What was yours like?

"Such had been Kira's entrance into life. Some enter it under grey temple vaults, with heads bowed in awe, with the light of sacrificial candles in their hearts and eyes. Some enter it with a heart like pavement - trampled by many feet, and with a cold skin crying for warmth of the herd. Kira Argounova entered it with the sword of a Viking pointing the way and an operetta tune for a battle march."

- from We the Living by Ayn Rand

Start with:
(Your name) entered it..

Ginger entered it wide-eyed - with caution - completely aware of how cold the earth can get. But also she learned to dance and flutter so that her feet never really touch the ground.

Now you try.

The Letter *J*

Jen challenged me to list ten things I love that start with the letter "J". Here's my attempt:

1. Jack B'Hat D'Hat B'Hat D'Hubbida Hat B'Hat.

2. Jack's Dad - my partner and teammate, my love - and damn sexy too.

3. Jesus, but not in a sappy way, as in a revolutionary, all out total acceptance of people, stick it to the man sort of way - the guy who hung around with odd ball deviant freak shows like John the Baptist and who was arrested for not conforming - who would've loved Muhammad - who hung out with people who were outcasted by society and who challenged the lawmakers and money lenders - the one who would be horrified at what's being done in his name today.. That guy.

4. Jazz Music - Especially Wynton Marsalis, Ella Fitzgerald and Diana Krall at the moment, but also the oldies and goodies - "Tuxedo Junction" and "In the Mood"

5. Justice and a sense of "right" in the universe and those who are wise enough to move beyond cultural stigmas and recognize just, universal truths and act accordingly.

6. Joan Jett because she is a true ROCKER chick who allowed me to rock out with her for an evening, my one chance at coolness.

7. Jets, in general, that take me over the Atlantic to places at which I dream of living.

8. The Journey - the viaggio - or adventures in life
9. Jaunty angles, especially hat ones.

10. June, July and August

(And you, too, Jen!!)

Clutz Queen

I fall down. A lot. Since Jack was born I've fallen at least four times while holding or carrying him. I've always managed to fall so that he hardly even notices - as in I sacrifice my thighs, arms, bones, and internal organs to make sure he isn't affected. So far so good. I'd like to say that the reason I'm constantly off balance is because somehow childbirth has thrown off my equilibrium. And I'd like to say that I've fallen more since I was pregnant (and while I was pregnant) than before, but it turns out that I just didn't notice as much before because I wasn't holding a baby as I bit it.

None of the "before" falls was really worthy of mention since I have never broken a bone or had a concussion. No, I take that back. I did fall once in Germany and I busted my chin so hard on the cobblestone road that, in retrospect, I think it did give me a mild concussion since the next day I politely up-chucked in a Munich museum bathroom. And just now I recognize that those who were staring at me in the German subway bathroom right after it happened must have thought I had gotten in a brutal fight involving chains and hammers due to the explosion of bloody gore on my face and clothes. But at the time I was curious as to why everyone seemed so interested. And then I looked in the cheap, foggy, defaced subway mirror and all of a sudden couldn't control the sobs. I remember that - the humiliation part. It was a long train ride back to our hotel - me tearing up at my reflection in the train window for an hour, burying my busted face in my scarf. But I must have been in shock. I still have scars from that night.

I also remember confessing my fall to my mother who lovingly showed me her "matching" chin scar and told me the story about how she fell one time at school and how her friends dropped her off at the town hospital during their lunch period.. Thanks Mom.

But when in the hell did I become so accident prone? My body is constantly covered in bruises. I always knew that I would never be "beautiful" because of the constant injuries - bruises on my thighs, cuts and scars on various parts of my body, burns on my neck from the curling iron.. I've broken two glasses this month alone, both times cutting my fingers in the fruitless catch attempts. And thank God my partner likes granola chicks- the type who climb trees and then abruptly fall out of them.

But whatever. For someone who is such a control freak, it's odd that I have such little control over my movement. Here's hoping I grow out of it.

In Memoriam

Report of Health

I

I am alone tonight.

The wrong I have done you

sits like a sore beneath my thumb,

burns like a boil on my heart's left side.

I am unwell.

My viscera, long clenched in love of you,

have undergone a detested relaxation.

There is, within, a ghostly maze

of phantom tubes and nodules where

those citizens, our passions, flit; and here,

like sunlight passing from a pattern of streets,

I feel your bright love leaving.

II

Another night. Today I am told,

dear friend, by another,

you seem happy and well.

Nothing could hurt me more.

How dare you be happy, you,

shaped so precisely for me,

my cup and my mirror -

how dare you disdain to betray,

by some disarray of your hair,

my being torn from you?

I would rather believe

that you knew your friend would come to me,

and so seemed well -"not a hair/out of place" -

like an actress blindly hurling a pose

into the fascinated darkness.

As for me, you are still the eyes of the air.

I travel from point to point in your presence.

Each unattended gesture hopes to catch your eye.

III

I may not write again. My voice

goes nowhere. Dear friend,

don't let me heal. Don't

worry, I am well.

I am happy

to dwell in a world whose Hell I will:

the doorway hints at your ghost

and a tiger pounces on my heart;

the lilac bush is a devil

inviting me into your hair.

A little of this, A LOT of that.

I was tagged on a 25 things meme by my friend, Mary, and I haven't done one in a while, so I thought I'd maybe do some, though I'm not sure I can commit to 25 seeing as Jack would really, really love for me to not type right now, and I think he is T minus 20 seconds away from bypassing the crawling milestone so that he can immediately learn to walk, swagger over to me, and close the lid on this lap-top so that I'll pay attention to him instead. At least he's not spoiled, though. But OK, here are some things:

* Last Friday we held our biannual Temporary Utopia party for the release of our literary magazine, In the Margins. We held the party at a tiny art gallery called The Upstairs Gallery, which was absolutely perfect for our soiree. The staff was adorable, performing beautifully at what was, for most of them, their first cocktail(less) party, all dressed up in black and white and glitter. It was lovely.



* As a result of our recent publication, I have a giant mixed medium (collage and oil paint) canvas I lovingly call "Not Andy Warhol" sitting on the hearth of my fireplace. Actually, it's a huge painting of Woody Allen. And I really like it. But it sparked some awkward conversations with my staff.. I suppose it's just the type of dialogue Woody Allen would want. It's not mine to keep, and I'm pretty sure having a huge portrait of Woody Allen on your hearth is something akin to having a closet Mussolini in your bedroom. I'm not exactly sure how, but the comparison seems right.




* On the drive to Temp U, I realized that for the first time in a really long time, I felt happy. I think it was because I was thinking about a million things, especially the responsibility of hosting a magazine launch and hoping that everyone did his or her part, and at the same time trusting that they did - going through lists in my head, making sure we covered our bases, but also feeling OK with the thought that even if it wasn't perfect, it would be brilliant because it would be what it would be. Also, I felt like I had picked the right outfit, had the right hair style, etc. It's amazing what a little bit of self-confidence can do. Plus, the stars were aligning a little bit. Finally.

* I am not culturally compatible with where I live. I'm not sure if that means I should leave here for somewhere more in-line with my ideals, or if I should try to effect change here. The latter is definitely the harder road, and I'm not sure if I can do harder at the moment.

* I've decided that I stink at being a stay-at-home mom, as in I hate staying home. I want to be out and about, even if that means going to the park. If I stay at home, I feel an overwhelming need to tidy-up the space around me. That means I am constantly doing chores. Or homework. All that stuff that never gets finished - I'm doing that and am cohabiting with the overwhelming sense of being "unfinished." I can't let it go. Jack is very well behaved in public, so why not go out?
* After my super fun girls' week-end with Anne and Lisa, I realized that I need to listen to more music. I love music, but since Jack was born I've been reluctant to do anything that might involve not paying attention to him, reading and listening to music included. I need to dump my MP3 player and start over. There's something cathartic about that, I think.

* And I will read those magazines that are currently collecting dust under my coffee table.. After I dust the coffee table.. Some habits die hard.

* I drink too much coffee. You know you're addicted when you don't care if the coffee is stale. Just add more flavored creamer and it's fine, right? But then you note that more than half of your mug is creamer. Something is not right.

* I think Rush Limbaugh is a treasonous ass hat. He wants our "president to fail". Even when I was ashamed of our former president, I never hoped he would fail. That would mean our country would fail - our country that is made up of people. Our people. Would fail. That's not OK. I can't think of any rationale that would make it OK. How hateful.

* I'm not sure I understand what it means to be internationally minded, exactly. I think we get caught up in being "tolerant," which is the wrong term to use because it places a value judgement on people. I don't want to be tolerant. I want to be enthusiastically curious about people and their cultures. But I don't think I want to be more globalized - as in I don't want those cultures to disintegrate or conform. I want us to be internationally minded as in being mindful of other cultures while keeping our own, not being fearful that our culture is disappearing. And I want that sentiment to be reciprocated.

* I'm living a lot in my brain these days, but at the same time, I can't stop talking. Shhh. :)

That's enough for now. Each of these ought to be its own post, but here we are. Maybe I'll say more another time. Or not.

I Love My President

And I like him, too.

Exceeding Expectations

One of my student's semester reflections said:

"As fun as English was this semester, something more interesting happened. I had my appendix removed."

Circle 5 is not so bad..

So, as noted in the previous posts, I'm having a rough time of it. It doesn't help that every time I read my own blog, I audibly hear the word "sullen" followed by the word "wrathful", and then we all hold hands and skip on down, tra la la, in merry pomp to Circle 5*.

(Sigh)

I appreciate the support you guys have been giving me. Seriously. Sometimes I cling to words of encouragement like it's the last chocolate bar I can afford, hoping that this time the golden ticket is inside and when I slowly open the package I will find it, and all of my dreams will come true (read: the hardships will disappear), and I will humbly accept my fate as the newest owner of the greatest chocolate factory in the world! But, sadly, I'm not Charlie Bucket. I'll never have such luck.

To say that work is the instigator of all of this angst would partly be true. Back in the 90's, when my passion was "the children, our future," when unicorns and kittens jumped over rainbows, I was happy. I lived in an apartment that was flea infested. I slept on a mattress on the floor. Sometimes the apartment's car port would flood with sewage. And I was so freaking distracted by the "magic" of the future, that I didn't notice that my present was hard.

So now that I have a house, a viable job, a wonderful husband, and a happy, healthy baby boy, it makes no sense that I am sad. My brain constantly reminds my heart of the fact that I am truly, truly lucky. But that reminder becomes a source of guilt when I can't make myself enjoy life. I am stuck in the mire of "what I'm not." Somehow being a wife, mother, and teacher isn't enough. I'm lacking. And I can't figure out why.

I know that you are all thinking, "but look at what you've done! How amazing is it that you have come this far, that you have survived _____ (fill in the blank with baby having, mother boot camp, and/or a whole semester of Mean Girls, the reality version) _________. And I have. But I don't accept "surviving" as any great accomplishment. Cockroaches surviving a nuclear holocaust, now that's something. But pretty much, most of us survive. It isn’t such a big deal. You can tell on account of the fact that we're all breathing.

Surviving is not enough.

I want to do more than that. And in using the excuse that I just had a kid and should be forgiving of what I perceive as my limitations is somewhat of a cop out. What I mean is Rich also has a new baby. No one is telling him to be gentle to himself. No one expects him to be more relaxed about his responsibilities when his plate is equally full. In giving in to that limitation, I feel like I'm actually taking a step backwards.

As far as my job is concerned, there is no room for not giving 100 %. In fact, not giving that much affects others; it certainly shortchanges the kids. Also, I am graded on my teaching, especially in the International Baccalaureate class where literally, the IB gods (who happen to live in Cardiff) literally grade my grading. Literally. There isn't room for relaxation. And the magazine! Ugh! The magazine won't edit and print itself! The seniors need to be somewhat literate before my conscience can allow for them to go into the "big out there" carrying a diploma with my name on it. So, you see, there is no room for anything but 100% in each class. That's 300%, plus another 300 to my marriage and 600 to my kid. That's 1200%! And no one deserves less than that.

So knowing that I have what seems like too much on my plate and recognizing the things I want to be but am not leaves me shaking in a corner, rocking back and forth mumbling something like, "Tell me about the rabbits, George." And even though it might be cute on first sight, I'm pretty sure that for those who are close to me, the routine of this has to be a little disconcerting.

I want to give myself five more months before I make that doctor's appointment that will go something like:

Dr.: What exactly is the problem?
Me: Tell me about the rabbits, George.
Rich: She's gone crazy
Dr.: I see. Here are 25 little blue pills. Come back for the little red ones if she starts foaming at the mouth.
Me: Green parakeets on big soy mountain.
Rich: Um. Could you possibly give us both the blue and red pills...TODAY?

In five months Baby Jack will be one (read: my body will be one year away from giving birth to a bazillion hormones) and it will be summer. If I still can't erase or at least disguise this "Woe is me” chapter from my autobiography, then I'll have to try the doc. Then it's back down the rabbit hole for me.



* Circle 5 - Dante's Inferno - The Wrathful and Sullen - Their sin is that they refused divine illumination and the sullen are punished by being entombed in the slime by the shores of the River Styx. They sing grotesque parodies of hymns, bubbles rising from their mouths.

Trying to Remember..

You Can't Have It All
by Barbara Ras

'But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown hands
gloved with green. You can have the touch of a single eleven-year-old finger
on your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back.
You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look
of the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would bite
every sorrow until it fled, and when it is August,
you can have it August and abundantly so. You can have love,
though often it will be mysterious, like the white foam
that bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneys
until you realize foam's twin is blood.
You can have the skin at the center between a man's legs,
so solid, so doll-like. You can have the life of the mind,
glowing occasionally in priestly vestments, never admitting pettiness,
never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who'll tell you
all roads narrow at the border.
You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,
and it can mean something. You can visit the marker on the grave
where your father wept openly. You can't bring back the dead,
but you can have the words forgive and forget hold hands
as if they meant to spend a lifetime together. And you can be grateful
for makeup, the way it kisses your face, half spice, half amnesia, grateful
for Mozart, his many notes racing one another towards joy, for towels
sucking up the drops on your clean skin, and for deeper thirsts,
for passion fruit, for saliva. You can have the dream, the dream
of Egypt, the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand.
You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,
at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leaping
of distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.
You can't count on grace to pick you out of a crowd
but here is your friend to teach you how to high jump,
how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards,
until you learn about love, about sweet surrender,
and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mind
as real as Africa. And when adulthood fails you,
you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond
of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas
your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.
There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother's,
it will always whisper, you can't have it all,
but there is this.'

Misinterpretation

What they don't know is that when I sit down behind my desk and stop talking, my head in my hands, it doesn't mean I'm meek or afraid of confrontation. No. It's far worse. It means I've given up on them.

I refuse to yell.

But maybe they need to be yelled at, because what's happening (rather what's not happening) is hopeless.

Message Received

As the copy machine blinked "Error. Turn off and restart," this morning, I thought to myself, "Damn. I wish I had had this message before I got out of bed."

And seriously, wouldn't it be nice if on the days that freezing rain fell making your work commute especially dangerous; the days that you get to work only to find that your "office" was rearranged without your knowledge, therefore making it very difficult for you to find anything; the days that none of your communications were connecting; the days that your colleagues decided not to support you; the days your clients were especially (and self righteously)demanding; the days the copier flashed an error message during the only time you could make copies: TODAY, in other words.. Wouldn't it be nice if you could have that message earlier when you were in bed, so that you knew to just roll over and hit the 'restart' button.

Yeah.

That would be nice.

First Fig

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

p.s. I miss you Dorothy Parker!

An Analysis Of Plaid

As children, we constantly tested what we knew were the black and whites - the rules that our parents decreed and that applied to everyone in every circumstance, no matter what. For example, no running at the pool meant that even if you sort of trotted a little on the way to the next cannon ball attempt, you ran the risk of, at the very least, being yanked aside by the arm for a stern reminder. On the unfair days, you were taken directly home and grounded for breaking the rule. But there was a certain pleasure in testing the limits of the black and whites, of tiptoeing gingerly into the dangerous grey area.

As suburban teenagers, we went from testing the rules to defying them for the fun of it. Sort of. We defied the black and whites, but we weren't thinking about the other things we might have been doing or the consequences of those actions. We did what we did because they were things to do. We thought we were entering the reds, the danger zones. But we did this within the protective confines of our upbringings, whatever that meant. For me, sneaking out of the house to hang out at the local taqueria was living in the red. For others it meant crossing the border from Texas to Mexico for a night of partying. In most cases, we had people who kept us grounded so that when we did something stupid, we had someone who would rescues us and we learned to be more careful next time. The red was really a plaid - the black, white, and grey embellished with a thread of color. But we still needed the black and whites to help make it through.

As twenty somethings, we learned to question our greys. The former black and whites seemed ridiculous on recollection. Not only did we feel the need to wander into the grey and then loiter a while, but we wanted to know exactly why we were there and what it meant. At the same time, steeped in responsibility, we decided that we needed to continue forward - to make somethings of ourselves, so that we could establish the "right" black and whites, with a little red on the side. And why be grounded, held down?

And now here we are, thirty somethings. The black and whites and reds and greys that we knew and molded and considered and followed have collapsed in on us in one big pile of slush. If we can sift out the old black and whites, we recognize them; they are familiar and make sense to our logic because they make up the foundation of who we are. We still yearn to transform some of the things we knew to be true, to make new rules according to our consciences, but it takes a lot of effort to effect change. And we did okay with the truths we had, anyway, right? Didn't we try, at least? Maybe? And sure, the reds are still appealing, I suppose, but we've outgrown them somewhat. Our wild hairs are in fact, turning grey, to our dismay. And we are far more grounded then we hoped to be at this point.