May 2008
Um, Hello?
31 May 2008 08:43 PM Categories: Blogs &
bloggers
Hi there.
Welcome to my not-quite-fully-baked web page.
I've spent the last 24 hours trying to recreate my deleted blog entries. Got most of them, though the early stuff is missing. Just figured out that I can't get a working redirect from blogger (that darn 'www' in my web address makes that difficult, apparently), so I am starting from scratch.
I still have lots of content to create. Not sure if I'm happy with my descriptions (too melodramatic? not enough information? do I want to be a melodramatic woman of mystery? does my profile picture negate the idea that I am a melodramatic woman of mystery?). I also have to enter what I've written so far of "A Prolonged Illness" and "A Shifting Scar." I don't think they worked well in the blog format.
I'm curious how the look of the page will affect the feel of the words. Even typing into the little box I now have for blog entries feels completely different. Funny how a change in layout or type alters the whole experience.
Anyway, hope you like it.
Welcome to my not-quite-fully-baked web page.
I've spent the last 24 hours trying to recreate my deleted blog entries. Got most of them, though the early stuff is missing. Just figured out that I can't get a working redirect from blogger (that darn 'www' in my web address makes that difficult, apparently), so I am starting from scratch.
I still have lots of content to create. Not sure if I'm happy with my descriptions (too melodramatic? not enough information? do I want to be a melodramatic woman of mystery? does my profile picture negate the idea that I am a melodramatic woman of mystery?). I also have to enter what I've written so far of "A Prolonged Illness" and "A Shifting Scar." I don't think they worked well in the blog format.
I'm curious how the look of the page will affect the feel of the words. Even typing into the little box I now have for blog entries feels completely different. Funny how a change in layout or type alters the whole experience.
Anyway, hope you like it.
|
Watch this space
30 May 2008 08:24 PM Categories: Blogs &
bloggers | Quotidian
existence
A long time ago -- well, not so long ago, but it
feels like a lifetime -- I had a "real" job. It
wasn't so bad, being a legislative reference
librarian. The questions were usually interesting and
many of my colleagues supportive and funny. The
library was a relatively safe vantage point to
observe the political wranglings and posturings of
the legislators. Even when we were there at
ridiculous times of night, it was a cool place to be.
(My old co-workers who read this blog may think that
my mind has been clouded over with nostalgia. Yeah.
It was all filibuster threats and judge battles mixed
with impossible Congressional Record searches, tossed
with more than a smidgen of office tension.)
The hours were long and being exposed to the inner workings of the legislative branch got old. There was micromanagement. Basement darkness. So I quit and went to cooking school. Finished cooking school and had a baby. And when part of me slowly reawakened, I began writing.
One of the things I miss about the working world is creating things for the Web (another thing that might have my old colleagues scratching their heads). Although I'm not sure how many people read or use the web pages I created, I am still proud of them, though I've deleted links to them. This document has been edited now that I'm out of the closet.
I'm in the middle of redesigning this blog and putting together an Internet site using Rapidweaver. It's kind of like the old days, except I have more control and no technical support. I'm limping my way through and it's slow going. Hopefully it will be up in a week or so, but until it is I may not be posting as much or checking in with my friends.
See you soon.
The hours were long and being exposed to the inner workings of the legislative branch got old. There was micromanagement. Basement darkness. So I quit and went to cooking school. Finished cooking school and had a baby. And when part of me slowly reawakened, I began writing.
One of the things I miss about the working world is creating things for the Web (another thing that might have my old colleagues scratching their heads). Although I'm not sure how many people read or use the web pages I created, I am still proud of them, though I've deleted links to them. This document has been edited now that I'm out of the closet.
I'm in the middle of redesigning this blog and putting together an Internet site using Rapidweaver. It's kind of like the old days, except I have more control and no technical support. I'm limping my way through and it's slow going. Hopefully it will be up in a week or so, but until it is I may not be posting as much or checking in with my friends.
See you soon.
experiment
26 May 2008 05:32 AM Categories: Quotidian
existence
typing with one hand in
the semi-darkness of dawn filtered through curtains.
I've been up since 2:30 a.m. -- coughing child with
stuffy nose needing constant contact, brain buzzing
with ideas for writing (from real life, as usual,
though I would prefer ideas from a fictional life,
some character that I've created revealing their
story in rich detail, with believable dialog. yeah,
I'll get there).
the kid is asleep on my lap. the husband is asleep by my side. the visiting brother-in-law is coughing downstairs.
and I can't reach my cup of coffee.
the kid is asleep on my lap. the husband is asleep by my side. the visiting brother-in-law is coughing downstairs.
and I can't reach my cup of coffee.
Throw it away
The kid woke up today
with a fever and a very cranky disposition. I'm
feeling time slipping through my fingers, the few
hours I have to write -- and for what purpose anyway?
-- disappearing. Do I try to work on the stillbirth
story? Finally plunge into creating a work of
fiction? Continue conversations that I've let slide
in the blogging world? Do much-needed housework?
Exercise?
Or write up my petty complaints on my blog? Bingo.
Right now I feel like a frustrated housewife who has this little writing pipe dream. I wish I had more energy at night to write with conviction. If only the kid went to sleep before 9:30. If only he went to sleep unassisted. If only I'd started writing a decade ago, when time spread out before me and my brain was just a wee bit larger.
I know I'm lucky to have this life, to have a little time. It's just enough time to waste.
And now he wakes ...
Or write up my petty complaints on my blog? Bingo.
Right now I feel like a frustrated housewife who has this little writing pipe dream. I wish I had more energy at night to write with conviction. If only the kid went to sleep before 9:30. If only he went to sleep unassisted. If only I'd started writing a decade ago, when time spread out before me and my brain was just a wee bit larger.
I know I'm lucky to have this life, to have a little time. It's just enough time to waste.
And now he wakes ...
Gritty fingers
19 May 2008 08:17 PM Categories: Marriage
I haven't quite gotten
used to this land of mild winter, where the rains
come and make the huge plants gargantuan, where
things that should die over two dark seasons continue
to grow.
Last fall, when home life was strained, I stopped regularly watering our outdoor plants. The dirt beneath the scrub grass cracked like a drought-choked riverbed. Herbs turned brown in their terra cotta pots and the stressed lemon tree in the backyard dropped withered leaves. Every time the lawn crew (another thing I haven't quite gotten used to here) finished its work I would come out and find a shallow hole where yet another plant had perished, removed by the efficient men with their thick gloves and weed whackers.
We spent the late fall and winter rebuilding, nurturing our family life in California. The rains came. The greenery was rejuvenated. Herbs mysteriously re-sprouted and the grass came back a patchy grey-green, though the lemon tree did not undergo a spontaneous rebirth.
Yesterday we celebrated spring by planting flowers and vegetables: three tomato plants, a tomatillo, a pumpkin vine, a melon plant, and six tiny swiss chards (too much, I'm sure, but spring calls for optimism). Sunburned, shining with sweat, arms smeared with compost, we linked our gritty fingers after the last plant was watered. One tough year down and a lifetime of growth ahead.
Last fall, when home life was strained, I stopped regularly watering our outdoor plants. The dirt beneath the scrub grass cracked like a drought-choked riverbed. Herbs turned brown in their terra cotta pots and the stressed lemon tree in the backyard dropped withered leaves. Every time the lawn crew (another thing I haven't quite gotten used to here) finished its work I would come out and find a shallow hole where yet another plant had perished, removed by the efficient men with their thick gloves and weed whackers.
We spent the late fall and winter rebuilding, nurturing our family life in California. The rains came. The greenery was rejuvenated. Herbs mysteriously re-sprouted and the grass came back a patchy grey-green, though the lemon tree did not undergo a spontaneous rebirth.
Yesterday we celebrated spring by planting flowers and vegetables: three tomato plants, a tomatillo, a pumpkin vine, a melon plant, and six tiny swiss chards (too much, I'm sure, but spring calls for optimism). Sunburned, shining with sweat, arms smeared with compost, we linked our gritty fingers after the last plant was watered. One tough year down and a lifetime of growth ahead.
After the fire
16 May 2008 02:47 PM Categories: Parents
| Best of the
blog
It was just before nine
p.m. on a warm June night in 1966. He was working the
3-11 shift at a paint plant in Newport when the ping
of a hammer, a timid tap in a room stinking of
kerosene, sparked a fire. Flash of flame, no time to
escape: my grandfather and two other men were
adjacent to the vat.
As the story goes, he stepped outside, lit a Pall Mall, and popped the huge blister on his stomach. "I think you better call an ambulance."
80% of his body was covered in third-degree burns. He spent nine months in the hospital, nine months at home with a full-time nurse. He suffered through over 26 skin grafts. His hearing was ruined from massive doses of powerful antibiotics. When his right foot was giving up the ghost, its blood vessels cauterized by fire, surgeons took a couple timid swipes, lopping off one toe, then a couple more. It took a third operation to amputate it just below the ankle.
Years later, a doctor told him, "I've seen skin like that on a dead man."
When I knew him, he was demanding and unhappy, a man with a limp and two hearing aids. I learned to hate his call: "Jenny, got a minute?" I was definitely not a Jenny and what if I didn't have a minute? It was the typical stupidity of youth. I wish I could go back and treat him with kindness and empathy, to understand what was destroyed in the fire.
In my dreams he's back in the old house, living off hot dogs and root beer, not yet clued in to his own death. He tries to call me, jamming his thick, arthritic fingers into the phone's dial. No luck.
As the story goes, he stepped outside, lit a Pall Mall, and popped the huge blister on his stomach. "I think you better call an ambulance."
80% of his body was covered in third-degree burns. He spent nine months in the hospital, nine months at home with a full-time nurse. He suffered through over 26 skin grafts. His hearing was ruined from massive doses of powerful antibiotics. When his right foot was giving up the ghost, its blood vessels cauterized by fire, surgeons took a couple timid swipes, lopping off one toe, then a couple more. It took a third operation to amputate it just below the ankle.
Years later, a doctor told him, "I've seen skin like that on a dead man."
When I knew him, he was demanding and unhappy, a man with a limp and two hearing aids. I learned to hate his call: "Jenny, got a minute?" I was definitely not a Jenny and what if I didn't have a minute? It was the typical stupidity of youth. I wish I could go back and treat him with kindness and empathy, to understand what was destroyed in the fire.
In my dreams he's back in the old house, living off hot dogs and root beer, not yet clued in to his own death. He tries to call me, jamming his thick, arthritic fingers into the phone's dial. No luck.
Bloggers Unite for Human Rights
15 May 2008 09:14 PM Categories: Blogs &
bloggers
I
really didn't want to think about this one.
Why? Because I feel helpless. Human rights abuses happen in far away places to people I can't touch, look in the eye, or help in any concrete way.
Right?
Maybe not. For example, Guantanamo Bay was created by my own government, a government in which I presumably have a voice. I could participate in international pressure against the Myanmar junta, which could get supplies to people who are dying. There are tons of examples from across the globe -- violence against women, the horror in Darfur, LGBT human rights, etc. etc. Once you start to read about human rights abuses, you realize that the idea of human rights isn't universal. And even nations who tout the cause violate it.
Get involved. If enough people try, maybe, just maybe, the world will change . . . I hope. OK, I'm still a little cynical. But I won't let that stop me from trying. It takes so little to try.
Liminality
14 May 2008 03:02 AM Categories: On writing
Being on the threshold,
occupying the in-between, when all is possible and
the world is shifting: liminal moments are pure
potential experienced as inertia. The moment feels
frozen and the air stale, but at any moment a breeze
will pick up and you will be different.
Sometimes you know the change is coming: before the baby is born, the summer in between high school and college, the morning of the wedding, the flight to a new city. Or it's a surprise. Time appears to be treading water and you're right there with it, stuck. Then you wake up a changed person. The work is done and there is no going back.
Liminal moments, the experience of liminality, make for good stories. It's time to create stories from my imagination, to make the change, to wake up altered. I'm tired of myself! And there is so much more to communicate through fiction, so many ideas to explore and characters to create. My mind needs to stretch. I have no idea how to do it, except to write and read, read about writing, and read to immerse myself in words and description.
Time to jump off the fence into the future. But I'll still dip my toe in the past. There are stories to finish and I'm in the thick of it. Stay tuned.
Sometimes you know the change is coming: before the baby is born, the summer in between high school and college, the morning of the wedding, the flight to a new city. Or it's a surprise. Time appears to be treading water and you're right there with it, stuck. Then you wake up a changed person. The work is done and there is no going back.
Liminal moments, the experience of liminality, make for good stories. It's time to create stories from my imagination, to make the change, to wake up altered. I'm tired of myself! And there is so much more to communicate through fiction, so many ideas to explore and characters to create. My mind needs to stretch. I have no idea how to do it, except to write and read, read about writing, and read to immerse myself in words and description.
Time to jump off the fence into the future. But I'll still dip my toe in the past. There are stories to finish and I'm in the thick of it. Stay tuned.
Loyalty
09 May 2008 02:37 PM Categories: Parents
| Childhood
hangover
Oh, worn out and
shriveled brain, can you transmit organized thoughts
to my fingers, please?
We saw my mother today, and will be heading to Baltimore to see her again on Saturday. There she was in solid form, no ghost. C was immediately comfortable with her. We had a good time. I was loyal for many years, keeping things hidden, trying to protect my mother and defend her. Now I feel like I have betrayed her here by writing these things in public, painting her with such a broad brush. It's complicated. She's complicated. And my feelings are all twisted up.
Can I have it both ways? Protect her and save myself? Probably not. But I can acknowledge the shades of gray.
We saw my mother today, and will be heading to Baltimore to see her again on Saturday. There she was in solid form, no ghost. C was immediately comfortable with her. We had a good time. I was loyal for many years, keeping things hidden, trying to protect my mother and defend her. Now I feel like I have betrayed her here by writing these things in public, painting her with such a broad brush. It's complicated. She's complicated. And my feelings are all twisted up.
Can I have it both ways? Protect her and save myself? Probably not. But I can acknowledge the shades of gray.
Leaving on a jet plane ...
tomorrow morning as C
and I accompany H on a business trip to DC. Back
home, essentially.
Since I can't bear to tear myself away from the blogosphere, I'm bringing my trusty laptop along. Hopefully I will have time to write other stuff, too, though that will be tough in a hotel room with little respite from watching the kid. I also want to work on a new layout for the blog. Naptime will be packed.
We'll be seeing my mother for the first time since last September. C is excited (this breaks my heart; even though they've had very little contact, he clearly loves her). I'm sure she is, too. I guess I am as well. If the air is clear and we're all feeling friendly and happy, the show will go off without a hitch. We will link arms and walk offstage, filled with warmth and love. If anyone's mind is clouded with worry or with things left unsaid, the performance will be off. Everyone will breathe a sigh of relief when it's over.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Since I can't bear to tear myself away from the blogosphere, I'm bringing my trusty laptop along. Hopefully I will have time to write other stuff, too, though that will be tough in a hotel room with little respite from watching the kid. I also want to work on a new layout for the blog. Naptime will be packed.
We'll be seeing my mother for the first time since last September. C is excited (this breaks my heart; even though they've had very little contact, he clearly loves her). I'm sure she is, too. I guess I am as well. If the air is clear and we're all feeling friendly and happy, the show will go off without a hitch. We will link arms and walk offstage, filled with warmth and love. If anyone's mind is clouded with worry or with things left unsaid, the performance will be off. Everyone will breathe a sigh of relief when it's over.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Schticktease
04 May 2008 05:46 AM Categories: Quotidian
existence
Life isn't all about
crying into my martini glass while I catalog the
pains of the past and the pangs of the present.
There are rays of light and days of song, where the sky seems ever-blue and the breeze off the bay refreshes, when C sleeps late and naps long, when words come flying out of my fingers onto the keyboard, and dinner is easy to prepare, delicious, and enjoyed by all.
But I have a schtick here, a theme, of apprehending the past and through that apprehension (!), forgiving myself and others.
Some days, a girl just isn't up to it. But the past will be there, waiting ...
There are rays of light and days of song, where the sky seems ever-blue and the breeze off the bay refreshes, when C sleeps late and naps long, when words come flying out of my fingers onto the keyboard, and dinner is easy to prepare, delicious, and enjoyed by all.
But I have a schtick here, a theme, of apprehending the past and through that apprehension (!), forgiving myself and others.
Some days, a girl just isn't up to it. But the past will be there, waiting ...