner, or maybe run errands, and watch TV. Weekends, we would do stuff. Or putter.
I would like to wake up easily, and want to get out of bed. I would like to be awake and focusing. I would like to sing in the car again, when no one is watching. I would like to see something that needs to be done, (like, say, mopping?) and want to do it without feeling overwhelmed by it. I would like to stop watching TV as if it's oxygen. That shouldn't be so difficult, should it?
I don't want to be here, like this, keeping cat's hours.
Thursday, October 16, 2003
Things that go bump in the night
Los Angeles autumns are very subtle. The days start off cool, warm up just enough to make New Yorkers jealous, and then cool off in the evening just in time for a fire in the fireplace. Dinner seems terribly important, like the shortening days can be warded off with a ritual hot meal. Cats curl up tight, tighter, like furry pumpkins hiding under the blanket you left on the sofa. Sounds seem to carry farther in the cool evening; leaves falling sound like distant thunder. I begin to speak more softly in autumn, better to hear dogs barking and the distant shh sound of freeways.
I like autumn because I leave the windows open all day and all night long, no need for artificial cooling or heating. I listen to San Gabriel High School Marching Band practicing in the afternoons, from three blocks away. I fall asleep to the sound of sirens, oblivious to the announcement that someone else is in distress. Sometimes, I hear pop, pop, pop and I know that's gunfire, far away. I can't tell where it's coming from, so the police won't welcome a call from me. So I don't get up. Flat on my back, safe in bed, I strain to hear the sound of sirens and there are none. Sirens are ultimately hopeful sounds, the sounds of someone getting help fast, the sound of someone with half a chance of being ok. Coroner's wagons don't need sirens.
Some people would shut their windows. I leave the windows open, keep myself aware of the noises, aware of the dramas occuring far away, the flubbed notes of the marching band, the last breath of a victim of violence. Closing them would mean the sound-carrying darkness wins.
I like autumn because I leave the windows open all day and all night long, no need for artificial cooling or heating. I listen to San Gabriel High School Marching Band practicing in the afternoons, from three blocks away. I fall asleep to the sound of sirens, oblivious to the announcement that someone else is in distress. Sometimes, I hear pop, pop, pop and I know that's gunfire, far away. I can't tell where it's coming from, so the police won't welcome a call from me. So I don't get up. Flat on my back, safe in bed, I strain to hear the sound of sirens and there are none. Sirens are ultimately hopeful sounds, the sounds of someone getting help fast, the sound of someone with half a chance of being ok. Coroner's wagons don't need sirens.
Some people would shut their windows. I leave the windows open, keep myself aware of the noises, aware of the dramas occuring far away, the flubbed notes of the marching band, the last breath of a victim of violence. Closing them would mean the sound-carrying darkness wins.
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
We've moved!
Welcome to the new address. Slightly more anonymous. More in-tune with the Star Wars theme, and my current 'standing-by' status.
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Disturbing People
I met Gray Davis when I was in high school. He was comptroller of California, and spoke to my debate class. Of a bunch of politicians we met, and we met a lot, he was the least condescending, the most articulate, the most willing to take time to think over our questions. And he did this as a public service, even recognizing that most of the class were already sworn Republicans. I never forgot that talk, and how he emphasized how much he loved public service. Maybe I didn't go into government, but I remembered to try to follow something I loved.
Does he doubt himself tonight? I am doubting myself tonight. Maybe loving something isn't enough for a career.
I never met Arnold Schwarzenegger. I saw him, Maria and his kids at Gelson's in Century City a lot. Knowing that Kennedy need for privacy, I never disturbed them. Pity he couldn't extend me the same courtesy.
Does he doubt himself tonight? I am doubting myself tonight. Maybe loving something isn't enough for a career.
I never met Arnold Schwarzenegger. I saw him, Maria and his kids at Gelson's in Century City a lot. Knowing that Kennedy need for privacy, I never disturbed them. Pity he couldn't extend me the same courtesy.
Monday, October 13, 2003
Help
There was this radio call in contest where a bad poem about a movie is read, and you hafta guess the movie.
I can only remember a few lines:
They all live together, the fightings' about.
That they love each other, there is no doubt.
Dad plays the piano, Mom takes care of you,
They wanna hang together, Just trying to get through.
It was released in 1994. It might have won an Oscar. The famous quote was "Ya know? Ya know? Ya know?" which the DJ (who was really annoyed almost two hours later) claimed was a dead giveaway. No one won, and the DJ went onto a new contest.
The last thing he said was, "No, it's not Mr. Holland's Opus! No, it's not the Piano!"
Two weeks later, I can't come up with the answer. I should really use my brain for higher functions, but I can't let it go. I'm so pathetic.
I can only remember a few lines:
They all live together, the fightings' about.
That they love each other, there is no doubt.
Dad plays the piano, Mom takes care of you,
They wanna hang together, Just trying to get through.
It was released in 1994. It might have won an Oscar. The famous quote was "Ya know? Ya know? Ya know?" which the DJ (who was really annoyed almost two hours later) claimed was a dead giveaway. No one won, and the DJ went onto a new contest.
The last thing he said was, "No, it's not Mr. Holland's Opus! No, it's not the Piano!"
Two weeks later, I can't come up with the answer. I should really use my brain for higher functions, but I can't let it go. I'm so pathetic.
Sunday, October 12, 2003
Tigers and Feminists
A lot of maulings in the papers recently. Poor Siegfried. Poor Roy. Is there a Secret Tiger Society to be worked up about, a feline Al Qaeda?
My mom works with tigers every day.
As a kid, I used to size up new people by how they'd treat my mother, a cleaning lady. Because invariably once they figured out she was my mom, sometimes they'd treat me worse than if I were a rich white girl from Brentwood. Hey, it's honest work. And my mom is smart. Annoying, and maybe I don't like her alla time, but smart.
I once asked my mom why she could stand to do something so degrading as clean someone's toilet. She thought of it as caring for an expensive, grumpy pet, and getting paid for it. An awful lot like working a tiger act, no? Siegfried and Roy exploited the tigers, my mother exploits the clients. Her employers are totally helpless and can't clean their own house. They depend on others for damn near everything, from precooked food to washed clothes. But they have financial and legal resources, like teeth on a tiger. They call it 'feminism,' this complete abandonment of all things considered 'women's work.' My mother calls them stupid. What's the point of feminism if you can't even feed yourself?!
I met someone more self-involved than me, by the way. She was staying with Christy and Bruce, and we shared a bathroom. Her name was Michelle Michiko and she was the Anti-Japanese Girl. She's a published sci-fi writer. Married a white guy. Didn't learn Japanese culture or language. When pressed, she admits she's a third generation Japanese Canadian from Toronto. Otherwise, you can learn everything about her because she doesn't shut the fuck up. (What IS it with those Canadians, eh? Ya gotta keep yer mouth open to keep the air warm?) I knew she was really really not Japanese when she slammed the bathroom door at 2AM when she came back from dinner! Another feminist. She was openly contemptuous of some of the philosophical conversations Christy and I were having and brought up some Japanese American play she saw in Toronto. She didn't mention the title, but said the modern day female protagonist spends her life being verballly abused or ignored by her husband as she raises their kids, and she dies alone. "What kind of life is that?" she finished.
It's a life of being useful, and of living/suffering and dying on your own terms. Asian American feminism is very different from White Girl feminism. It's a lot less concerned about satisfying sex and career goals, for one. It's a lot more Buddhist, more to do with finding power by transcending the ugliness and finding happiness anyway. Questioning the viewer of the play further, I find that Ms. Modern Day Female Antagonist knows that she's the powerful one in the family that keeps everybody functioning, knows that her husband Mr. Verbally Abusive loves her in his weird way and is wildly insecure, knows that she can leave at any time. But she doesn't. And for whatever ugliness that exists, there is the satisfaction of children raised, honor retained, promises kept, choices made. Dying alone isn't scary. Boring, maybe, but not scary.
Tonight, I take comfort there are people more useless than me. Meow.
My mom works with tigers every day.
As a kid, I used to size up new people by how they'd treat my mother, a cleaning lady. Because invariably once they figured out she was my mom, sometimes they'd treat me worse than if I were a rich white girl from Brentwood. Hey, it's honest work. And my mom is smart. Annoying, and maybe I don't like her alla time, but smart.
I once asked my mom why she could stand to do something so degrading as clean someone's toilet. She thought of it as caring for an expensive, grumpy pet, and getting paid for it. An awful lot like working a tiger act, no? Siegfried and Roy exploited the tigers, my mother exploits the clients. Her employers are totally helpless and can't clean their own house. They depend on others for damn near everything, from precooked food to washed clothes. But they have financial and legal resources, like teeth on a tiger. They call it 'feminism,' this complete abandonment of all things considered 'women's work.' My mother calls them stupid. What's the point of feminism if you can't even feed yourself?!
I met someone more self-involved than me, by the way. She was staying with Christy and Bruce, and we shared a bathroom. Her name was Michelle Michiko and she was the Anti-Japanese Girl. She's a published sci-fi writer. Married a white guy. Didn't learn Japanese culture or language. When pressed, she admits she's a third generation Japanese Canadian from Toronto. Otherwise, you can learn everything about her because she doesn't shut the fuck up. (What IS it with those Canadians, eh? Ya gotta keep yer mouth open to keep the air warm?) I knew she was really really not Japanese when she slammed the bathroom door at 2AM when she came back from dinner! Another feminist. She was openly contemptuous of some of the philosophical conversations Christy and I were having and brought up some Japanese American play she saw in Toronto. She didn't mention the title, but said the modern day female protagonist spends her life being verballly abused or ignored by her husband as she raises their kids, and she dies alone. "What kind of life is that?" she finished.
It's a life of being useful, and of living/suffering and dying on your own terms. Asian American feminism is very different from White Girl feminism. It's a lot less concerned about satisfying sex and career goals, for one. It's a lot more Buddhist, more to do with finding power by transcending the ugliness and finding happiness anyway. Questioning the viewer of the play further, I find that Ms. Modern Day Female Antagonist knows that she's the powerful one in the family that keeps everybody functioning, knows that her husband Mr. Verbally Abusive loves her in his weird way and is wildly insecure, knows that she can leave at any time. But she doesn't. And for whatever ugliness that exists, there is the satisfaction of children raised, honor retained, promises kept, choices made. Dying alone isn't scary. Boring, maybe, but not scary.
Tonight, I take comfort there are people more useless than me. Meow.
Saturday, October 11, 2003
I recaulked the master bathtub today, and felt the happy warmth of good craftsmanship. It's weird to me that Todd has no hand-skills; can't caulk neatly, can't spackle holes invisibly, can't type 80wpm. He's so brilliant, so much smarter than me, why can't he do those stupid things? I'm not sure if I'm selling him short, or if I'm contemptuous of my own abilities.
Should I not have tried to be an art conservator?
I enjoyed working with my hands. I felt it was something worthwhile, preserving history. I was/am addicted to feeling 'smart,' and doing what I did made me feel smart. I enjoyed the research, the people I met, and the tools I got to play with.
Should I have been a plumber instead?
I read once that Life Magazine followed a homeless boy and his family. Interest was so great for the fate of the family that a collection was made to buy them a home and set them up in jobs and stuff. Six months later, the drunk father was smoking in bed and burned the whole place down. Problems, solved. Does that mean that, because it was handed to them, they didn't respect it? Or does it mean that the fruit (you) really can't fall far from the tree?
But America is full of stories about pulling yerself up from the bootstraps, right?
The trouble with being good at a lot of things is, the decisions are harder to live with. I could have, for example, been an extraordinary toiletpaper weddingdress designer.
Should I not have tried to be an art conservator?
I enjoyed working with my hands. I felt it was something worthwhile, preserving history. I was/am addicted to feeling 'smart,' and doing what I did made me feel smart. I enjoyed the research, the people I met, and the tools I got to play with.
Should I have been a plumber instead?
I read once that Life Magazine followed a homeless boy and his family. Interest was so great for the fate of the family that a collection was made to buy them a home and set them up in jobs and stuff. Six months later, the drunk father was smoking in bed and burned the whole place down. Problems, solved. Does that mean that, because it was handed to them, they didn't respect it? Or does it mean that the fruit (you) really can't fall far from the tree?
But America is full of stories about pulling yerself up from the bootstraps, right?
The trouble with being good at a lot of things is, the decisions are harder to live with. I could have, for example, been an extraordinary toiletpaper weddingdress designer.
Thursday, October 09, 2003
"Go the Distance" --Hercules, Walt Disney Pictures
I have often dreamed of a far off place,
Where a hero's welcome would be waiting for me.
Where the crowds would cheer, when they see my face,
And a voice keeps saying this is where I'm meant to be
I'll be there someday, I can go the distance.
I will find my way if I can be strong.
I know every mile would be worth my while,
When I go the distance, I'll be right where I belong.
Down an unknown road to embrace my fate,
Though that road may wander, it will lead me to you.
And a thousand years would be worth the wait.
It might take a lifetime but somehow I'll see it through
And I won't look back, I can go the distance,
And I'll stay on track, no I won't accept defeat,
It's an uphill slope,
But I won't lose hope, 'till I go the distance
And my journey is complete, oh yeah.
But to look beyond the glory is the hardest part,
For a hero's strength is measured by his heart
Like a shooting star, I will go the distance,
I will search the world, I will face it's harms,
I don't care how far, I can go the distance,
'Till I find my hero's welcome waiting in your arms.
I will search the world, I will face its harms
'Till I find my heros welcome waiting in your arms.
I have often dreamed of a far off place,
Where a hero's welcome would be waiting for me.
Where the crowds would cheer, when they see my face,
And a voice keeps saying this is where I'm meant to be
I'll be there someday, I can go the distance.
I will find my way if I can be strong.
I know every mile would be worth my while,
When I go the distance, I'll be right where I belong.
Down an unknown road to embrace my fate,
Though that road may wander, it will lead me to you.
And a thousand years would be worth the wait.
It might take a lifetime but somehow I'll see it through
And I won't look back, I can go the distance,
And I'll stay on track, no I won't accept defeat,
It's an uphill slope,
But I won't lose hope, 'till I go the distance
And my journey is complete, oh yeah.
But to look beyond the glory is the hardest part,
For a hero's strength is measured by his heart
Like a shooting star, I will go the distance,
I will search the world, I will face it's harms,
I don't care how far, I can go the distance,
'Till I find my hero's welcome waiting in your arms.
I will search the world, I will face its harms
'Till I find my heros welcome waiting in your arms.
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
Went to Cal State L.A.'s Benefits Fair with Todd today. Changed our health care plan so I have the kind of coverage I want. While it doesn't kick in until January, I am hopeful.
Ran into a jr. high and high school classmate there, too. She couldn't quite remember my name, and I initially couldn't remember her face, but after a moment of staring I remembered her eyes, and that pretty brow. She was a Co-captain of the JV Cheer. That she looked like her mother. That she caused a buzz with her white-lace dress for 9th grade graduation. She was in a tan office dress. I had puffed up two flights of stairs and was hot and scruffy. I guess I still look about the same. She was manning one of the insurance booths and I unblushingly said I was looking for better psychiatric care. To which she replied "Really? Good for you. I'm on Effexor! You?" And the Cheerleader and the Journalism Op Editor exchanged numbers. Funny how such different little children can find that moment of complete understanding 20 years later. And I always thought cheerleaders were so ... cheerful. (Another myth, shattered. Another point for Wisdom, taken away from Sanity.)
Truman Capote, in the one-man play "Tru" says that "pointsettias are the Bob Goulet of botany." Todd showed me a pointsettia plant that he'd repotted. It was the one that my parents gave us last year. Doc and Wyatt had pushed it off a shelf and I thought it had died. I thought I had thrown it away. Todd had nursed it through the year and it was getting bushy for the winter again. Todd really doesn't give up on anything, even ugly, out-of-season pointsettia plants.
Ran into a jr. high and high school classmate there, too. She couldn't quite remember my name, and I initially couldn't remember her face, but after a moment of staring I remembered her eyes, and that pretty brow. She was a Co-captain of the JV Cheer. That she looked like her mother. That she caused a buzz with her white-lace dress for 9th grade graduation. She was in a tan office dress. I had puffed up two flights of stairs and was hot and scruffy. I guess I still look about the same. She was manning one of the insurance booths and I unblushingly said I was looking for better psychiatric care. To which she replied "Really? Good for you. I'm on Effexor! You?" And the Cheerleader and the Journalism Op Editor exchanged numbers. Funny how such different little children can find that moment of complete understanding 20 years later. And I always thought cheerleaders were so ... cheerful. (Another myth, shattered. Another point for Wisdom, taken away from Sanity.)
Truman Capote, in the one-man play "Tru" says that "pointsettias are the Bob Goulet of botany." Todd showed me a pointsettia plant that he'd repotted. It was the one that my parents gave us last year. Doc and Wyatt had pushed it off a shelf and I thought it had died. I thought I had thrown it away. Todd had nursed it through the year and it was getting bushy for the winter again. Todd really doesn't give up on anything, even ugly, out-of-season pointsettia plants.
Monday, October 06, 2003
The last Sunday of September, I went to my best friend's bridal shower. I even won the toilet-paper bride contest. (That's where each team of 2-4 is given a package of TP (there were four teams) and asked to fashion wedding dresses; the bride is the judge.) Our/my entry was a sheath dress ("just wind it all around her, please.") with a 20-foot train ("take these and walk down the hall, further, further..."), requisite butt-bow, and a Vera Wang-y short, bunchy 'veil.'
It was fun! I smile when I remember the Mother of the Bride laughing at our 'creations.' It's nice to compliment teammates and to be congratulated and told that you're talented. Even if it's just toilet paper.
If I ever do it again, I must remember to roll some TP to make spaghetti straps, and/or maybe drape the model assymetrically like a sari. And, next time, perhaps a shawl.
I finally got around to unwrapping my prize: "Talk Blocks: For Work." Six wooden blocks, three blue, three red, and I guess you're supposed to rearrange them as you want and display them in the storage box that has a window on the lid. The display box has red letters that read "I FEEL" and blue letters that read "I NEED." The red blocks say stuff like "overwhelmed" "disappointed" "successful" "excited" "focused" and the blue blocks say stuff like "time alone" "to take a break" "to talk" "to take a deep breath" "to laugh" "to have fun."
You take it to work, I guess, and display your angst. The box says you can "** INCREASE self-awareness by quickly identifying feelings; **PROMOTE an action plan to deal with the identified feelings **FACILITATE communication and conversation. And, I suppose, if you're really nuts, I guess you could aim the blocks at people, too. Like many firearms, there are six rounds.
So far, I have juxtaposed the following:
I Feel: IRRITABLE I Need: TIME ALONE
I Feel: EXHAUSTED I Need: TO TAKE A BREAK
I Feel: OVERWHELMED I NEED: MORE SUPPORT
I Feel: ANXIOUS I Need: TO CALM DOWN That last one was really useful, duh.
I wonder what other editions there are; these are for Suits. Do they have editions for crazy people? Probably started with little kids. What I really need are juxtapositions like
I Feel: LONELY I Need: ANOTHER CAT
I Feel: REPUBLICAN I Need: A SWIFT KICK IN THE BUTT
I Feel: DEPRESSED I Need: MORE MEDICATION
I Feel: ABANDONED I Need: CHOCOLATE
FYI, friends and neighbors: www.talkblocks.com
It was fun! I smile when I remember the Mother of the Bride laughing at our 'creations.' It's nice to compliment teammates and to be congratulated and told that you're talented. Even if it's just toilet paper.
If I ever do it again, I must remember to roll some TP to make spaghetti straps, and/or maybe drape the model assymetrically like a sari. And, next time, perhaps a shawl.
I finally got around to unwrapping my prize: "Talk Blocks: For Work." Six wooden blocks, three blue, three red, and I guess you're supposed to rearrange them as you want and display them in the storage box that has a window on the lid. The display box has red letters that read "I FEEL" and blue letters that read "I NEED." The red blocks say stuff like "overwhelmed" "disappointed" "successful" "excited" "focused" and the blue blocks say stuff like "time alone" "to take a break" "to talk" "to take a deep breath" "to laugh" "to have fun."
You take it to work, I guess, and display your angst. The box says you can "** INCREASE self-awareness by quickly identifying feelings; **PROMOTE an action plan to deal with the identified feelings **FACILITATE communication and conversation. And, I suppose, if you're really nuts, I guess you could aim the blocks at people, too. Like many firearms, there are six rounds.
So far, I have juxtaposed the following:
I Feel: IRRITABLE I Need: TIME ALONE
I Feel: EXHAUSTED I Need: TO TAKE A BREAK
I Feel: OVERWHELMED I NEED: MORE SUPPORT
I Feel: ANXIOUS I Need: TO CALM DOWN That last one was really useful, duh.
I wonder what other editions there are; these are for Suits. Do they have editions for crazy people? Probably started with little kids. What I really need are juxtapositions like
I Feel: LONELY I Need: ANOTHER CAT
I Feel: REPUBLICAN I Need: A SWIFT KICK IN THE BUTT
I Feel: DEPRESSED I Need: MORE MEDICATION
I Feel: ABANDONED I Need: CHOCOLATE
FYI, friends and neighbors: www.talkblocks.com
Sunday, October 05, 2003
Some people go to AA; I go to Triple A. Some AAA charts and maps and I felt very empowered! Driving alone to Mountain View wasn't so bad, after all. I had forgotten how I loved to drive long trips. I stopped in Gilroy (which smells like garlic, 365 days a year, no vampires in this town) and bought three pounds of garlic and late summer fruit to eat while I drove. During a driving break, I even found 40 cents in my car seats.
Christy's wedding was happy, simple, and beautiful. My little tribute was well received. I am so grateful to have been there.
I even got home in time to spell Todd watching his mom.
Problem with good good days like these, though, is they tend to be followed by totally tired worthless days.
Christy's wedding was happy, simple, and beautiful. My little tribute was well received. I am so grateful to have been there.
I even got home in time to spell Todd watching his mom.
Problem with good good days like these, though, is they tend to be followed by totally tired worthless days.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
The photo professor and I were chatting before class and she was putting out our special projects, to be assigned later that day. I admired one, particularly, and hoped aloud that I could have that one assigned to me. She told me to take it as my project, right then, and I demurred, it wouldn't be fair to the other classmates. She looked me right in the eye with a sniper's dead-eyed stare: "Life's not fair."
Oh.
Life's not fair. No prizes go to the slow and steady, the people who jog ten miles, every day, for the rest of their lives; the ribbons and trophies go to the ones who can do 26 miles fastest on that given arbritrary day. There are no monuments to second grade teachers. Cute, fuzzy, adoptable puppies and kittens are euthanized daily. There are no prizes for being decent and nice. I wish I had learned that earlier. Life is not fair.
Asian immigrants feel very little entitlement. I've noticed it in my mother. I've noticed it in me. Life might be fair, but generally not to us; and when we have an unfair advantage, we are afraid. Of envy, of retribution, of extra paperwork. I know I was scared of the assignment because of what my classmates might say.
I took my mother to the Social Security office today. One look at my mother's records, and we were ushered into the SSI office, so she could be given more money. "This is not shameful?" She asked me worriedly. Paperwork frightens her. We didn't even apply for FEMA funds after the Northridge quake because of the paperwork. We qualified. We qualified now, too. "How embarassing" my mother frets. "They know how little we have." Her rightful social security benefits would help her a lot. And a couple of hundred SSI dollars would help her and dad be more secure. Nobody asks me why I am not able to support my parents, when I am obviously chubbily well-fed, able-bodied and college educated.
It hurts me when my father-in-law asks about how much support I give my parents. He tells me I'm self-absorbed.
On the way out, my mom needed to visit the restroom. I eavesdropped to a Middle Eastern man screaming at clerk, not understanding why he would not have SSI. It was not embarassing to him to ask for money. It was not embarassing to him when the clerk told him loudly he had too much money, and he was not an American citizen. "Life is not fair," I wanted to tell him.
In the parking lot, my mother burbles about how great a country America is. She marvels how no one faults her for being lazy, how no one asks why I'm not supporting her. And she asks, hopefully, if I have time to help her punch her absentee ballot. Fair is fair, she figures, and if they're supporting her, then she must show do her duty by them. My mother knows that life's not fair; on this one day she fearfully closes her eyes to it.
Oh.
Life's not fair. No prizes go to the slow and steady, the people who jog ten miles, every day, for the rest of their lives; the ribbons and trophies go to the ones who can do 26 miles fastest on that given arbritrary day. There are no monuments to second grade teachers. Cute, fuzzy, adoptable puppies and kittens are euthanized daily. There are no prizes for being decent and nice. I wish I had learned that earlier. Life is not fair.
Asian immigrants feel very little entitlement. I've noticed it in my mother. I've noticed it in me. Life might be fair, but generally not to us; and when we have an unfair advantage, we are afraid. Of envy, of retribution, of extra paperwork. I know I was scared of the assignment because of what my classmates might say.
I took my mother to the Social Security office today. One look at my mother's records, and we were ushered into the SSI office, so she could be given more money. "This is not shameful?" She asked me worriedly. Paperwork frightens her. We didn't even apply for FEMA funds after the Northridge quake because of the paperwork. We qualified. We qualified now, too. "How embarassing" my mother frets. "They know how little we have." Her rightful social security benefits would help her a lot. And a couple of hundred SSI dollars would help her and dad be more secure. Nobody asks me why I am not able to support my parents, when I am obviously chubbily well-fed, able-bodied and college educated.
It hurts me when my father-in-law asks about how much support I give my parents. He tells me I'm self-absorbed.
On the way out, my mom needed to visit the restroom. I eavesdropped to a Middle Eastern man screaming at clerk, not understanding why he would not have SSI. It was not embarassing to him to ask for money. It was not embarassing to him when the clerk told him loudly he had too much money, and he was not an American citizen. "Life is not fair," I wanted to tell him.
In the parking lot, my mother burbles about how great a country America is. She marvels how no one faults her for being lazy, how no one asks why I'm not supporting her. And she asks, hopefully, if I have time to help her punch her absentee ballot. Fair is fair, she figures, and if they're supporting her, then she must show do her duty by them. My mother knows that life's not fair; on this one day she fearfully closes her eyes to it.
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
I have begun to understand why divorces happen. I have begun to understand why suicides happen.
My counselor would like to see me more often, weekly, or at least twice a month. At $100 a pop, this is probably not going to happen. Regularly scheduled massages have been known to relieve depression, but that's not about to happen, either. To my inlaws' ears, I'm sure that's sounds very self-indulgent. Todd's idea of helping is sending me out on forced walks and hiding my Harry Potter books so I can't tune out anymore.
I took Wyatt into the vet today. He is still urinating in inappropriate locations. Now he's defecating too ($100). The vet says Wyatt, Jessie and (probably) Doc need dental work (anesthesia alone is $60 each...). I also took a window screen in to be recut to size ($13). Todd was ok with this. I need to see a dentist, an ophthalmologist, an OB-GYN, and my shrink and my psychiatrist, but I don't think I can.
I am not as important as the cats. I am not as important as the house. I realize neither of these can take care of themselves. Does anyone understand that, at this time, I can't take care of myself, either?
This is how suicides happen and people are left saying inanities like "But she had everything going for her," "She never let on that things were bothering her," and my favorite "I would have helped her if I had known." Um, hello?
A divorce, at this time, would be unhelpful. Indeed, it would be like the California Recall Election: Expensive, Pointless and Stoopid.
Suicide, although I begin to understand its charms, is still not an option. (Put the phone ba-a-a-ck on the hook...there you go...didn't mean to freak you out, there) There is still Mickie's wedding. There is still Episode 3. There are still Harry Potter books 6-7. These may be superficial, but they keep me hanging on. I still must finish so many things. I recognize painfully that I am Luke to my father's Vader. I am meant to redeem all his failed efforts, and if I screw that up, that's two, maybe three, lives wasted. I so hate to waste anything. I must, at the very least, do my father the honor of outliving him.
In high school, I used to play a role-playing game called the Call of Cthulu, based on the stories of H.P. Lovecraft. Character's descriptions included "sanity points (1-12)" and "wisdom points (1-12)." With each encounter of the Unknown, sanity points were deducted and added to wisdom points. So the wiser you became, the crazier you got, until insanity took over and you became property of the Dungeon Master.
I feel wiser/crazier today. Hooray.
My counselor would like to see me more often, weekly, or at least twice a month. At $100 a pop, this is probably not going to happen. Regularly scheduled massages have been known to relieve depression, but that's not about to happen, either. To my inlaws' ears, I'm sure that's sounds very self-indulgent. Todd's idea of helping is sending me out on forced walks and hiding my Harry Potter books so I can't tune out anymore.
I took Wyatt into the vet today. He is still urinating in inappropriate locations. Now he's defecating too ($100). The vet says Wyatt, Jessie and (probably) Doc need dental work (anesthesia alone is $60 each...). I also took a window screen in to be recut to size ($13). Todd was ok with this. I need to see a dentist, an ophthalmologist, an OB-GYN, and my shrink and my psychiatrist, but I don't think I can.
I am not as important as the cats. I am not as important as the house. I realize neither of these can take care of themselves. Does anyone understand that, at this time, I can't take care of myself, either?
This is how suicides happen and people are left saying inanities like "But she had everything going for her," "She never let on that things were bothering her," and my favorite "I would have helped her if I had known." Um, hello?
A divorce, at this time, would be unhelpful. Indeed, it would be like the California Recall Election: Expensive, Pointless and Stoopid.
Suicide, although I begin to understand its charms, is still not an option. (Put the phone ba-a-a-ck on the hook...there you go...didn't mean to freak you out, there) There is still Mickie's wedding. There is still Episode 3. There are still Harry Potter books 6-7. These may be superficial, but they keep me hanging on. I still must finish so many things. I recognize painfully that I am Luke to my father's Vader. I am meant to redeem all his failed efforts, and if I screw that up, that's two, maybe three, lives wasted. I so hate to waste anything. I must, at the very least, do my father the honor of outliving him.
In high school, I used to play a role-playing game called the Call of Cthulu, based on the stories of H.P. Lovecraft. Character's descriptions included "sanity points (1-12)" and "wisdom points (1-12)." With each encounter of the Unknown, sanity points were deducted and added to wisdom points. So the wiser you became, the crazier you got, until insanity took over and you became property of the Dungeon Master.
I feel wiser/crazier today. Hooray.
What is it about depression, that the only real emotion you can still authentically feel is anger?
Todd's dad called yesterday and asked if I'd found a job yet. (Nope) Then, can I watch Mom while he goes to Hawaii for a funeral? Sure. The husband of Todd's Dad's sister is dying. Dad called this evening to tell us he died. Dad is leaving Friday at noon for Hawaii and returning Monday or maybe Tuesday.
It is almost 2AM and I just realized Christy's wedding is this weekend.
In the past year, four things have kept me from taking any thoughts of suicide seriously. Christy's wedding, and Mickie's wedding, are two of them. Seems I can't go. I can't go. Todd could stay with his mother and I could go alone. In my current state, I'm I'm terrified to go alone. Terrified. Alone, to San Francisco. Alone, to a city I don't know well, to streets I'm not familiar with, with no navigator.
I'd been asked to say a few words about Christy at the reception. I wrote the spiel a week ago. I had been so looking forward to this.
I am very fond of Todd's Mom, I've been reading a lot about Parkinson's and even got certified in CPR and First Aid. I'm sure Todd's Dad thought the weekend would be easiest on us all, I could continue on her job search, etc., etc. But at 2AM I am inclined to dislike the whole blasted family, every last horsey-faced, buck-toothed, Hawaiian-prints-wearing, Republican-CPA lot of them.
These people don't even have the courtesy to die at convenient times. When I was planning my wedding, I fervently wished some key uncle would die (Todd's Dad dominated the guest list, and my parents invited 5 couples, a tableful.) so that the whole shindig would be smaller. The list had gone from 80 guests, to 120, to 230. They keep breeding, like Kennedys. Or Osmonds.
At this time, I would like to remember Todd's Mom's sister, the one who liked me immediately and complimented me on my literacy and taste. On one occasion, she was staying at Todd's Dad's house for the holidays, so for Christmas I had assembled a breakfast basket to ease the hosting duties. Todd's Dad thought it was pretentious and expensive. But she told me and everybody there that she thought the idea was witty and recognized how much thought went into it. I lost my only ally in this ridiculous family when she died shortly before Christmas three years ago. Her passing prompted the cancelling of the wretched Family Christmas Party, and I will remember her with great warmth, and that final favor to me.
It is almost 2AM and I just realized Christy's wedding is this weekend.
In the past year, four things have kept me from taking any thoughts of suicide seriously. Christy's wedding, and Mickie's wedding, are two of them. Seems I can't go. I can't go. Todd could stay with his mother and I could go alone. In my current state, I'm I'm terrified to go alone. Terrified. Alone, to San Francisco. Alone, to a city I don't know well, to streets I'm not familiar with, with no navigator.
I'd been asked to say a few words about Christy at the reception. I wrote the spiel a week ago. I had been so looking forward to this.
I am very fond of Todd's Mom, I've been reading a lot about Parkinson's and even got certified in CPR and First Aid. I'm sure Todd's Dad thought the weekend would be easiest on us all, I could continue on her job search, etc., etc. But at 2AM I am inclined to dislike the whole blasted family, every last horsey-faced, buck-toothed, Hawaiian-prints-wearing, Republican-CPA lot of them.
These people don't even have the courtesy to die at convenient times. When I was planning my wedding, I fervently wished some key uncle would die (Todd's Dad dominated the guest list, and my parents invited 5 couples, a tableful.) so that the whole shindig would be smaller. The list had gone from 80 guests, to 120, to 230. They keep breeding, like Kennedys. Or Osmonds.
At this time, I would like to remember Todd's Mom's sister, the one who liked me immediately and complimented me on my literacy and taste. On one occasion, she was staying at Todd's Dad's house for the holidays, so for Christmas I had assembled a breakfast basket to ease the hosting duties. Todd's Dad thought it was pretentious and expensive. But she told me and everybody there that she thought the idea was witty and recognized how much thought went into it. I lost my only ally in this ridiculous family when she died shortly before Christmas three years ago. Her passing prompted the cancelling of the wretched Family Christmas Party, and I will remember her with great warmth, and that final favor to me.
