adverbially speaking…
well folks, your sam is worn WAY ragged and thin ( “I feel like butter that’s been scraped over too much toast…”) … between my natural “whee” tendencies being affected by the super-bam-bloom of spring and my natural “moo” tendencies being affected by the grisliness of war and the grief of tax-time, i am alliterated to the gills. i feel like I am on a roller-coaster in the mines of moria: “WHEEEE!*”…“AAAAIIGGHHHHH!**”
i am unbelievably tired, and ridiculously overwhelmed with lists of things to do for other people. there’s not even room on the list for ‘things to do for sam’. i actually have to schedule bath and reading time. how effin’ bunk is THAT?
for those of you who go out of your way to recognize and alleviate – or at least soothe – thank you. god bless you. it is your faces and kindnesses that scroll through my mind when it gets reaaaaalllly, frighteningly dark and blue. lucy showed up and offered ‘cracker barrel’ therapy (not to mention a shoulder, an ear, and some kleenex…), unky is like my own personal long-distance boy scout… buffy is “queeksdraw” with the mama-love and invitations into satz-madness… sallie brings the good food and she and edie and jackson all brought happy clothes... (!). many of you write with kindness and moral (and god knows i need that!) support.
thank you. i sincerely hope that my raggedy thin-ness won’t keep me from being able to return the favor when you need me.
pale and dim, but still burning,
-sam
* “aragorn’s hair looks so pretty and whippy – he’s so cute when he screams!!!”
* “why do I have to share a cart with the !@#$ BALROG?!”
Saturday, March 29, 2003
Friday, March 28, 2003
i believe that this phrase will haunt me for the rest of my life:
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
this is from an article ("Outspoken Army General Upsets Whitehouse") about a General who reported that "Pentagon war strategists had misunderstood the combativeness of Iraqi fighters..." " Wallace's comments fueled the Bush administration's frustration with media coverage that focuses on why the conflict isn't over."
how can there be ANY doubt that these men ("The Whitehouse") are evil and insane? god help us all...
full story here
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
this is from an article ("Outspoken Army General Upsets Whitehouse") about a General who reported that "Pentagon war strategists had misunderstood the combativeness of Iraqi fighters..." " Wallace's comments fueled the Bush administration's frustration with media coverage that focuses on why the conflict isn't over."
how can there be ANY doubt that these men ("The Whitehouse") are evil and insane? god help us all...
full story here
Thursday, March 27, 2003
well, will sent this to me and my twinkie as his "thought for the day". i am SO stealing it for my rant as it is brillliant. i don't know if will stole it from someone else (if this IS original, you get 42,000 GQ points), as he is not the blatantly plagiaristic sort*, but even if he did, yay, will! this ROCKS! thank you!
"You know the world is going crazy when the best rapper is a white guy, the best golfer is a black guy, the Swiss hold the America's Cup, France is accusing the US of arrogance, and Germany doesn't want to go to war.
Will"
*and i'm not the blatantly sesquipedalian sort, either... :D
"You know the world is going crazy when the best rapper is a white guy, the best golfer is a black guy, the Swiss hold the America's Cup, France is accusing the US of arrogance, and Germany doesn't want to go to war.
Will"
*and i'm not the blatantly sesquipedalian sort, either... :D
Wednesday, March 26, 2003
Yesterday, when someone asked if I’d seen the latest rain of fire and hell in Baghdad, I said “I don’t watch tv. I haven’t watched it for six years.” They accused me of living in denial and said, “Not watching it won’t make it go away.”
I woke up this morning – as I have for days now – with a sick feeling of dread. Despite the glorious weather, despite the joy and love that my friends bring, I am constantly aware – even in my sleep – of what is happening to the world. I fight the fear and depression, I encourage those around me to fight it, too, but I feel it nonetheless. It is constant. If, for a moment, I forget what is happening I feel a sickening lurch as I swing between the happiness that I was able to let go for a moment and the guilt that I forgot that people are suffering.
I know this isn’t a ‘prime’ state of mind… but I don’t know how else to be. The sickness that I feel over knowing that we are no longer a democracy, that our image of ourselves as a ‘free country’ is utterly false is huge. And added to that, the images of flame and death, of tortured prisoners of war, of destroyed homes, cities, ancient works of art and architecture, whole cultures – combined with the threat that all of that could come here, and the children’s burgeoning realization of all of this is debilitating. I had such a strong urge to quit my job this morning and abandon all responsibility and just take what chance I still have to drive across the country and see new places and old friends… Esme (my truck), Luna, Antonia (my camera), a suitcase and a cooler. If the world crashes down with me sitting at a goddamned desk, or lying in my bed, I will NEVER forgive myself.
People keep asking if I’m ok. I’m not. How can anyone be? I felt so sorry for this tv war-watcher – for all of them. They think I am in denial, but they are the ones being de-sensitized (not to mention glued to the couch) and hand-fed whatever the American media wants them to see. They watch this and they care less about it every day. It becomes as important as the McDonalds and Gap commercials that come in between the news reports. I may not feel anything more intensely than anyone else in the world, but I know that if I watched the tv, I would have to be sedated and locked up. I would certainly not be able to function normally. As it is, I burst into tears at my desk, in the store, or just walking down the street… I feel a constant queasiness and my sleep is not good… I see the newspapers, I hear the radio news, and I see the headlines on the internet. Even those things are more than I can handle most days. Even without all of that, the smell of burning, blood and death haunts me. The crush of the realization that we, too, are at the hands of an insane dictator, who has cast aside all regard for our rights and freedom, is devastating.
I persevere. I have to. People need me, and people need me to not be a burden. This is how I fight the war, by fighting my desire to just take off. By trying to keep myself afloat so I can help everyone around me tread water.
I can’t apologize for not being happy that we, as a nation, have taken this step. I can say that I pray our soldiers come home quickly and in one piece (mentally and physically), but I ABSOLUTELY disagree with them being there. And I have no doubt whatsoever about the righteousness of my decision to not watch the television. What little I might add to the “War Ratings” is nothing in comparison to what the taxpayers would lose in paying for my institutionalization.
Keep the faith, Chiefs.
Love,
R.P. McMurphy
I woke up this morning – as I have for days now – with a sick feeling of dread. Despite the glorious weather, despite the joy and love that my friends bring, I am constantly aware – even in my sleep – of what is happening to the world. I fight the fear and depression, I encourage those around me to fight it, too, but I feel it nonetheless. It is constant. If, for a moment, I forget what is happening I feel a sickening lurch as I swing between the happiness that I was able to let go for a moment and the guilt that I forgot that people are suffering.
I know this isn’t a ‘prime’ state of mind… but I don’t know how else to be. The sickness that I feel over knowing that we are no longer a democracy, that our image of ourselves as a ‘free country’ is utterly false is huge. And added to that, the images of flame and death, of tortured prisoners of war, of destroyed homes, cities, ancient works of art and architecture, whole cultures – combined with the threat that all of that could come here, and the children’s burgeoning realization of all of this is debilitating. I had such a strong urge to quit my job this morning and abandon all responsibility and just take what chance I still have to drive across the country and see new places and old friends… Esme (my truck), Luna, Antonia (my camera), a suitcase and a cooler. If the world crashes down with me sitting at a goddamned desk, or lying in my bed, I will NEVER forgive myself.
People keep asking if I’m ok. I’m not. How can anyone be? I felt so sorry for this tv war-watcher – for all of them. They think I am in denial, but they are the ones being de-sensitized (not to mention glued to the couch) and hand-fed whatever the American media wants them to see. They watch this and they care less about it every day. It becomes as important as the McDonalds and Gap commercials that come in between the news reports. I may not feel anything more intensely than anyone else in the world, but I know that if I watched the tv, I would have to be sedated and locked up. I would certainly not be able to function normally. As it is, I burst into tears at my desk, in the store, or just walking down the street… I feel a constant queasiness and my sleep is not good… I see the newspapers, I hear the radio news, and I see the headlines on the internet. Even those things are more than I can handle most days. Even without all of that, the smell of burning, blood and death haunts me. The crush of the realization that we, too, are at the hands of an insane dictator, who has cast aside all regard for our rights and freedom, is devastating.
I persevere. I have to. People need me, and people need me to not be a burden. This is how I fight the war, by fighting my desire to just take off. By trying to keep myself afloat so I can help everyone around me tread water.
I can’t apologize for not being happy that we, as a nation, have taken this step. I can say that I pray our soldiers come home quickly and in one piece (mentally and physically), but I ABSOLUTELY disagree with them being there. And I have no doubt whatsoever about the righteousness of my decision to not watch the television. What little I might add to the “War Ratings” is nothing in comparison to what the taxpayers would lose in paying for my institutionalization.
Keep the faith, Chiefs.
Love,
R.P. McMurphy
Tuesday, March 25, 2003
my oldest (non-charlyn) girlfriend sent this out with the subject heading "Am I the only one wondering what to pack?"
i am afraid to speak of my worst fears out loud - but i am glad that SOMEone is not:
March 25, 2003 | "Pranas Ancevicius, my maternal grandfather, was intercepted by the German navy while trying to escape the Baltics for Sweden in 1944. An anti-Stalinist intellectual, Pranas had sensed the impending return of the Red Army to his native Lithuania. Caught between two loathsome regimes, he made his way to Nazi Berlin, where he hid with his family under cover of the right combination of documents.
In British Malaya, Lourdes Gnanadicassamy, my other grandfather, had divined the intentions of the Japanese Imperial Army in 1940. He packed the family off to India 18 months before his country descended into four years of Japanese occupation.
Enough of my ancestors have had to make the fateful decision to flee their homes -- and have done so at just the right moment -- that I have often wondered if I have inherited their uncanny sense of timing.
My life is comfortable -- like many of my forebears were, I am a happily married homeowner, a contributing member of civil society. I have suffered somewhat during this economic malaise, but there is food on the table, the occasional vacation, and talk of having a baby. My personal experience of life has been one of security and happiness, but for the first time my genes are getting nervous. As I examine the family histories and read each day's darkening headlines, I find that the question is no longer so abstract, or so leisurely: If it came right down to it, would I know when to go?
By the time my grandmother's family left Siberia, where they had been homesteading when she was born, the Bolshevik revolution was in full swing. Secret denouncements, property seizures, and disappearances were the order of the day. Surely if it came to that, I'd have been packing my bags too, right? Yet under the PATRIOT Act and sundry new regulations, secret military incarcerations, politically directed police forces, and whispers of torture have become daily news in our country. And here I still am, making mortgage payments, buying organic vegetables, listening to Wilco CDs. My great-aunt Anele Tamulevicius, whose husband was "disappeared" in Soviet-occupied Lithuania the day after their wedding, believed to her dying day that the violent vanities of the Old World should never infect the New. It may be too late for that wish.
Stasys Tamulevicius, my great-uncle, perhaps lacked the gene for political timing. A fatalist, he stayed on in Lithuania through the darkness of Soviet rule. In his day, the authorities kept a file on everyone -- following not just their political activities but also the most banal details of one's life, whatever they could get from neighbors or co-workers. It's hard not to think of him when I read about the Office of Information Awareness and its plan for a centralized database that would make a dragnet through all Americans as easy as a Google search. This kind of technology is already being used to screen passengers on Delta Airlines, which, in cooperation with the new Transportation Security Agency, checks passenger credit records and other seemingly irrelevant data prior to letting them fly.
And airlines aren't the only ones eager to facilitate the awareness of information. Recently, eBay's director of "law enforcement and compliance" announced that the company would turn over any of its volumes of information about users -- what they might have bought, or even just looked at -- to government agents without waiting for a subpoena. When the pretense of privacy evaporates, is it time to start pricing (offline) one-way tickets to New Zealand? Could be, but I haven't done it.
Of course, I know that I'm not the primary target of these new regulations. I'm not the one they're looking for. But then again, neither are a lot of other people who have suffered as a result of them -- or as a result of the paranoia that they seem to instill in ordinary citizens. It seems darkly comical when a man is arrested for wearing a "Give Peace a Chance" T-shirt. But it's horrifying when a crowd at a Chicago nightclub is so on edge that they kill 21 people while fleeing what they thought was a terror attack. Is this just our own version of the kind of malignancy that led to my great-uncle Vaclavas' death in 1943? He had constructed a clever escape tunnel beneath his house, but when the time came to use it, he found the exit had been blocked by a jealous neighbor. His body was found in a well a few days later. This is where the escalation of fear leads, and I wonder how far we have already gone down that murky path. Have my economy-class seatmates ever glanced at my dark complexion and silently considered how they might wield a plastic spoon against me to thwart my evil intentions? (I confess I've wondered how I might do the same to them.) Has anyone noticed the stream of leftist fundraising appeals that comes into my mailbox? In what files do essays like this get placed?
In increments we have become a different nation. Each step ruffles our feathers just a bit, but the ruckus dies down quickly and we are on our way to the next. Life goes on, and we find ourselves living in a different country without ever having moved.
My ancestors rarely made their break before disaster was imminent. Each time they escaped at the very last moment, leaving less fortunate -- or less prescient -- relatives and friends to their various fates. My grandmother left Lithuania only after Vaclavas' death. The family didn't leave Berlin until the bombing became ceaseless. Even Lourdes Gnanadicassamy's prescience failed him: he got the family out, but he himself was trapped by the Japanese occupation.
In a nation of immigrants, we all have ancestors who decided it was time to go. Around the world, people make the decision every day, packing a few belongings onto a cart and walking away from the action, as is happening now in Kurdistan and Baghdad. What happens when it's our turn? Much has changed already; how much more will have to change before it becomes time for me to sell the house? Sew gold coins into the hem of my jacket as I gather the loved ones around me one last time? It's not here yet, but is the hour approaching when, once again, we might decide to bid farewell to yet another homeland?
For each of us, the point of no return is at a different place -- the subtle moment beyond which you are the one they're looking for. For the hundreds of Pakistanis seeking asylum at the Canadian border, that point has passed. For the desperate mobs jamming the Kuwait City airport, the moment is upon them. For me, it remains just a possibility."
-Gregory Dicum
salon.com
i am afraid to speak of my worst fears out loud - but i am glad that SOMEone is not:
March 25, 2003 | "Pranas Ancevicius, my maternal grandfather, was intercepted by the German navy while trying to escape the Baltics for Sweden in 1944. An anti-Stalinist intellectual, Pranas had sensed the impending return of the Red Army to his native Lithuania. Caught between two loathsome regimes, he made his way to Nazi Berlin, where he hid with his family under cover of the right combination of documents.
In British Malaya, Lourdes Gnanadicassamy, my other grandfather, had divined the intentions of the Japanese Imperial Army in 1940. He packed the family off to India 18 months before his country descended into four years of Japanese occupation.
Enough of my ancestors have had to make the fateful decision to flee their homes -- and have done so at just the right moment -- that I have often wondered if I have inherited their uncanny sense of timing.
My life is comfortable -- like many of my forebears were, I am a happily married homeowner, a contributing member of civil society. I have suffered somewhat during this economic malaise, but there is food on the table, the occasional vacation, and talk of having a baby. My personal experience of life has been one of security and happiness, but for the first time my genes are getting nervous. As I examine the family histories and read each day's darkening headlines, I find that the question is no longer so abstract, or so leisurely: If it came right down to it, would I know when to go?
By the time my grandmother's family left Siberia, where they had been homesteading when she was born, the Bolshevik revolution was in full swing. Secret denouncements, property seizures, and disappearances were the order of the day. Surely if it came to that, I'd have been packing my bags too, right? Yet under the PATRIOT Act and sundry new regulations, secret military incarcerations, politically directed police forces, and whispers of torture have become daily news in our country. And here I still am, making mortgage payments, buying organic vegetables, listening to Wilco CDs. My great-aunt Anele Tamulevicius, whose husband was "disappeared" in Soviet-occupied Lithuania the day after their wedding, believed to her dying day that the violent vanities of the Old World should never infect the New. It may be too late for that wish.
Stasys Tamulevicius, my great-uncle, perhaps lacked the gene for political timing. A fatalist, he stayed on in Lithuania through the darkness of Soviet rule. In his day, the authorities kept a file on everyone -- following not just their political activities but also the most banal details of one's life, whatever they could get from neighbors or co-workers. It's hard not to think of him when I read about the Office of Information Awareness and its plan for a centralized database that would make a dragnet through all Americans as easy as a Google search. This kind of technology is already being used to screen passengers on Delta Airlines, which, in cooperation with the new Transportation Security Agency, checks passenger credit records and other seemingly irrelevant data prior to letting them fly.
And airlines aren't the only ones eager to facilitate the awareness of information. Recently, eBay's director of "law enforcement and compliance" announced that the company would turn over any of its volumes of information about users -- what they might have bought, or even just looked at -- to government agents without waiting for a subpoena. When the pretense of privacy evaporates, is it time to start pricing (offline) one-way tickets to New Zealand? Could be, but I haven't done it.
Of course, I know that I'm not the primary target of these new regulations. I'm not the one they're looking for. But then again, neither are a lot of other people who have suffered as a result of them -- or as a result of the paranoia that they seem to instill in ordinary citizens. It seems darkly comical when a man is arrested for wearing a "Give Peace a Chance" T-shirt. But it's horrifying when a crowd at a Chicago nightclub is so on edge that they kill 21 people while fleeing what they thought was a terror attack. Is this just our own version of the kind of malignancy that led to my great-uncle Vaclavas' death in 1943? He had constructed a clever escape tunnel beneath his house, but when the time came to use it, he found the exit had been blocked by a jealous neighbor. His body was found in a well a few days later. This is where the escalation of fear leads, and I wonder how far we have already gone down that murky path. Have my economy-class seatmates ever glanced at my dark complexion and silently considered how they might wield a plastic spoon against me to thwart my evil intentions? (I confess I've wondered how I might do the same to them.) Has anyone noticed the stream of leftist fundraising appeals that comes into my mailbox? In what files do essays like this get placed?
In increments we have become a different nation. Each step ruffles our feathers just a bit, but the ruckus dies down quickly and we are on our way to the next. Life goes on, and we find ourselves living in a different country without ever having moved.
My ancestors rarely made their break before disaster was imminent. Each time they escaped at the very last moment, leaving less fortunate -- or less prescient -- relatives and friends to their various fates. My grandmother left Lithuania only after Vaclavas' death. The family didn't leave Berlin until the bombing became ceaseless. Even Lourdes Gnanadicassamy's prescience failed him: he got the family out, but he himself was trapped by the Japanese occupation.
In a nation of immigrants, we all have ancestors who decided it was time to go. Around the world, people make the decision every day, packing a few belongings onto a cart and walking away from the action, as is happening now in Kurdistan and Baghdad. What happens when it's our turn? Much has changed already; how much more will have to change before it becomes time for me to sell the house? Sew gold coins into the hem of my jacket as I gather the loved ones around me one last time? It's not here yet, but is the hour approaching when, once again, we might decide to bid farewell to yet another homeland?
For each of us, the point of no return is at a different place -- the subtle moment beyond which you are the one they're looking for. For the hundreds of Pakistanis seeking asylum at the Canadian border, that point has passed. For the desperate mobs jamming the Kuwait City airport, the moment is upon them. For me, it remains just a possibility."
-Gregory Dicum
salon.com
Monday, March 24, 2003
Letter to a Crow-boy and his Dove of a wife…
I have a friend who is like Tam and Pablo and Bri-bro* - he is one of those people who feels like a lost part of myself. (I think what these friends really do is help to fill the humongous empty space where my brothers are not… I know this is what they do. I could not live without them…)
Boyfriends come and go (fortunately or un-), but these “soul-brothers” are priceless, irreplaceable, and really, really wonderful to know.
I rarely see this one dear bloke, Crow-boy. He works SO hard and plays hard, too… but I saw him yesterday and after he finished his big-dizzy hug, I asked how he was because I’d heard from the other birds that his heart had been heavy. He sank, in a lotus, to the floor, there in the middle of the gym, sighed deeply, hung his head and said “I’m o.k.” And he IS… but he’s sad and heavy, too. His beloved Princess is feeling the weight of the world and he is feeling the weight of the world and of his and his Princesses’ own heart. Neither of them are the type to ever cling to unhappiness, to look into the dark any more than they have to. They are the kind of people who live to bring light into other people’s dark places. But right now their lights are low.
I didn’t know what to say, other than “Spring is here… tell her to have faith. Send her my love. Keep your chin up – you are not alone.” What else could I say? “Crow, I need for you to be happy.”? “I’ll be happier if you are.”? “What can I do?”? I wish I could feed them good things, or bring them gifts – sing and belly dance (badly) for their amusement. I know that time and change and growth will stretch and sooth their ‘heart muscles’, but it’s the RIGHT NOW that hurts. I know that they know all of this, too.
I think all I can realistically do is try harder to be happy myself, to turn my own light up a few lumens. They – and my other friends – will have to worry less about me, and they’ll have a little more light to see by. As beautiful as the spring is, as is the promise of growth, the war hangs above us and we cannot ignore the reality of that, of the worlds’ madness. It makes our normal, day-to-day need and ability to cope much harder. To try to make sense of the delicate intricacies of relationship, home-life and love-struggle in the midst of all of this seems too much. We feel as if, emotionally speaking all we have sometimes is a medicine cabinet fill of those teeny band-aids. The world and its wounds are so huge right now, and it’s scary and overwhelming – but you can do a whole lot for the cuts and bruises, breaks and sprains around you, at home, at work, among your friends with teeny band-aids (not to mention a little duct tape, some popsicle sticks and home-made soup – metaphorically speaking).
I don’t want to seem mean by saying “Crow, you need to buck up and shine that light, ‘cause that’s part of your job on this planet.” I say it to myself, though, because I know that it’s part of my job. I don’t always have the strength to shine, either, but I am always looking for some way to crank up the illumination when things are dim.
Crow’s had his little talks with me(not to mention his own versions of good food & gifts, bad songs & belly-dancing) , though, so I know he understands what I’m trying to say here.
I got some duct-tape AND some band-aids… neon pink ones, in fact. Get yourself and your Dove into the light, Crow-boy. Soak it up, store it – recharge your batteries.
We’re all here for you. (You KNOW Brett will belly dance for you!)
Xoxox
-s
* and James and Stewart and Marc and Roy and Brett and ...
I have a friend who is like Tam and Pablo and Bri-bro* - he is one of those people who feels like a lost part of myself. (I think what these friends really do is help to fill the humongous empty space where my brothers are not… I know this is what they do. I could not live without them…)
Boyfriends come and go (fortunately or un-), but these “soul-brothers” are priceless, irreplaceable, and really, really wonderful to know.
I rarely see this one dear bloke, Crow-boy. He works SO hard and plays hard, too… but I saw him yesterday and after he finished his big-dizzy hug, I asked how he was because I’d heard from the other birds that his heart had been heavy. He sank, in a lotus, to the floor, there in the middle of the gym, sighed deeply, hung his head and said “I’m o.k.” And he IS… but he’s sad and heavy, too. His beloved Princess is feeling the weight of the world and he is feeling the weight of the world and of his and his Princesses’ own heart. Neither of them are the type to ever cling to unhappiness, to look into the dark any more than they have to. They are the kind of people who live to bring light into other people’s dark places. But right now their lights are low.
I didn’t know what to say, other than “Spring is here… tell her to have faith. Send her my love. Keep your chin up – you are not alone.” What else could I say? “Crow, I need for you to be happy.”? “I’ll be happier if you are.”? “What can I do?”? I wish I could feed them good things, or bring them gifts – sing and belly dance (badly) for their amusement. I know that time and change and growth will stretch and sooth their ‘heart muscles’, but it’s the RIGHT NOW that hurts. I know that they know all of this, too.
I think all I can realistically do is try harder to be happy myself, to turn my own light up a few lumens. They – and my other friends – will have to worry less about me, and they’ll have a little more light to see by. As beautiful as the spring is, as is the promise of growth, the war hangs above us and we cannot ignore the reality of that, of the worlds’ madness. It makes our normal, day-to-day need and ability to cope much harder. To try to make sense of the delicate intricacies of relationship, home-life and love-struggle in the midst of all of this seems too much. We feel as if, emotionally speaking all we have sometimes is a medicine cabinet fill of those teeny band-aids. The world and its wounds are so huge right now, and it’s scary and overwhelming – but you can do a whole lot for the cuts and bruises, breaks and sprains around you, at home, at work, among your friends with teeny band-aids (not to mention a little duct tape, some popsicle sticks and home-made soup – metaphorically speaking).
I don’t want to seem mean by saying “Crow, you need to buck up and shine that light, ‘cause that’s part of your job on this planet.” I say it to myself, though, because I know that it’s part of my job. I don’t always have the strength to shine, either, but I am always looking for some way to crank up the illumination when things are dim.
Crow’s had his little talks with me(not to mention his own versions of good food & gifts, bad songs & belly-dancing) , though, so I know he understands what I’m trying to say here.
I got some duct-tape AND some band-aids… neon pink ones, in fact. Get yourself and your Dove into the light, Crow-boy. Soak it up, store it – recharge your batteries.
We’re all here for you. (You KNOW Brett will belly dance for you!)
Xoxox
-s
* and James and Stewart and Marc and Roy and Brett and ...
Saturday, March 22, 2003
the sun has shone all day, and spring is sproinging... i've been at work, but i escaped for a bit at lunch and walked the tracks with a kid* and an ice cream cone**. i hope tomorrow is sunny, too, and that the world remains mostly un-blown-up for (at LEAST) one more day. if it does, then i will find the strength and courage to face whatever i have to face, to pray for those who don't have it this good.
when paul and i write, instead of signing off "i love you", or "take care", we always try to capture a remembered moment or experience to share with each other. here is one today for all of you:
the last golden rays of the new spring sun shining through the white blooms of bradford pear across the road, against the green hill by the railroad tracks. this is the view from the library window, and the first thing i'll see as i step out to head home and begin my days off.
may your days off begin with such loveliness. sheer beauty and unconscious, untroubled proliferation.
-s
*hi, eric! :)
**two scoops, one chocolate, one cherry.
when paul and i write, instead of signing off "i love you", or "take care", we always try to capture a remembered moment or experience to share with each other. here is one today for all of you:
the last golden rays of the new spring sun shining through the white blooms of bradford pear across the road, against the green hill by the railroad tracks. this is the view from the library window, and the first thing i'll see as i step out to head home and begin my days off.
may your days off begin with such loveliness. sheer beauty and unconscious, untroubled proliferation.
-s
*hi, eric! :)
**two scoops, one chocolate, one cherry.
Friday, March 21, 2003
note to self:
(this is a quote from The Sun Magazine's Sunbeams page)
Stop thinking this is all there is… Realize that for every ongoing war and religious outrage and environmental devastation and bogus Iraqi attack plan, there are a thousand counterbalancing acts of staggering generosity and humanity and art and beauty happening all over the world, right now, on a breathtaking scale, from flower box to cathedral… Resist the temptation to drown in fatalism, to shake your head and sigh and just throw in the karmic towel… Realize that this is the perfect moment to change the energy of the world, to step right in and crank up your personal volume; right when it all seems dark and bitter and offensive and acrimonious and conflicted and bilious… there’s your opening. Remember magic. And, finally, believe you are part of a groundswell, a resistance, a seemingly small but actually very, very large, impending karmic overhaul, a great shift, the beginning of something important and potent and unstoppable.
-Mark Morford-
(this is a quote from The Sun Magazine's Sunbeams page)
Stop thinking this is all there is… Realize that for every ongoing war and religious outrage and environmental devastation and bogus Iraqi attack plan, there are a thousand counterbalancing acts of staggering generosity and humanity and art and beauty happening all over the world, right now, on a breathtaking scale, from flower box to cathedral… Resist the temptation to drown in fatalism, to shake your head and sigh and just throw in the karmic towel… Realize that this is the perfect moment to change the energy of the world, to step right in and crank up your personal volume; right when it all seems dark and bitter and offensive and acrimonious and conflicted and bilious… there’s your opening. Remember magic. And, finally, believe you are part of a groundswell, a resistance, a seemingly small but actually very, very large, impending karmic overhaul, a great shift, the beginning of something important and potent and unstoppable.
-Mark Morford-
Thursday, March 20, 2003
"all we can do is carry forward the best of the last reality, and start working for the best in this one.
keep your heart and mind on love." -excerpt from a letter that mi pablito sent me this morning.
this morning i addressed a group of counselors-in-training for 'steps-to-hope', a local branch of a national center for aiding the victims of domestic abuse. these women are training specifically to help the victims of child abuse.
i spoke for an hour an a half, i brought related art to show, and i brought these women to a clear realization of what they can do, that perhaps the only difference between me and a woman on the streets, in jail, or in the ground is THEM and people like them. i brought them to tears and i made them laugh. when i was done, these strangers (but two*) applauded me and hugged me and told me that i was an inspiration. (i wish you could have seen my face... :) this is the first time i've ever done anything like this, although i've dreamed of doing this since i was young, speaking out, helping others. to see these women moved and inspired - touched and fired up - was good for my heart and my hope.
i may not be able to stop this Big Insanity, or help everyone, but life will go on - although it may be harder for a while, maybe a long while - and i thank Creation that there is SOMEthing i can do to ease my own ache and need to not feel helpless, and to help other scared babies.
-s
*of the two women who were not strangers, one is a lovely lady who graduated from Sunset High 20 years before i did - we met at the flower shop, and the other was a young single mother whom i met in a dr.'s office three years ago. her new (redheaded, adorable)baby girl was VERY sick, and the doctors said she probably wouldn't live. when she left, i asked the dr. which hospital they'd sent her to, and when i got back to work, i sent a stuffed bunny and balloons to them with a note, saying that they were in my prayers.
when one lady told me that i was an inspiration, i said "i am driven to try to bring light and love to the world. there were people who did that for me, and that - combined with my own will and self belief - is what saved me." i told them that now i am compelled to speak to and encourage everyone i meet. i said "ask anyone who knows me, i'll tell a TREE that it looks especially strong today!"
that's when this young mother told the group that that little redheaded baby girl was the product of an 8-year abusive relationship and that she was miserable and torn when we met... she had considered aborting, but then couldn't, and when she was born she was so sweet and beautiful that she knew she'd decided well. then to hear that she might die was too much.
she told me - and the group - today that my concern, a complete strangers' concern, gave her hope. the baby was eventually ok, she got the courage to take action against the father, and now she is engaged to marry a good man, and is going to be a child abuse counselor.
if i only live another minute, i will die knowing i made a REAL difference in this world, and live that last 60 seconds knowing that i might still have time, in those seconds, to yet make a difference.
thank you (pablito, all of my good friends, my family, adopted and otherwise) for being part of that, of me, - MY inspiration, fuel to my fire, light in the dark.
i love you dearly.
-paraphrased excerpt from my reply to paul-
keep your heart and mind on love." -excerpt from a letter that mi pablito sent me this morning.
this morning i addressed a group of counselors-in-training for 'steps-to-hope', a local branch of a national center for aiding the victims of domestic abuse. these women are training specifically to help the victims of child abuse.
i spoke for an hour an a half, i brought related art to show, and i brought these women to a clear realization of what they can do, that perhaps the only difference between me and a woman on the streets, in jail, or in the ground is THEM and people like them. i brought them to tears and i made them laugh. when i was done, these strangers (but two*) applauded me and hugged me and told me that i was an inspiration. (i wish you could have seen my face... :) this is the first time i've ever done anything like this, although i've dreamed of doing this since i was young, speaking out, helping others. to see these women moved and inspired - touched and fired up - was good for my heart and my hope.
i may not be able to stop this Big Insanity, or help everyone, but life will go on - although it may be harder for a while, maybe a long while - and i thank Creation that there is SOMEthing i can do to ease my own ache and need to not feel helpless, and to help other scared babies.
-s
*of the two women who were not strangers, one is a lovely lady who graduated from Sunset High 20 years before i did - we met at the flower shop, and the other was a young single mother whom i met in a dr.'s office three years ago. her new (redheaded, adorable)baby girl was VERY sick, and the doctors said she probably wouldn't live. when she left, i asked the dr. which hospital they'd sent her to, and when i got back to work, i sent a stuffed bunny and balloons to them with a note, saying that they were in my prayers.
when one lady told me that i was an inspiration, i said "i am driven to try to bring light and love to the world. there were people who did that for me, and that - combined with my own will and self belief - is what saved me." i told them that now i am compelled to speak to and encourage everyone i meet. i said "ask anyone who knows me, i'll tell a TREE that it looks especially strong today!"
that's when this young mother told the group that that little redheaded baby girl was the product of an 8-year abusive relationship and that she was miserable and torn when we met... she had considered aborting, but then couldn't, and when she was born she was so sweet and beautiful that she knew she'd decided well. then to hear that she might die was too much.
she told me - and the group - today that my concern, a complete strangers' concern, gave her hope. the baby was eventually ok, she got the courage to take action against the father, and now she is engaged to marry a good man, and is going to be a child abuse counselor.
if i only live another minute, i will die knowing i made a REAL difference in this world, and live that last 60 seconds knowing that i might still have time, in those seconds, to yet make a difference.
thank you (pablito, all of my good friends, my family, adopted and otherwise) for being part of that, of me, - MY inspiration, fuel to my fire, light in the dark.
i love you dearly.
-paraphrased excerpt from my reply to paul-
Wednesday, March 19, 2003
10:38 pm 03/19/03
i just read the news. one article from yahoo was enough. air strike launched literally minutes ago.
i believed up until just now that reason would prevail. i should be proud and happy that this much faith and belief survives in me.
but either way, i was wrong, and we are now a world at war.
so, i will tell you a story, because what else can we do, right now, but circle the wagons and huddle together?
Once upon a time, there was a girl who grew up in a box. It was a fairly small box, but it was raddled with holes, so it let the sun in – in spots – and gave a way to watch the weather. Some times, people would wander by and speak, or even ask about the box, but as the girl was quite young, she didn’t really know how to answer. So, her visitors eventually wandered away, as people sometimes do.
As the girl grew, two things happened. She started to not fit very well in the box, and she became pretty smart about the weather. These changes also had several effects, two of them being that she realized that she could get out of the box if she wanted to, and she could talk to people about the weather.
She found that people liked to discuss the weather. It was a universal condition, and a safe topic, and she just happened to be passionate about it, as it had been the primary – indeed only – occupation of her youth (well, other than intensives studies in box-physics and box-interior decorating). Her deep love of the science and sensory display of the weather seemed a bit odd to people, though, and so people still eventually wandered away.
One day, as she was venturing out of her box, an entire group of people came wandering by.
They seemed excited and were behaving rather strangely. When they came near her box she asked them what all the hoo-ha was about. One of them said “We hear that there are some excellent and interesting meteorological phenomenon in this area!” Another said “We certainly hope that the light lasts long enough for us to capture some of the fractals from the inversion layer!” A third said “Yeah, ‘cause it’s reeeeaaalllly pretty!”
That night, after spending the evening with these strange people, she lay in bed and thought: “Hm. I wonder if I could put this box on wheels?”
She did, and left for different weather. She went on to be accepted into the Seriously Adventurous Meteorologists’ Society, and opened a successful small business helping people convert boxes to Recreational Vehicles and Winter Cottages.
The moral of this story is:
-To be continued (i HOPE).
to all of you who called and wrote and came to me in your ways today, to ease my pain and fear, god bless you. YOU are what i have faith in. if you need any help getting your box onto wheels, or just want someone to talk about weather with, call me. i promise to do the same.
love and peace,
-sam
i just read the news. one article from yahoo was enough. air strike launched literally minutes ago.
i believed up until just now that reason would prevail. i should be proud and happy that this much faith and belief survives in me.
but either way, i was wrong, and we are now a world at war.
so, i will tell you a story, because what else can we do, right now, but circle the wagons and huddle together?
Once upon a time, there was a girl who grew up in a box. It was a fairly small box, but it was raddled with holes, so it let the sun in – in spots – and gave a way to watch the weather. Some times, people would wander by and speak, or even ask about the box, but as the girl was quite young, she didn’t really know how to answer. So, her visitors eventually wandered away, as people sometimes do.
As the girl grew, two things happened. She started to not fit very well in the box, and she became pretty smart about the weather. These changes also had several effects, two of them being that she realized that she could get out of the box if she wanted to, and she could talk to people about the weather.
She found that people liked to discuss the weather. It was a universal condition, and a safe topic, and she just happened to be passionate about it, as it had been the primary – indeed only – occupation of her youth (well, other than intensives studies in box-physics and box-interior decorating). Her deep love of the science and sensory display of the weather seemed a bit odd to people, though, and so people still eventually wandered away.
One day, as she was venturing out of her box, an entire group of people came wandering by.
They seemed excited and were behaving rather strangely. When they came near her box she asked them what all the hoo-ha was about. One of them said “We hear that there are some excellent and interesting meteorological phenomenon in this area!” Another said “We certainly hope that the light lasts long enough for us to capture some of the fractals from the inversion layer!” A third said “Yeah, ‘cause it’s reeeeaaalllly pretty!”
That night, after spending the evening with these strange people, she lay in bed and thought: “Hm. I wonder if I could put this box on wheels?”
She did, and left for different weather. She went on to be accepted into the Seriously Adventurous Meteorologists’ Society, and opened a successful small business helping people convert boxes to Recreational Vehicles and Winter Cottages.
The moral of this story is:
-To be continued (i HOPE).
to all of you who called and wrote and came to me in your ways today, to ease my pain and fear, god bless you. YOU are what i have faith in. if you need any help getting your box onto wheels, or just want someone to talk about weather with, call me. i promise to do the same.
love and peace,
-sam
Tuesday, March 18, 2003
this man is one of the most brave people i have ever seen.
i imagine that somehow, even a statement - a plea - this enormous, this precise and poignant and brave will be ignored by the American Powers That Be. and by all of us, too.
what else can we do? all resign?
if only these obsessed driven men would take more time to THINK. we cannot make excuses for another nations' leaders' greed, cruelty and lack of concern, but what about when our OWN leaders are acting this way?
as components of a so-called democratic government, we are still somehow helpless. our voice, our vote means nothing to these men.
the mandated 48 hours ends tomorrow.
god bless robin cook for trying.
i imagine that somehow, even a statement - a plea - this enormous, this precise and poignant and brave will be ignored by the American Powers That Be. and by all of us, too.
what else can we do? all resign?
if only these obsessed driven men would take more time to THINK. we cannot make excuses for another nations' leaders' greed, cruelty and lack of concern, but what about when our OWN leaders are acting this way?
as components of a so-called democratic government, we are still somehow helpless. our voice, our vote means nothing to these men.
the mandated 48 hours ends tomorrow.
god bless robin cook for trying.
Sunday, March 16, 2003
Well, last night we went to downtown Asheville, dressed in garb and “talked” up the faire… it was SUCH a good time! I don’t want to wax TOO lyrical, because our Lyrica couldna’ be there, as well as a few others who should have, but couldn’t. Maybe, if we’re lucky there will be photos!
I would like to take a moment to publicly and shamelessly brag about the incredible, amazing, fun, generous, smart, accomplished, good lookin' friends I have.
There is one who treated me most especially well this weekend. Buffy (for those of you who don’t know her – yet…) is the lady that brought me into the Faire group, taught me to fight, and allowed me the honor of fighting with her last year at my first fair. (we rocked b*$@%- socks AND kicked BUTT – literally. See the photos here! ) She is also known in the Kingdom of Day Off for bringing me into her home whenever she can, and treating me like another one of the family. I never leave her home without feeling full of good family feeling (and GOOD FOOD!). I need that SO much sometimes and she knows it. She knows when. She* makes me feel welcomed and cared for, and as if I belong. She is one of the kindest, most generous, loving*** people that I have ever known, and somehow she manages to treat ALL of her friends this way without ever losing herself or being a doormat in ANY way. She is a fantastic mom, and you should SEE her put up with Brett! :D
I’ve mentioned her and her clan here before, talked of the kindness and welcome of her family, but I can’t describe her strength to you, or the generosity of her spirit in any way that could BEGIN to capture it. You just have to take my word for it! :D But those of you who know Buffy, or someone who has some of these incredible qualities, who helps to fill the chasm of homesickness and loneliness that us lone wolves feel, know what I mean. These people who help re-charge your batteries.
Thanks for helping me keep the light on Buffy – and Hamilton, Mary, Brian, Andi, Elizabeth,
Mandy, Ethan, Jen, Tam, Stewart, Wendi, Marc, James, Sarah, Sharon, Sallie, Anita, Kaysha, Heather, D. Beth, … I could sit here and list names for hours and still not be able to name all of the wonderful people that I know who make my life livable, or better yet, good.
Oh, and, uh, thanks for the wood, Buff! Uh huh huh!
*(THEY – Brett, Ariana, Skye, Elia and Inky-do**.
**the BEST cat in the WHOLE world, y’all – I’d bet MONEY.
***not to mention HOT. You saw the pictures!
I would like to take a moment to publicly and shamelessly brag about the incredible, amazing, fun, generous, smart, accomplished, good lookin' friends I have.
There is one who treated me most especially well this weekend. Buffy (for those of you who don’t know her – yet…) is the lady that brought me into the Faire group, taught me to fight, and allowed me the honor of fighting with her last year at my first fair. (we rocked b*$@%- socks AND kicked BUTT – literally. See the photos here! ) She is also known in the Kingdom of Day Off for bringing me into her home whenever she can, and treating me like another one of the family. I never leave her home without feeling full of good family feeling (and GOOD FOOD!). I need that SO much sometimes and she knows it. She knows when. She* makes me feel welcomed and cared for, and as if I belong. She is one of the kindest, most generous, loving*** people that I have ever known, and somehow she manages to treat ALL of her friends this way without ever losing herself or being a doormat in ANY way. She is a fantastic mom, and you should SEE her put up with Brett! :D
I’ve mentioned her and her clan here before, talked of the kindness and welcome of her family, but I can’t describe her strength to you, or the generosity of her spirit in any way that could BEGIN to capture it. You just have to take my word for it! :D But those of you who know Buffy, or someone who has some of these incredible qualities, who helps to fill the chasm of homesickness and loneliness that us lone wolves feel, know what I mean. These people who help re-charge your batteries.
Thanks for helping me keep the light on Buffy – and Hamilton, Mary, Brian, Andi, Elizabeth,
Mandy, Ethan, Jen, Tam, Stewart, Wendi, Marc, James, Sarah, Sharon, Sallie, Anita, Kaysha, Heather, D. Beth, … I could sit here and list names for hours and still not be able to name all of the wonderful people that I know who make my life livable, or better yet, good.
Oh, and, uh, thanks for the wood, Buff! Uh huh huh!
*(THEY – Brett, Ariana, Skye, Elia and Inky-do**.
**the BEST cat in the WHOLE world, y’all – I’d bet MONEY.
***not to mention HOT. You saw the pictures!
Friday, March 14, 2003
you know what i am FINALLY figuring out? that no matter how much i talk, sing, draw and write about it, the pain - as they say in pop songs - stays locked up inside me. to some extent, it just lives there, it's part of me. but what i am also coming to realize is, that it IS the fuel to my fire. my friends say, again and again - god bless them - that i am a light. THIS is why i burn.
so be it. if the people who love me can live with it, then so can i.
so, i have called in sick to work. i am lying on a blanky in the grass, the sun is summer-kitchen warm on my legs. there is a cool breeze, there are daffodils. there are good things.
(please go to the latest day off - #22 - to see an illustration of this moment - as well as brett's birfday prezzie! HAPPY BIRFDAY BRETT!!! he's a prince of a guy. !snark!)
oddly enough, i also have this little handheld mechanical device, about the size of a large pager/small cellphone. it has wires that attach to your person via these little sticky pads. it electrocutes you with a mild pulse at intervals of about... (counting) every six seconds (the pulse lasts about that long, too). so .... (math. erg.) about five times a minute i get this little 'wubbbbbbb' into my hurty spots. i've got it set on 18%. i've TRIED up to 35%**, but i don't know how high it goes. i ASSUME it's to 100%. there's probably some folks who pay 'nice'* ladies in rubber skirts a LOT of $$$ to administer this thing set on 100. eek. it has "modes".
i hurt if i do anything for more than a few minutes. i feel like i'm up to my neck in a barrel of tar full of nails.
but there's daffodils, and warm sun - and days off. and i can write and draw in increments, dangit.
i'm keepin; the light on.
-s
*well, efficient.
**35% is STOUT.
so be it. if the people who love me can live with it, then so can i.
so, i have called in sick to work. i am lying on a blanky in the grass, the sun is summer-kitchen warm on my legs. there is a cool breeze, there are daffodils. there are good things.
(please go to the latest day off - #22 - to see an illustration of this moment - as well as brett's birfday prezzie! HAPPY BIRFDAY BRETT!!! he's a prince of a guy. !snark!)
oddly enough, i also have this little handheld mechanical device, about the size of a large pager/small cellphone. it has wires that attach to your person via these little sticky pads. it electrocutes you with a mild pulse at intervals of about... (counting) every six seconds (the pulse lasts about that long, too). so .... (math. erg.) about five times a minute i get this little 'wubbbbbbb' into my hurty spots. i've got it set on 18%. i've TRIED up to 35%**, but i don't know how high it goes. i ASSUME it's to 100%. there's probably some folks who pay 'nice'* ladies in rubber skirts a LOT of $$$ to administer this thing set on 100. eek. it has "modes".
i hurt if i do anything for more than a few minutes. i feel like i'm up to my neck in a barrel of tar full of nails.
but there's daffodils, and warm sun - and days off. and i can write and draw in increments, dangit.
i'm keepin; the light on.
-s
*well, efficient.
**35% is STOUT.
Saturday, March 08, 2003
Well, the mountains have chosen the colors for their new “Spring Collection”; the whole world seems to be blue, grey, brown, green, yellow and white. The rare splash of red or orange that I see on signs here and there seems to clash like plaid with stripes. The trees are just beginning to bud, but most of them look bare from any distance. Lawns and hills are still dusty light brown, and the occasional patch of jonquils looks like a child in an old folks’ home.
Hope “springs” eternal.
I woke up this morning wishing I could be someone else for one day, just for today. To be outside of my own body and head – take a vacation from being me. I’m tired of my thoughts and feelings, not permanently, I do love being me, but I feel like a mother who truly loves her children, but just needs for someone else to take them for one day.
I saw the film “Kundun” last night, it is the story of the life of the 14th (and current) Dalai Lama, and of the attempted destruction and persecution of the Tibetan peoples and their religion that began with the reign of Mao Tse Tung and continues even now. It is a beautiful film. I’d cut a picture from a magazine many years ago and pasted it into my wish book - a piercingly beautiful photo of monks crossing a shallow river on stones. I did not know that it was a photo still from this film until last night, and by the time this scene appeared, this director, the crew, the writer of the musical score, the actors and the story owned my heart. This man is real, and the Tibetan people believe that he is the incarnation of the Buddha. Whether this is true or not, it is plain that the man has a deep love for all things. He was told when he was a child that that was his job – to love all things with all his heart. The film both clearly and delicately portrays the pain this man feels on hearing of the gruesome deaths and tortures of his peace-loving people. It seems there are only a few people (Mother Theresa immediately comes to mind) who are able to feel and care for the pain of the whole world, and my heart aches in a faint echo of feeling for their strength and grace.
Most of us are unable to accept and process even our own pain and troubles, we are forced to try to separate ourselves from the problems of our neighbors and the people we see on the news. What does it take to be as strong as these people who have dedicated themselves to light and love? Just the knowledge that we must? That it is our duty?
We must. It is.
Please remind me when I forget.
I love you all.
-s
Hope “springs” eternal.
I woke up this morning wishing I could be someone else for one day, just for today. To be outside of my own body and head – take a vacation from being me. I’m tired of my thoughts and feelings, not permanently, I do love being me, but I feel like a mother who truly loves her children, but just needs for someone else to take them for one day.
I saw the film “Kundun” last night, it is the story of the life of the 14th (and current) Dalai Lama, and of the attempted destruction and persecution of the Tibetan peoples and their religion that began with the reign of Mao Tse Tung and continues even now. It is a beautiful film. I’d cut a picture from a magazine many years ago and pasted it into my wish book - a piercingly beautiful photo of monks crossing a shallow river on stones. I did not know that it was a photo still from this film until last night, and by the time this scene appeared, this director, the crew, the writer of the musical score, the actors and the story owned my heart. This man is real, and the Tibetan people believe that he is the incarnation of the Buddha. Whether this is true or not, it is plain that the man has a deep love for all things. He was told when he was a child that that was his job – to love all things with all his heart. The film both clearly and delicately portrays the pain this man feels on hearing of the gruesome deaths and tortures of his peace-loving people. It seems there are only a few people (Mother Theresa immediately comes to mind) who are able to feel and care for the pain of the whole world, and my heart aches in a faint echo of feeling for their strength and grace.
Most of us are unable to accept and process even our own pain and troubles, we are forced to try to separate ourselves from the problems of our neighbors and the people we see on the news. What does it take to be as strong as these people who have dedicated themselves to light and love? Just the knowledge that we must? That it is our duty?
We must. It is.
Please remind me when I forget.
I love you all.
-s
Thursday, March 06, 2003
This is sort of a continuation of the Wednesday, Feb. 26th rant on wanting and trying to make life as pleasant as possible.
As you all know, I’ve had vehicle troubles lately – which, of course, means I’ve had money troubles. (who doesn’t?:)
I was without my truck for 3 weeks, and then I had it back TWO DAYS and it wouldn’t start. Hhhaaaaah. I called the mechanic (nice guys, really – this new problem was NOT their fault) and they helped me to ascertain (in a very respectable, non-“we are talking to a dingy broad” way) that it was probably my starter.
I knew my landlord was on the way to pick up the rent, so I figured I’d ask him for a jump, to be sure it wasn’t just the battery.
(For those of you who don’t know, I have a really wonderful little house. It’s my landlords’ parents’ old home, and I love it. It’s in a big, pretty wooded yard with fruit trees and vines, two bedrooms, a great porch, nice fire pit in the back, and my rent is so obscenely low that if I were to say what it was here, blocked internet systems wouldn’t be able to show this rant.)
Not only did my landlord try to jumpstart my truck, but when it didn’t work, he took the battery out for me, drove me to the parts place to have it checked, gave me back 100$ of my rent so that I could buy a new starter, took me to visit his brother (who used to be my neighbor, but is now in an assisted living place) and took me out to a nice lunch.
I’ve been living here a while. Nearly six years, I think, and when I first moved here I didn’t know a soul. A lot of people would – and some people have – tried to take advantage of the fact that I have no father/brother/uncle/granddad/hubby to come to my aid in rough times. But Grover and his family have treated me like a family member since day one. I think there are a lot of reasons why – they are good, old fashioned Christian people. There are some old fashioned people and some Christian people who would still only do what they HAD to do, and not think twice of it. As nice as Grover is, I wouldn’t have expected him to go so far out of his way to help me. My rent is REALLY low. He could have wished me luck and gone on his way and neither of us thought a thing about it. But he didn’t, and I think the reason is a combination of all those things – good, old fashioned, Christian, and southern. He grew up* in a time and place where it was better to have a little less than you might have so that you don’t have to see a neighbor or friend do without. He didn’t help me (or keep my rent low, or give me a nice gift every Christmas**, etc…) because he’s trying to earn a better place in heaven, or to gain anything from me. He did it because That’s Just How You Do Things. And he knows that I understand that and try to live that way, too.
I realize that a LOT of people have made their fortunes by being able to hoard and have much while people around them go without. I’d like to be rich, but I don’t think I’d be very good at it.
Even when I am sad and hurting, I am always aware that I am truly blessed. I can’t imagine how bad the pain and sadness would be if it weren’t for all the wonderful, generous, loving, funny people I have in my life. I hope I have a chance to return it all, to pass it on, to keep it going.
I hope that you are all equally blessed, and that you have many chances to pass it on.
-s
*And I was raised by grandparents and aunts who grew up that way, too.
**Usually food. (Woo-hoo!) Home made jams and jellies, and fig preserves, last year!
Mmmmm! I am a honey-bear, y’all!
As you all know, I’ve had vehicle troubles lately – which, of course, means I’ve had money troubles. (who doesn’t?:)
I was without my truck for 3 weeks, and then I had it back TWO DAYS and it wouldn’t start. Hhhaaaaah. I called the mechanic (nice guys, really – this new problem was NOT their fault) and they helped me to ascertain (in a very respectable, non-“we are talking to a dingy broad” way) that it was probably my starter.
I knew my landlord was on the way to pick up the rent, so I figured I’d ask him for a jump, to be sure it wasn’t just the battery.
(For those of you who don’t know, I have a really wonderful little house. It’s my landlords’ parents’ old home, and I love it. It’s in a big, pretty wooded yard with fruit trees and vines, two bedrooms, a great porch, nice fire pit in the back, and my rent is so obscenely low that if I were to say what it was here, blocked internet systems wouldn’t be able to show this rant.)
Not only did my landlord try to jumpstart my truck, but when it didn’t work, he took the battery out for me, drove me to the parts place to have it checked, gave me back 100$ of my rent so that I could buy a new starter, took me to visit his brother (who used to be my neighbor, but is now in an assisted living place) and took me out to a nice lunch.
I’ve been living here a while. Nearly six years, I think, and when I first moved here I didn’t know a soul. A lot of people would – and some people have – tried to take advantage of the fact that I have no father/brother/uncle/granddad/hubby to come to my aid in rough times. But Grover and his family have treated me like a family member since day one. I think there are a lot of reasons why – they are good, old fashioned Christian people. There are some old fashioned people and some Christian people who would still only do what they HAD to do, and not think twice of it. As nice as Grover is, I wouldn’t have expected him to go so far out of his way to help me. My rent is REALLY low. He could have wished me luck and gone on his way and neither of us thought a thing about it. But he didn’t, and I think the reason is a combination of all those things – good, old fashioned, Christian, and southern. He grew up* in a time and place where it was better to have a little less than you might have so that you don’t have to see a neighbor or friend do without. He didn’t help me (or keep my rent low, or give me a nice gift every Christmas**, etc…) because he’s trying to earn a better place in heaven, or to gain anything from me. He did it because That’s Just How You Do Things. And he knows that I understand that and try to live that way, too.
I realize that a LOT of people have made their fortunes by being able to hoard and have much while people around them go without. I’d like to be rich, but I don’t think I’d be very good at it.
Even when I am sad and hurting, I am always aware that I am truly blessed. I can’t imagine how bad the pain and sadness would be if it weren’t for all the wonderful, generous, loving, funny people I have in my life. I hope I have a chance to return it all, to pass it on, to keep it going.
I hope that you are all equally blessed, and that you have many chances to pass it on.
-s
*And I was raised by grandparents and aunts who grew up that way, too.
**Usually food. (Woo-hoo!) Home made jams and jellies, and fig preserves, last year!
Mmmmm! I am a honey-bear, y’all!
Tuesday, March 04, 2003
someone called ‘just little me’ wrote something very dear in my guest book. i’m so sad to say that i am just jaded and paranoid enough to wonder (and optimistic enough to hope) that they are what they say they are, because their post really touched my heart.
i have a guess as to who this mystery-person is, but of course my natural curiosity WANTS TO KNOW. (Please write to me, samarei7@yahoo.com, and tell me who you are… 'sounds like we could both use someone else to talk to.)
i hope i made it clear that i have a LOT of people that i could talk to, but it’s just so hard for me to do it. i can say some things to anybody, but there are certain things that i cannot say at all… i am trying.
it means the world to me that this anonymous person would reach out like this. it seems as if this person is either a very good judge of character, or is a lot like me*, because they are definitely speaking to my heart.
whoever you are, i hope that what you are going through is bearable, and that the hard part – the hurt – will help you to grow in good ways, make you stronger… thank you for saying what you’ve said. to know that what I’ve been through, what i still go through, and my need to talk and write and draw about it helps to give you hope means the whole wide world to me. i strive to be a candle in my own darkness, and a light for others too. That seems to make it all – whatever it is – worthwhile.
if you ever want to talk, or just hang out and enjoy the light part of life sometime, you know where to find me, obviously. :)
thank you. be a candle.
-s
*and if you are whom i suspect, it think it must be both of these. (f.c., s.b.f.o.E.d.)
i have a guess as to who this mystery-person is, but of course my natural curiosity WANTS TO KNOW. (Please write to me, samarei7@yahoo.com, and tell me who you are… 'sounds like we could both use someone else to talk to.)
i hope i made it clear that i have a LOT of people that i could talk to, but it’s just so hard for me to do it. i can say some things to anybody, but there are certain things that i cannot say at all… i am trying.
it means the world to me that this anonymous person would reach out like this. it seems as if this person is either a very good judge of character, or is a lot like me*, because they are definitely speaking to my heart.
whoever you are, i hope that what you are going through is bearable, and that the hard part – the hurt – will help you to grow in good ways, make you stronger… thank you for saying what you’ve said. to know that what I’ve been through, what i still go through, and my need to talk and write and draw about it helps to give you hope means the whole wide world to me. i strive to be a candle in my own darkness, and a light for others too. That seems to make it all – whatever it is – worthwhile.
if you ever want to talk, or just hang out and enjoy the light part of life sometime, you know where to find me, obviously. :)
thank you. be a candle.
-s
*and if you are whom i suspect, it think it must be both of these. (f.c., s.b.f.o.E.d.)
Saturday, March 01, 2003
Well, it seems that the sadness that came to visit me a few days ago is not going anywhere. In fact, it has propped up its feet, put on a pot of coffee, and is inviting all of its friends over. At least it isn’t fatal – or even unfamiliar. I will survive it, just like everything else so far, but this is one I’m really going to have to work hard on.
Today I feel like the weather looks. The whole world seems filled with a giant soft, misty grey cloud. I feel as if someone touched me I would begin to rain.
What’s really funny is that, other than that central core of blue-grey, I am happy. Things have been worse. I finally got my truck back, my back is healing, and I’ve gotten a lot done at home, at work, and art-wise. I am making some plans for future fun and work…
But down at the bottom of all of it is this 360-pound truth that has me feeling bruised to the bone. Deep, deep – and I fear permanent – sadness.
Does everyone have that? And is it related to very specific things? I’ve known people who were just clinically, chemically depressed. That’s not me. My spirit and my body are just naturally bouncy. I must seem bi-polar to my friends (whatever the hell that really means – I assume it refers to severe chemical mood swings) but the truth of the matter is that I am like a fancy jello salad molded over a brick. I feel wiggly and sweet most of the time, but if you cut down deep enough, there’s this solid, permanent weight that displaces a whole lot of space where more jello should be.
I really wish I could have a serious word with the cooks.
What’s been getting at me lately is this ridiculous emotional tenderness that’s come with this latest wave of my childhood’s re-visitation. Even just sitting here, trying to find ways to say all of this without seeming maudlin or frivolous is bringing me to tears. If I think of it, this most recent parcel of misery my parents have sent me (even dead and gone, they have this ability), I break down, just a little. To think on this one thing, this latest thing, brings up the whole kit and caboodle. Everything. I wonder how many more times in life will I have to go through this. How many more surprises can they spring on me? How much more work do I have to do to come to terms with the past? And how are my siblings dealing with it?
The greatest ‘surface’ misery is this craving I have for someone to hold me and let me just get it all out. There are people who would do this, quite a few, I think, but there are none that I could allow myself to do it with. And that says a lot about me and my ability to trust. Of the two people with whom I could and would allow myself this comfort, one is dead, and the other might as well be. My anger toward them seems to grow in direct proportion to my sadness, because not only can I not seek comfort with them, but they also created a child - no, three children who are unable to seek it anywhere else.
I make do. I find small comforts and patch them together. But it is wine to a woman thirsty for water, and I have to come to term with the fact that it will more likely always be this way.
This is a lot of ‘nudity’ for a Saturday morning, innit? I’m sorry. I think I’m just trying to get it out of me and into the world. It’s definitely !@#$ing up my jello. Maybe one of you has a clue, and will write to me. Maybe one of you will think twice before laying something very heavy on an unsuspecting heart. Maybe one of you feels this way, too and just understands. Maybe one or more of you have parents and/or children out there and this will remind you to give them whatever love and forgiveness you have for them today, not tomorrow or next year.
And maybe the one person who really NEEDS to read this will, and it will light a spark of truth and light in a dark, dark place.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Today I feel like the weather looks. The whole world seems filled with a giant soft, misty grey cloud. I feel as if someone touched me I would begin to rain.
What’s really funny is that, other than that central core of blue-grey, I am happy. Things have been worse. I finally got my truck back, my back is healing, and I’ve gotten a lot done at home, at work, and art-wise. I am making some plans for future fun and work…
But down at the bottom of all of it is this 360-pound truth that has me feeling bruised to the bone. Deep, deep – and I fear permanent – sadness.
Does everyone have that? And is it related to very specific things? I’ve known people who were just clinically, chemically depressed. That’s not me. My spirit and my body are just naturally bouncy. I must seem bi-polar to my friends (whatever the hell that really means – I assume it refers to severe chemical mood swings) but the truth of the matter is that I am like a fancy jello salad molded over a brick. I feel wiggly and sweet most of the time, but if you cut down deep enough, there’s this solid, permanent weight that displaces a whole lot of space where more jello should be.
I really wish I could have a serious word with the cooks.
What’s been getting at me lately is this ridiculous emotional tenderness that’s come with this latest wave of my childhood’s re-visitation. Even just sitting here, trying to find ways to say all of this without seeming maudlin or frivolous is bringing me to tears. If I think of it, this most recent parcel of misery my parents have sent me (even dead and gone, they have this ability), I break down, just a little. To think on this one thing, this latest thing, brings up the whole kit and caboodle. Everything. I wonder how many more times in life will I have to go through this. How many more surprises can they spring on me? How much more work do I have to do to come to terms with the past? And how are my siblings dealing with it?
The greatest ‘surface’ misery is this craving I have for someone to hold me and let me just get it all out. There are people who would do this, quite a few, I think, but there are none that I could allow myself to do it with. And that says a lot about me and my ability to trust. Of the two people with whom I could and would allow myself this comfort, one is dead, and the other might as well be. My anger toward them seems to grow in direct proportion to my sadness, because not only can I not seek comfort with them, but they also created a child - no, three children who are unable to seek it anywhere else.
I make do. I find small comforts and patch them together. But it is wine to a woman thirsty for water, and I have to come to term with the fact that it will more likely always be this way.
This is a lot of ‘nudity’ for a Saturday morning, innit? I’m sorry. I think I’m just trying to get it out of me and into the world. It’s definitely !@#$ing up my jello. Maybe one of you has a clue, and will write to me. Maybe one of you will think twice before laying something very heavy on an unsuspecting heart. Maybe one of you feels this way, too and just understands. Maybe one or more of you have parents and/or children out there and this will remind you to give them whatever love and forgiveness you have for them today, not tomorrow or next year.
And maybe the one person who really NEEDS to read this will, and it will light a spark of truth and light in a dark, dark place.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Thursday, February 27, 2003
i have one other thing to say today.
i just found out that fred rogers died today, this morning, of cancer. he was 74, and that's a fair amount of years for him, but i feel very sad for all the kids who will never know mr. rogers. i remember many of his shows well, and i never plink on a piano without thinking of the sound of the trolley...
those weirdo puppets with their strange voices, and king friday's imaginary friend, 'trogladytiaetan' (which was the name i gave my stuffed unicorn when i was 12....), his ways of showing what people's jobs were and how things were made, magic picture, and his fishtank; his sweater and slippers, and best of all, his gentle, sweet voice and manner.
he was one of the very good things about my childhood - in which the very good things really stood out.
if there is a heaven, i hope he's got a REALLY good spot.
-s
i just found out that fred rogers died today, this morning, of cancer. he was 74, and that's a fair amount of years for him, but i feel very sad for all the kids who will never know mr. rogers. i remember many of his shows well, and i never plink on a piano without thinking of the sound of the trolley...
those weirdo puppets with their strange voices, and king friday's imaginary friend, 'trogladytiaetan' (which was the name i gave my stuffed unicorn when i was 12....), his ways of showing what people's jobs were and how things were made, magic picture, and his fishtank; his sweater and slippers, and best of all, his gentle, sweet voice and manner.
he was one of the very good things about my childhood - in which the very good things really stood out.
if there is a heaven, i hope he's got a REALLY good spot.
-s
something i just wrote* made me think of this**:
we all fantasize about being famous. Oscars, Nobels, Bistro bashes, puking in destroyed hotel rooms full of supermodels (i luvvvvv me some 'People' magazine, y'all...)
i thought about that feeling, about my dreams of "fame", and i realized that even an academy award could not mean more to me than the way my good friends (including the ones i'm related to and the ones i hardly ever see...) make me feel.
a lot of times i DO feel like a star. i feel appreciated and admired. i long to - and strive to - make other people feel that way, too.
don't get me wrong - vin IS hot (i just had to throw that in there, just in case he reads this... :) but i'd like it if we all felt like stars. celebrated, feted, awarded, respected, admired, desired, fulfilled and happy. i am very grateful to those of you who strive for this, and who make ME feel this way.
pass it on!
-s
*a cartoon. i'm about to attempt cartooning at you. you have been warned.
**the vampire crossed the room, Henry.***
***man, how vague and (hur hur) CRYPTic-sounding is THAT, y'all?! well, henry can explain it to you.
we all fantasize about being famous. Oscars, Nobels, Bistro bashes, puking in destroyed hotel rooms full of supermodels (i luvvvvv me some 'People' magazine, y'all...)
i thought about that feeling, about my dreams of "fame", and i realized that even an academy award could not mean more to me than the way my good friends (including the ones i'm related to and the ones i hardly ever see...) make me feel.
a lot of times i DO feel like a star. i feel appreciated and admired. i long to - and strive to - make other people feel that way, too.
don't get me wrong - vin IS hot (i just had to throw that in there, just in case he reads this... :) but i'd like it if we all felt like stars. celebrated, feted, awarded, respected, admired, desired, fulfilled and happy. i am very grateful to those of you who strive for this, and who make ME feel this way.
pass it on!
-s
*a cartoon. i'm about to attempt cartooning at you. you have been warned.
**the vampire crossed the room, Henry.***
***man, how vague and (hur hur) CRYPTic-sounding is THAT, y'all?! well, henry can explain it to you.
Wednesday, February 26, 2003
today's rant was inspired by my non-southern friend m___. i will not give his whole name so as to protect both his non-southerness AND his right to call me repressed and not get a bunch of snotty notes from, well, ME - as well as a bunch of my other friends. (hey, m____! xo! :))
we were talking and he mentioned NOT ONLY the z-word*, but he began to discuss a problematic one! (!!!)
i understand that this is life and nature, and we are all adults, but he did not understand that this is something that SOME people** would NEVER discuss, unless it was with their doctor (and even THEN we would use polite euphemisms scant gestures to get the point across). he said "wow, southerners are SO repressed!", and yes, some of us are, but there are lots of southerners who would talk about this (and other unpleasantness) without a qualm (IF their grammies weren't around, that is). i tried to explain that it wasn't about right or wrong (repression), but more about pleasant or un-. there are just some things you don't talk about. ("TTOTM" is a CLASSIC example.)
so much of life IS unpleasant, and i know that, but i have no desire to have any more than i HAVE to, especially in my intimate personal interactions.
i am SURE that my grammie, who had one husband and nine children, dealt with any number of perfectly natural but unpleasant things, but she NEVER talked about them. in fact, she went to the extreme. her children apparently never even saw her clean a toilet. my beloved aunt sue said that when she got married, she did not know until her best friend told her that a toilet had to be scrubbed clean!
i never shirk from dealing with these unpleasant things, whether in my own life, or a friends', if i have to, but there is no need to talk about them. there is SO much else in the world!
he pointed out that unpleasant is funny (and he's right - EVERYONE feels compelled to laugh at a fart-joke... even me - but i resist.)
I pointed out that this was true, but this was EASY funny. falling down, jim carey 'ass-talk' funny. 'smart' is SO much funnier, and there is grace in that kind of humor (the muffin joke is a VERY good example, in my opinion, thankyouverymuch.).
i don't consider myself repressed, and i don't think anyone who really knows me does, either. i AM a bit conservative in some arenas, but that is only because i TRIED the other options and LIKED the conservative ones. i just know very well that there are buckets of grody ickiness in life, every day. we deal with it, we respect it's power and presence, and we move on. i don't long for the old days of the south, or for victorian england or any of the times when things were like that because they had to be. pleasance and grace is a choice now, and one that i hope i will take every time. it makes life better, and i think people respect and admire me for making that choice. people are drawn to me, and i definitely think this is one of the reasons why.
m____, thanks for inspiring this rant, this is a subject that really matters to me, one that i actually consider and discuss a lot. i wouldn't have thought to talk about it here.
and by the way, i hope your z__ gets better. :D
-s
p.s. let me also make it perfectly clear that "cutesie" euphemisms are, for the most part, as disgusting to me as the actual terms. there is really just no need (in most cases) to discuss such stuff at all.
*"zit". ew.
**mainly polite southern ones who were raised by their grammies***.
***who would smack them into next week for saying such things.
we were talking and he mentioned NOT ONLY the z-word*, but he began to discuss a problematic one! (!!!)
i understand that this is life and nature, and we are all adults, but he did not understand that this is something that SOME people** would NEVER discuss, unless it was with their doctor (and even THEN we would use polite euphemisms scant gestures to get the point across). he said "wow, southerners are SO repressed!", and yes, some of us are, but there are lots of southerners who would talk about this (and other unpleasantness) without a qualm (IF their grammies weren't around, that is). i tried to explain that it wasn't about right or wrong (repression), but more about pleasant or un-. there are just some things you don't talk about. ("TTOTM" is a CLASSIC example.)
so much of life IS unpleasant, and i know that, but i have no desire to have any more than i HAVE to, especially in my intimate personal interactions.
i am SURE that my grammie, who had one husband and nine children, dealt with any number of perfectly natural but unpleasant things, but she NEVER talked about them. in fact, she went to the extreme. her children apparently never even saw her clean a toilet. my beloved aunt sue said that when she got married, she did not know until her best friend told her that a toilet had to be scrubbed clean!
i never shirk from dealing with these unpleasant things, whether in my own life, or a friends', if i have to, but there is no need to talk about them. there is SO much else in the world!
he pointed out that unpleasant is funny (and he's right - EVERYONE feels compelled to laugh at a fart-joke... even me - but i resist.)
I pointed out that this was true, but this was EASY funny. falling down, jim carey 'ass-talk' funny. 'smart' is SO much funnier, and there is grace in that kind of humor (the muffin joke is a VERY good example, in my opinion, thankyouverymuch.).
i don't consider myself repressed, and i don't think anyone who really knows me does, either. i AM a bit conservative in some arenas, but that is only because i TRIED the other options and LIKED the conservative ones. i just know very well that there are buckets of grody ickiness in life, every day. we deal with it, we respect it's power and presence, and we move on. i don't long for the old days of the south, or for victorian england or any of the times when things were like that because they had to be. pleasance and grace is a choice now, and one that i hope i will take every time. it makes life better, and i think people respect and admire me for making that choice. people are drawn to me, and i definitely think this is one of the reasons why.
m____, thanks for inspiring this rant, this is a subject that really matters to me, one that i actually consider and discuss a lot. i wouldn't have thought to talk about it here.
and by the way, i hope your z__ gets better. :D
-s
p.s. let me also make it perfectly clear that "cutesie" euphemisms are, for the most part, as disgusting to me as the actual terms. there is really just no need (in most cases) to discuss such stuff at all.
*"zit". ew.
**mainly polite southern ones who were raised by their grammies***.
***who would smack them into next week for saying such things.
Tuesday, February 25, 2003
Hello, lovelies.
Well, I am not only hanging in there, but I am feeling strangely fine. I have thought about this newest curveball and what came out of it (other than a whole lot of art) was a feeling of pride and strength (and also weary resolution, to be honest) over the fact that so far, I have survived EVERYTHING that life has thrown at me.
I wrote in my “Sam’s Winter Almanack” this weekend:
“So far, you have handled everything that life has handed you. In order to fail, you will have to defeat yourself.”
In other news, I have been warned by several concerned individuals about my potentially treasonous public opinions. So I will cease to rail against President McCarthy and his father, Former President Bergen* and their World Commerce Domination Project – I mean “the war” and instead, I will treat you all to a TOTALLY random and unrelated segment from Scott Adams’ latest book, and a really great art site.
Keep the Peace, folks!
“Leaders are people you should try to avoid at all costs. As I often say, the whole point of “leading” is making you do things you didn’t want to do on your own. Leaders have taken the practice of weaselness to its highest level.
Leadership is only possible because people are, on the whole, spectacularly gullible. If you indoctrinate a human being early in life, say in grade school, you can fill its brain with virtually anything and those delusions will stay there forever. If that kid lives in your country (whatever that might be) its brain is filled with patriotism, goodness, and the right religion. If the kid is born in any other country (no matter which one), its brain is filled with hate, belligerence, and a strange, cultlike religion.*
*The people in those other countries see it differently. They think the delusions are on YOUR end. That just goes to show how thoroughly brainwashed those crazt foreigners are. Ha ha!”
Go, Scott!
-s
*major BEE** points to whoever gets this.
**Brownie Empress Exemplaire – title given to me by the EFP (Enchanted Fairy Princess and her sister, the Primrose Pixie Queen).
Well, I am not only hanging in there, but I am feeling strangely fine. I have thought about this newest curveball and what came out of it (other than a whole lot of art) was a feeling of pride and strength (and also weary resolution, to be honest) over the fact that so far, I have survived EVERYTHING that life has thrown at me.
I wrote in my “Sam’s Winter Almanack” this weekend:
“So far, you have handled everything that life has handed you. In order to fail, you will have to defeat yourself.”
In other news, I have been warned by several concerned individuals about my potentially treasonous public opinions. So I will cease to rail against President McCarthy and his father, Former President Bergen* and their World Commerce Domination Project – I mean “the war” and instead, I will treat you all to a TOTALLY random and unrelated segment from Scott Adams’ latest book, and a really great art site.
Keep the Peace, folks!
“Leaders are people you should try to avoid at all costs. As I often say, the whole point of “leading” is making you do things you didn’t want to do on your own. Leaders have taken the practice of weaselness to its highest level.
Leadership is only possible because people are, on the whole, spectacularly gullible. If you indoctrinate a human being early in life, say in grade school, you can fill its brain with virtually anything and those delusions will stay there forever. If that kid lives in your country (whatever that might be) its brain is filled with patriotism, goodness, and the right religion. If the kid is born in any other country (no matter which one), its brain is filled with hate, belligerence, and a strange, cultlike religion.*
*The people in those other countries see it differently. They think the delusions are on YOUR end. That just goes to show how thoroughly brainwashed those crazt foreigners are. Ha ha!”
Go, Scott!
-s
*major BEE** points to whoever gets this.
**Brownie Empress Exemplaire – title given to me by the EFP (Enchanted Fairy Princess and her sister, the Primrose Pixie Queen).
Friday, February 21, 2003
WARNING: EMOTIONAL NUDITY.
So. Just how ‘naked’ can I be here? I’ve streaked here before, a quick nekkid run-through, but what about ‘art-class model’, or ‘nude-beach’?
We shall see…
First off – why? Why be naked here, where the entire world could see?
Yesterday, something happened that upset me deeply - possibly as deeply as I am able to be hurt. I made it through the day ok, but when I got home, and I was alone, I was overcome. The pain was unbearable, I cried and paced and I wanted so badly to talk to someone, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t let anyone see or hear me that way. The first person who came to mind – who always comes to mind is my ‘twin’. But the Wonder-Twin Powers aren’t working right now. (“Zan”, if you read this, I hope you are doing ok. I miss you, I think of you every day. Don’t worry – I’m hangin’ in there.)
I went down the list, and it’s a big list. I am blessed with people who love me and would LET me call them and wail into the phone. But for one reason or another, I just couldn’t. I am a prideful, fearful creature, and that’s the heart of it.
There was one person, the person who ‘handed me’ the hurt*, that I somehow knew I could call - should call - and I tried, but her phone was busy. I tried twice, and then took it as a sign, and went, as always, to my notebook. (Count your lucky stars, w.s.! ;)
Here, though, you all have a choice to read, and a choice to respond, and I can handle that. I didn’t feel all alone last night. I knew there were at LEAST a dozen people I could call… if anything, I felt shame that I could not be brave enough to pick up the damned phone. When I was a kid, I could blame someone else if I cried and hurt alone, but as an adult, I can only blame myself. But I can also write, and draw, and share THAT way, and still be safe, and keep my friends and family safe. I do the best I can.
Well, I thought I could ‘walk out onto the beach’, but it looks like I’m not ready yet. I am sitting here thinking about trying to talk about what happened, and I can’t. Just the thought brings immediate tears and snot. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I will. Maybe just saying out loud, to the whole world that I am hurting as bad as I ever have is enough.
Maybe this one realization will help me finally get to the heart of my oldest hurt, and I can finally do something about it, or at least come to accept it. And maybe that will take the REST of my life.
Sorry, looks like a slow strip tease is the best I’ll be able to do today.
Thank you all for whatever reasons you come here, and for writing to me about what you think and feel. It means the world to me.
-s
*This person did not TRY to hurt me, and I know that without a doubt. I am grateful for her honesty and for reaching out, and for the new understanding that came from this truth. No pain, no gain, right?
So. Just how ‘naked’ can I be here? I’ve streaked here before, a quick nekkid run-through, but what about ‘art-class model’, or ‘nude-beach’?
We shall see…
First off – why? Why be naked here, where the entire world could see?
Yesterday, something happened that upset me deeply - possibly as deeply as I am able to be hurt. I made it through the day ok, but when I got home, and I was alone, I was overcome. The pain was unbearable, I cried and paced and I wanted so badly to talk to someone, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t let anyone see or hear me that way. The first person who came to mind – who always comes to mind is my ‘twin’. But the Wonder-Twin Powers aren’t working right now. (“Zan”, if you read this, I hope you are doing ok. I miss you, I think of you every day. Don’t worry – I’m hangin’ in there.)
I went down the list, and it’s a big list. I am blessed with people who love me and would LET me call them and wail into the phone. But for one reason or another, I just couldn’t. I am a prideful, fearful creature, and that’s the heart of it.
There was one person, the person who ‘handed me’ the hurt*, that I somehow knew I could call - should call - and I tried, but her phone was busy. I tried twice, and then took it as a sign, and went, as always, to my notebook. (Count your lucky stars, w.s.! ;)
Here, though, you all have a choice to read, and a choice to respond, and I can handle that. I didn’t feel all alone last night. I knew there were at LEAST a dozen people I could call… if anything, I felt shame that I could not be brave enough to pick up the damned phone. When I was a kid, I could blame someone else if I cried and hurt alone, but as an adult, I can only blame myself. But I can also write, and draw, and share THAT way, and still be safe, and keep my friends and family safe. I do the best I can.
Well, I thought I could ‘walk out onto the beach’, but it looks like I’m not ready yet. I am sitting here thinking about trying to talk about what happened, and I can’t. Just the thought brings immediate tears and snot. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I will. Maybe just saying out loud, to the whole world that I am hurting as bad as I ever have is enough.
Maybe this one realization will help me finally get to the heart of my oldest hurt, and I can finally do something about it, or at least come to accept it. And maybe that will take the REST of my life.
Sorry, looks like a slow strip tease is the best I’ll be able to do today.
Thank you all for whatever reasons you come here, and for writing to me about what you think and feel. It means the world to me.
-s
*This person did not TRY to hurt me, and I know that without a doubt. I am grateful for her honesty and for reaching out, and for the new understanding that came from this truth. No pain, no gain, right?
Wednesday, February 19, 2003
There was this boy, see…
Don’t you love stories that start that way? Makes you get a John Hughes-ey kinda’ feelin, ‘dunnit? Which is actually fairly appropriate for this tale.
Once upon a time, a million years ago (in the early eighties), I had a friend. He was, without a doubt the most ‘noticeably’ odd guy in the school. There were other weirdos, but they were more covert, less brave – they made more of an effort to blend and be popular. This guy did NOT. Not at all. He wore his brainy brand of super-geekness with pride. (he didn’t give a proverbial rat’s heinie.)
I was new to the school, and a complete freak myself* (hard to believe, I know…). His mom was my favorite teacher, and he and I had lots in common, so we were friends from fairly early on. We ate lunch together, hung out in his mom’s classroom (amidst the burble of aquariums and acrid tang of formaldehyde) during breaks, and got up to general deep-nerd goofiness. He was a good friend to me. He introduced me to the rest of the nerds (Ralph, dear Ralph – and the Stevens…) and made me laugh a lot. He drew funny cartoons for me, and called me and played bizarre lyrics (we were BAD Billy Idol fans!) over the phone, wrote me notes sealed with red wax, and once he gave me a pair of sparkly lavender unicorn candles. His best trick was combing his hair to the side, putting on a plastic mac and some black frame glasses and chasing me around the playground humming the “Benny Hill” theme (or maybe he had a kazoo. It’s possible…). I ALWAYS ran and screamed “STOP!”, but I loved it. Who else would think of something SO bizarre and funny – and who else would GET it?
Of course, things changed. I started spending time with girlfriends, and then I got a (lame, pathetic excuse-for-a) boyfriend. Then I changed schools – again. We lost touch, but then we found each other again. Both of our parents were taking summer classes at the local university. We hung out a bit, but we had changed a lot. By the time we both moved to the town, we had turned into very different people. Before all was said and done, we ended up having some animosity between us. As he put it, he was a bit too “angry punk rock” and I a bit too “coffee-house poet”** for us to see eye-to-eye (plus, his friends HATED me. That probably didn’t help.
As you all know, I’ve recently reunited with my baby sis. She still has contact with his mom, and she turned them on to my web page. The result was that this boy wrote me, and we have been writing back and forth for a couple of weeks.
He is a family man, now. He has a wife and two daughters, and a good job on the west coast. Our conversation is tentative, we are both busy people, but it amazes (but not surprises) me that we seemed to pick up right where we left off in high school. Of all the differences between us, we both find common ground in feeling this strange sense of nostalgia. We talk a little about the ‘old days’. He says my rants remind him of those times. We both wonder what the reasons for our nostalgic longing are.
My theory is that it is partly our age (30-something). He is watching his children grow, and maybe identifying with that – his oldest is a young teen. For me it has a lot to do with wanting to be sure that I haven’t wasted too much of this short life. I’ve moved a lot, I’ve made and lost a lot of friends. None of it is a waste, if I’ve learned and grown from it, I suppose - but what about wasting the devotion one has given? What about the love and passion for ones’ past friends and lovers - the love and passion that was given to you? We all need to know and remember that those strong feelings (and you KNOW how strong they are when you are young and hopeful, when you have yet to become jaded, and you believe that love and good friendship are forever…) because otherwise, what else are we doing this for? Why else are we here?
I think our readiness to be friends again, and the fondness I felt at seeing his face (unchanged!) in a picture goes a long way toward proving this theory. I’ve found room for regret when I’ve thought of him over the years (I still had those sparkly unicorns until very recently, and I still have at least one of his notes…), just as I have with many other lost friends. And of course, one never wants to have regret.
I wear a ring on my right ring finger - I never take it off. It was given to me by my ex-husband, and despite the ex-, I never think badly of him, or of the sentiment when I look at that ring. My feelings just reinforce the truth of the statement. It says, simply “Real Love Is Forever”, and I need to believe that. We all do. We need to know that our childhood beliefs were real, that our teen angst had substance, and that our adult struggles mean something. We need to believe in something bigger than ourselves, God, true love, democracy (hahahahaha! Sorry.), punk rock – something.
So, this boy told me he likes to read my rants, and he said I could talk about him. If the least I could do after all these years and all his kindnesses to me is to use our friendship as an example to prove to the rest of you that John Hughes’ movies aren’t total crap, then yay, us!
We were BOTH “Duckie”, weren’t we Bryan?
DUCKIES OF THE WORLD, UNITE! And dream on, hopeful geeks, dream on.
*- though I had yet to come out of the geek-closet. I was very conservative in behavior and appearance at that time…
**Moi?!?! ;)
Don’t you love stories that start that way? Makes you get a John Hughes-ey kinda’ feelin, ‘dunnit? Which is actually fairly appropriate for this tale.
Once upon a time, a million years ago (in the early eighties), I had a friend. He was, without a doubt the most ‘noticeably’ odd guy in the school. There were other weirdos, but they were more covert, less brave – they made more of an effort to blend and be popular. This guy did NOT. Not at all. He wore his brainy brand of super-geekness with pride. (he didn’t give a proverbial rat’s heinie.)
I was new to the school, and a complete freak myself* (hard to believe, I know…). His mom was my favorite teacher, and he and I had lots in common, so we were friends from fairly early on. We ate lunch together, hung out in his mom’s classroom (amidst the burble of aquariums and acrid tang of formaldehyde) during breaks, and got up to general deep-nerd goofiness. He was a good friend to me. He introduced me to the rest of the nerds (Ralph, dear Ralph – and the Stevens…) and made me laugh a lot. He drew funny cartoons for me, and called me and played bizarre lyrics (we were BAD Billy Idol fans!) over the phone, wrote me notes sealed with red wax, and once he gave me a pair of sparkly lavender unicorn candles. His best trick was combing his hair to the side, putting on a plastic mac and some black frame glasses and chasing me around the playground humming the “Benny Hill” theme (or maybe he had a kazoo. It’s possible…). I ALWAYS ran and screamed “STOP!”, but I loved it. Who else would think of something SO bizarre and funny – and who else would GET it?
Of course, things changed. I started spending time with girlfriends, and then I got a (lame, pathetic excuse-for-a) boyfriend. Then I changed schools – again. We lost touch, but then we found each other again. Both of our parents were taking summer classes at the local university. We hung out a bit, but we had changed a lot. By the time we both moved to the town, we had turned into very different people. Before all was said and done, we ended up having some animosity between us. As he put it, he was a bit too “angry punk rock” and I a bit too “coffee-house poet”** for us to see eye-to-eye (plus, his friends HATED me. That probably didn’t help.
As you all know, I’ve recently reunited with my baby sis. She still has contact with his mom, and she turned them on to my web page. The result was that this boy wrote me, and we have been writing back and forth for a couple of weeks.
He is a family man, now. He has a wife and two daughters, and a good job on the west coast. Our conversation is tentative, we are both busy people, but it amazes (but not surprises) me that we seemed to pick up right where we left off in high school. Of all the differences between us, we both find common ground in feeling this strange sense of nostalgia. We talk a little about the ‘old days’. He says my rants remind him of those times. We both wonder what the reasons for our nostalgic longing are.
My theory is that it is partly our age (30-something). He is watching his children grow, and maybe identifying with that – his oldest is a young teen. For me it has a lot to do with wanting to be sure that I haven’t wasted too much of this short life. I’ve moved a lot, I’ve made and lost a lot of friends. None of it is a waste, if I’ve learned and grown from it, I suppose - but what about wasting the devotion one has given? What about the love and passion for ones’ past friends and lovers - the love and passion that was given to you? We all need to know and remember that those strong feelings (and you KNOW how strong they are when you are young and hopeful, when you have yet to become jaded, and you believe that love and good friendship are forever…) because otherwise, what else are we doing this for? Why else are we here?
I think our readiness to be friends again, and the fondness I felt at seeing his face (unchanged!) in a picture goes a long way toward proving this theory. I’ve found room for regret when I’ve thought of him over the years (I still had those sparkly unicorns until very recently, and I still have at least one of his notes…), just as I have with many other lost friends. And of course, one never wants to have regret.
I wear a ring on my right ring finger - I never take it off. It was given to me by my ex-husband, and despite the ex-, I never think badly of him, or of the sentiment when I look at that ring. My feelings just reinforce the truth of the statement. It says, simply “Real Love Is Forever”, and I need to believe that. We all do. We need to know that our childhood beliefs were real, that our teen angst had substance, and that our adult struggles mean something. We need to believe in something bigger than ourselves, God, true love, democracy (hahahahaha! Sorry.), punk rock – something.
So, this boy told me he likes to read my rants, and he said I could talk about him. If the least I could do after all these years and all his kindnesses to me is to use our friendship as an example to prove to the rest of you that John Hughes’ movies aren’t total crap, then yay, us!
We were BOTH “Duckie”, weren’t we Bryan?
DUCKIES OF THE WORLD, UNITE! And dream on, hopeful geeks, dream on.
*- though I had yet to come out of the geek-closet. I was very conservative in behavior and appearance at that time…
**Moi?!?! ;)
Saturday, February 15, 2003
i care too much about most of you to force you to read about my clipped-wing angst. so instead, i will take the 'vogon' route and give you poetry. :)
this is dedicated to all of my friends who are brave enough to have and raise children.
Punk Rock Has Borne A Raving Child
My eldest was born with bright pink hair,
Mathilda, who in adolescent angst,
dyed it brown.
Then Hannah and Naomi, the twins came -
both gothic, two little silent blackbirds.
Their eyes, the classic "limpid pools", still
speak in flashes, reflections and depths,
their mouths seldom move but to accomodate
candy and cigarettes.
Last came little Joe Rocket. A perfect,
angelic, blue-eyed blonde babe whose hair
never grew past a mohawk-strip.
He wears it spiked, with rooster-like pride
to chess-club and programming classes.
No one questions his thick black Costello glasses,
plaid shirt, pocket protector, satisfied grin.
When they were sad, it was 'Sex Pistols'
to sing them to sleep;
when they were happy, they only wanted Morrissey.
I could never say no to sugar pops, cartoons,
firecrackers and sex. How could they?
When the world zooms around them, past light speed,
full of bombs and barbed wire and fanciful
sparkling electric death?
When psychic tigers sleep in every Bush,
while real tigers die out by the day,
by the hour.
I and the world do the best we know how -
but even punk-rock can't stop
the speed of evolution.
-sll, 08/26/02-
this is dedicated to all of my friends who are brave enough to have and raise children.
Punk Rock Has Borne A Raving Child
My eldest was born with bright pink hair,
Mathilda, who in adolescent angst,
dyed it brown.
Then Hannah and Naomi, the twins came -
both gothic, two little silent blackbirds.
Their eyes, the classic "limpid pools", still
speak in flashes, reflections and depths,
their mouths seldom move but to accomodate
candy and cigarettes.
Last came little Joe Rocket. A perfect,
angelic, blue-eyed blonde babe whose hair
never grew past a mohawk-strip.
He wears it spiked, with rooster-like pride
to chess-club and programming classes.
No one questions his thick black Costello glasses,
plaid shirt, pocket protector, satisfied grin.
When they were sad, it was 'Sex Pistols'
to sing them to sleep;
when they were happy, they only wanted Morrissey.
I could never say no to sugar pops, cartoons,
firecrackers and sex. How could they?
When the world zooms around them, past light speed,
full of bombs and barbed wire and fanciful
sparkling electric death?
When psychic tigers sleep in every Bush,
while real tigers die out by the day,
by the hour.
I and the world do the best we know how -
but even punk-rock can't stop
the speed of evolution.
-sll, 08/26/02-
Friday, February 14, 2003
well, in the spirit of yesterday's rant, i have decided NOT to express my feelings about this particular holiday, and that is my valentine's day treat to you all.
there IS something worth celebrating today, however... today is stewart's third 39th birthday. happy birthday, stewart!
my back is !@#$ killing me, so i really don't have to gumption to rant today. that alone should tell you that i am feeling pretty bad!
i hope all is well in the (hopefully) chocolate-coated, truffle-filled recesses of all your hearts. i hope this day brings you whatever you expect of it.
i've got rain, pain and money-drain. but hey, it's not snowing, work is paying for my medical bills, and the mechanics dropped the price of my repairs by 200$.
Always look on the bright side of life!
there IS something worth celebrating today, however... today is stewart's third 39th birthday. happy birthday, stewart!
my back is !@#$ killing me, so i really don't have to gumption to rant today. that alone should tell you that i am feeling pretty bad!
i hope all is well in the (hopefully) chocolate-coated, truffle-filled recesses of all your hearts. i hope this day brings you whatever you expect of it.
i've got rain, pain and money-drain. but hey, it's not snowing, work is paying for my medical bills, and the mechanics dropped the price of my repairs by 200$.
Always look on the bright side of life!
Thursday, February 13, 2003
It’s taken 34 years, but I think I’ve finally figured out what “normal” is.
I think “normal” is defined – judged – by society as a whole, as well as in concentrically smaller sub-societies, as one’s ability to squelch one’s true feelings about any given thing; to ignore or hide one’s emotional responses*.
There are clear scales set up within each society by which one is judged. These scales range from very small (wearing odd hats, or liking Gordon Lightfoot), to ‘blasphemous’ or ‘treasonous’ standards.
Though I may not be considered an “average” representative of my own culture, I am certainly more qualified to speak from an American, working class, rural, white, Christian perspective than from any other. With the exception of the ‘white’, I believe this puts me into the majority of the population of this country. I will use my self and these sub-societal classifications to make examples of my point.
American:
I, like all of my friends, am sickeningly disgusted with the current American government and it’s affairs. This is no secret. The entire nation (with the exception of perhaps 10% of it’s VERY wealthy population) seems to be.
However, when I stated my heartfelt opinion about the current state of affairs to a mature, trusted friend on the phone yesterday, he IMMEDIATELY reminded me that I could go to jail for saying what I did.
Despite the fact that this intelligent, educated older man agrees with me precisely on this subject, his own fear of censure and judgment was so great that he felt the need to warn me (aggressively, vehemently, as if I were an ignorant child) that I could be arrested for expressing that opinion, even to a trusted friend in a private phone conversation.
Working class:
I work for a government organization. My job has political ramifications that range in scale from ‘National’ to ‘local fund-raising hob-nob’. I am reminded DAILY of my need to curb my expression and be a model of “normal” – even if it entails lying.
Rural:
In 34 years of life in the American rural and suburban South, I have been beaten, molested, raped, locked up, starved, terrorized, abandoned, and neglected – repeatedly. Speaking from my personal experience, this is absolutely ‘traditional’, and I have been asked, instructed and begged – a countless number of times – to deny, forget, ‘drop’, or just keep silent about everyone of these experiences. Sometimes by friends, sometimes by family members, sometimes by the police. This has happened in every single instance.
White:
I have been censured for even SAYING that I would date a man of another race. One young man of my acquaintance was privately insulted by my father for having the courage to ask him if he could ask me out. An ex-girlfriend of one of my beaux tried to turn him against me by informing him of my multi-racial dating past. This list is sadly endless.
Christian:
My pentacles get many queries. I stumble over myself to give my true but safe rote answer. I am not allowed the same privileges as any other citizen regarding the use of a particular public facility because one of my hobbies (D&D) might be considered “satanic” or “anti-Christian” by some people’s standards. This list, too, is endless.
My easiest example is my new situation, sharing my house with another person.
How many times a day do either of us find something that is disturbing in some way and decide to say nothing, because that equals ‘being a good – normal – housemate’? When this happens, when I bite down on a grievance, I mentally pat myself on the back for being ‘good’, and then grit my teeth and try to find another way around – another way to feel ok about saying nothing, a way to ease my guilt when I find that I HAVE to say something.
How often do couples squelch their true feelings - or teachers to students, parents to children (and vice versa), employees to employers? I think of my friend “Crow-Girl” here, and of how much she fears that people might not like her true self… I think of the names I’ve been called all of my life, how strange my own family has found me at times. “Over-sensitive”, “weird”, “moody”, “high-strung”, “flighty”. I am none of these things. I am just as “normal” as I can bear to be. I hold back and bite down a lot, as much as I can stand to. I think we all do, if we are able, and we suffer break-downs, blow-ups, road-rage, heart-attacks, neuroses, psychoses, depression, high blood pressure, PTSD, anxiety attacks, abuse, addiction, incarceration, etc. – all in the name of “normalcy”.
Read Desmond Morris, folks.
*James, I hate to tell you, but your nation may be vying with Japan for highest on the scale of social evolution, according to my theory.
I think “normal” is defined – judged – by society as a whole, as well as in concentrically smaller sub-societies, as one’s ability to squelch one’s true feelings about any given thing; to ignore or hide one’s emotional responses*.
There are clear scales set up within each society by which one is judged. These scales range from very small (wearing odd hats, or liking Gordon Lightfoot), to ‘blasphemous’ or ‘treasonous’ standards.
Though I may not be considered an “average” representative of my own culture, I am certainly more qualified to speak from an American, working class, rural, white, Christian perspective than from any other. With the exception of the ‘white’, I believe this puts me into the majority of the population of this country. I will use my self and these sub-societal classifications to make examples of my point.
American:
I, like all of my friends, am sickeningly disgusted with the current American government and it’s affairs. This is no secret. The entire nation (with the exception of perhaps 10% of it’s VERY wealthy population) seems to be.
However, when I stated my heartfelt opinion about the current state of affairs to a mature, trusted friend on the phone yesterday, he IMMEDIATELY reminded me that I could go to jail for saying what I did.
Despite the fact that this intelligent, educated older man agrees with me precisely on this subject, his own fear of censure and judgment was so great that he felt the need to warn me (aggressively, vehemently, as if I were an ignorant child) that I could be arrested for expressing that opinion, even to a trusted friend in a private phone conversation.
Working class:
I work for a government organization. My job has political ramifications that range in scale from ‘National’ to ‘local fund-raising hob-nob’. I am reminded DAILY of my need to curb my expression and be a model of “normal” – even if it entails lying.
Rural:
In 34 years of life in the American rural and suburban South, I have been beaten, molested, raped, locked up, starved, terrorized, abandoned, and neglected – repeatedly. Speaking from my personal experience, this is absolutely ‘traditional’, and I have been asked, instructed and begged – a countless number of times – to deny, forget, ‘drop’, or just keep silent about everyone of these experiences. Sometimes by friends, sometimes by family members, sometimes by the police. This has happened in every single instance.
White:
I have been censured for even SAYING that I would date a man of another race. One young man of my acquaintance was privately insulted by my father for having the courage to ask him if he could ask me out. An ex-girlfriend of one of my beaux tried to turn him against me by informing him of my multi-racial dating past. This list is sadly endless.
Christian:
My pentacles get many queries. I stumble over myself to give my true but safe rote answer. I am not allowed the same privileges as any other citizen regarding the use of a particular public facility because one of my hobbies (D&D) might be considered “satanic” or “anti-Christian” by some people’s standards. This list, too, is endless.
My easiest example is my new situation, sharing my house with another person.
How many times a day do either of us find something that is disturbing in some way and decide to say nothing, because that equals ‘being a good – normal – housemate’? When this happens, when I bite down on a grievance, I mentally pat myself on the back for being ‘good’, and then grit my teeth and try to find another way around – another way to feel ok about saying nothing, a way to ease my guilt when I find that I HAVE to say something.
How often do couples squelch their true feelings - or teachers to students, parents to children (and vice versa), employees to employers? I think of my friend “Crow-Girl” here, and of how much she fears that people might not like her true self… I think of the names I’ve been called all of my life, how strange my own family has found me at times. “Over-sensitive”, “weird”, “moody”, “high-strung”, “flighty”. I am none of these things. I am just as “normal” as I can bear to be. I hold back and bite down a lot, as much as I can stand to. I think we all do, if we are able, and we suffer break-downs, blow-ups, road-rage, heart-attacks, neuroses, psychoses, depression, high blood pressure, PTSD, anxiety attacks, abuse, addiction, incarceration, etc. – all in the name of “normalcy”.
Read Desmond Morris, folks.
*James, I hate to tell you, but your nation may be vying with Japan for highest on the scale of social evolution, according to my theory.
Saturday, February 08, 2003
well, lords and ladies, i only have time for the quickest of quickies. i've been working like a madwoman the last few days (and basically EVERYTHING, including sitting and typing makes me hurt. moo.) and all the funstuff has gone by the wayside. poor dear seamus probably thinks i've met the Vin of my dreams and run off to Huludali to stuff myself on plantains, and swim on my back and watch the fruitbats swoop in the glimmering twilight every night*...
oh, sorry, where was i?
so, YAY, days off ahead. i have work to do on those, too, but jen is going away for 24 hours (thanks jen, hey burt and d.! hugses!) so i can be hermity for a while. (us needs our hermititidy, prrrecioussss..). i have artwork to do, and it is time for a new 'day off' and a hottie update. wish me luck.
i also have to see about esme (sick truck) and i have a !@#$ doctors' appt. on tuesday, and possibly a shoot on monday, but otherwise, no plans. oh, and of course my weekly anti-snow dance. which is NOT working by the way. hmph. i think this calls for a sacrifice. :)
to those of you whom i have neglected, please don't give up on me. banda, karly, will, bryan, and of course, mo seamus. "i am not ded." :)
wish me inspiration, happy dog, a comfortable drawing position, sunshine and no uncool phone calls. is that too much to ask?
(no! and neither is the vin/huludali/plantain/swimming/fruitbat thing! c'mon, god! bring it on! :)
blasphemously yrs.,
-magpie
oh, p.s. i got to see 'shanghai knights', y'all! jackie's great, owen's funny, fann is lovely, but ohhhh, that donnie yen! mm mm mm!
go see it, it's worth seven bucks just for donnie and the out-takes!
*i also know that he'd forgive me and love me still if this was the case. ESPECIALLY if this was the case, so that would be ok. i'd definitely SEE him more often! ;)
oh, sorry, where was i?
so, YAY, days off ahead. i have work to do on those, too, but jen is going away for 24 hours (thanks jen, hey burt and d.! hugses!) so i can be hermity for a while. (us needs our hermititidy, prrrecioussss..). i have artwork to do, and it is time for a new 'day off' and a hottie update. wish me luck.
i also have to see about esme (sick truck) and i have a !@#$ doctors' appt. on tuesday, and possibly a shoot on monday, but otherwise, no plans. oh, and of course my weekly anti-snow dance. which is NOT working by the way. hmph. i think this calls for a sacrifice. :)
to those of you whom i have neglected, please don't give up on me. banda, karly, will, bryan, and of course, mo seamus. "i am not ded." :)
wish me inspiration, happy dog, a comfortable drawing position, sunshine and no uncool phone calls. is that too much to ask?
(no! and neither is the vin/huludali/plantain/swimming/fruitbat thing! c'mon, god! bring it on! :)
blasphemously yrs.,
-magpie
oh, p.s. i got to see 'shanghai knights', y'all! jackie's great, owen's funny, fann is lovely, but ohhhh, that donnie yen! mm mm mm!
go see it, it's worth seven bucks just for donnie and the out-takes!
*i also know that he'd forgive me and love me still if this was the case. ESPECIALLY if this was the case, so that would be ok. i'd definitely SEE him more often! ;)
Friday, February 07, 2003
Pardon the proper capitalization, y’all. I’m writing this in word so’s I can post it when I get to work.
So. Snow. I won’t kick (flog, beat, pummel, etc.) the dead horse MUCH more. Sigh. Snow.
I have been thinking a lot about my racial heritage and feelings about the weather. Here’s my current theory (“By Anne Elk. Ahem.”*):
As far as I can figure, I am mostly Irish, Scots, some English maybe, and Native American (Choctaw and Creek). Just from my temperament and personality, I am willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that my Scots-Irish blood descends from the Normans and other Viking peoples who invaded those green isles. During my time in Sweden, I felt VERY much at home on the little isle of Hven**, I picked up the language fairly easily,
and the rune stones and other ancient viking places “spoke to me”, if you get my drift.
As for the Native Americans, I am of the opinion that they were originally Mongol peoples (which, I think, explains a LOT about my Orcish nature, my fascination for things Chinese and love of big furry hats…) who trekked up through Siberia, across Russia and then over the Bering strait into the good old UsofA.
Now. What do these folks all have in common - other than being known as some of the most inventive, efficient, curious, wander(and blood-)lustful, fearsome, adaptable (and not to mention dead-sexy) warriors and invaders that the planet has ever known? Simple. The fact that they all braved terrible hardship, fearsome journeys over land and ice, traveled through stormy sea-monster infested seas, faced the wrath of gods and other scary natives and predators – ALL TO GET SOMEWHERE !@#$ WARM!!!
I think it’s a good theory. I bet those who know me might be inclined to agree.
Stay warm folks – or migrate.
xoxox
*Whoever gets that obscure reference deserves a cookie. Stewart, you don’t count. I KNOW that you know it…
**It’s my favorite so far of all the places I’ve been. I would love to retire there. It was in the Oresund channel, between Landskrona and Copenhagen, which is only about ten miles wide there. I could swim from home to Denmark! :D Also, it rarely snows there, because of the way that the channel is formed. Lovely, lovely Hven.
So. Snow. I won’t kick (flog, beat, pummel, etc.) the dead horse MUCH more. Sigh. Snow.
I have been thinking a lot about my racial heritage and feelings about the weather. Here’s my current theory (“By Anne Elk. Ahem.”*):
As far as I can figure, I am mostly Irish, Scots, some English maybe, and Native American (Choctaw and Creek). Just from my temperament and personality, I am willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that my Scots-Irish blood descends from the Normans and other Viking peoples who invaded those green isles. During my time in Sweden, I felt VERY much at home on the little isle of Hven**, I picked up the language fairly easily,
and the rune stones and other ancient viking places “spoke to me”, if you get my drift.
As for the Native Americans, I am of the opinion that they were originally Mongol peoples (which, I think, explains a LOT about my Orcish nature, my fascination for things Chinese and love of big furry hats…) who trekked up through Siberia, across Russia and then over the Bering strait into the good old UsofA.
Now. What do these folks all have in common - other than being known as some of the most inventive, efficient, curious, wander(and blood-)lustful, fearsome, adaptable (and not to mention dead-sexy) warriors and invaders that the planet has ever known? Simple. The fact that they all braved terrible hardship, fearsome journeys over land and ice, traveled through stormy sea-monster infested seas, faced the wrath of gods and other scary natives and predators – ALL TO GET SOMEWHERE !@#$ WARM!!!
I think it’s a good theory. I bet those who know me might be inclined to agree.
Stay warm folks – or migrate.
xoxox
*Whoever gets that obscure reference deserves a cookie. Stewart, you don’t count. I KNOW that you know it…
**It’s my favorite so far of all the places I’ve been. I would love to retire there. It was in the Oresund channel, between Landskrona and Copenhagen, which is only about ten miles wide there. I could swim from home to Denmark! :D Also, it rarely snows there, because of the way that the channel is formed. Lovely, lovely Hven.
Thursday, February 06, 2003
Wednesday, February 05, 2003
well, true to my usual form, i COMPLETELY forgot to tell my brother "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" yesterday. dangit. and this is a BIG one. 3-0, i do believe. wow. little baby "hneaky hnake"*. i wonder where he was, how he celebrated... i hope it was a good day. i don't know if he reads this - he signed my guestbook, so maybe... let's try a little experiment:
"HEY, JEFF! PICK UP THE !@#$ PHONE AND CALL YOUR SISTER SO I CAN PICK ON YOU ABOUT HOW OLD YOU'RE GETTIN'!"
:D
heh heh... that oughta work.
well, it is beginning to look like i've sprung my back out of whack** in a fairly serious manner. >:[ also, truck is non compost mentos***, so life is like unto a country song right now.
"IIIIII'm hitchin' rides with a thrown-out back,
my brother won't call me, 'cause he's so danged slack,
at least my dog ain't left me - 'still I can't fix my truuuuuuuck,
this is what you call "the famous Lovelace luck."
sheesh... :)
oh well. i have good books**** to read (and some bad ones, too: "Untamed", "Love's Savage Splendor", and "The Tarnished Lady"), and food in the house. and the weather is still pretty. that's something. y'all hang in there, too!
xoxoxoxox
sam
oh, p.s. i got invited to be a mentor for two high school students. does anyone else see the huge irony in this?!?!? :D
*there was tom t. hall song that jeff loved when he was little called "sneaky snake"...
**what in the heck does that mean exactly? is there such a thing as IN whack?
***i think that's latin for "don't throw that candy in the garbage."
****"1000 Dessous", which is a HUGE photo book on the history of lingerie (whee!!!) - expect more pinups! "Fire", one of Anais Nin's journals, and "Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper, Case Closed", in which Patricia Cornwell chronicles her solving of the famous case after 114 years. fanTAStic.
-oh, and here are the great lyrics to "sneaky snake".
"HEY, JEFF! PICK UP THE !@#$ PHONE AND CALL YOUR SISTER SO I CAN PICK ON YOU ABOUT HOW OLD YOU'RE GETTIN'!"
:D
heh heh... that oughta work.
well, it is beginning to look like i've sprung my back out of whack** in a fairly serious manner. >:[ also, truck is non compost mentos***, so life is like unto a country song right now.
"IIIIII'm hitchin' rides with a thrown-out back,
my brother won't call me, 'cause he's so danged slack,
at least my dog ain't left me - 'still I can't fix my truuuuuuuck,
this is what you call "the famous Lovelace luck."
sheesh... :)
oh well. i have good books**** to read (and some bad ones, too: "Untamed", "Love's Savage Splendor", and "The Tarnished Lady"), and food in the house. and the weather is still pretty. that's something. y'all hang in there, too!
xoxoxoxox
sam
oh, p.s. i got invited to be a mentor for two high school students. does anyone else see the huge irony in this?!?!? :D
*there was tom t. hall song that jeff loved when he was little called "sneaky snake"...
**what in the heck does that mean exactly? is there such a thing as IN whack?
***i think that's latin for "don't throw that candy in the garbage."
****"1000 Dessous", which is a HUGE photo book on the history of lingerie (whee!!!) - expect more pinups! "Fire", one of Anais Nin's journals, and "Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper, Case Closed", in which Patricia Cornwell chronicles her solving of the famous case after 114 years. fanTAStic.
-oh, and here are the great lyrics to "sneaky snake".
