The Now and the Not Yet

in kind observation

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 17:58:00 +0000

All I can think about is what needs to be done.

compassion hearts (Photo credit: journeyscoffee)

Externally. Still waiting on that househusband I ordered. Taxes. Job search. Workshop pieces to read. Books to read. Those annoying ADLs (activities of daily living). Keeping in better touch with friends and family.

But I'm sitting in silence right now, although my laptop's fan is running so loudly. Even with this loud fan, I'm still glad for this moment of peace.

All this inner growth took a painful turn last week, and it's still in a grey gloaming of suffering. But yet, it's still enlightening. I'm *gulp* grateful for the mistakes? I guess so? So much work to undo, do, and redo. And it's tiring. But that gifted adults article I keep mentioning, well, I'll just quote it:

What mindfulness can offer is the ability to observe oneself without the usual judgment or criticism. Negativity has a way of shutting people down. Criticism and judgment awaken all one's defenses--denial, projection, or that foggy unfocused feeling that stops you dead in your tracks.

Mindfulness is the process of simply trying to witness and observe one's thought processes, behavior, and reactions to others without judging. It is the ability to see oneself with an increased clarity; and most importantly, with compassion or a lightness. A kind of, "Wow, I'm seeing a pattern in my behavior of rejecting others--it's subtle but it's there" vs. "I can't believe what a jerk I am being, no wonder I have no close friends" or "People really can't be trusted, they're always pushing me away." By kindly observing ourselves we have a better chance of learning to adjust and change. It is much easier to make changes based on compassion or more positive means instead of negative--like the feedback we get from others. It's a lot easier to accept when it's presented in a loving or productive way. Doesn't it make sense that the feedback that we give ourselves needs to be provided in the same fashion?

And obviously, you don't have to be super-sensitive gifted person like me to benefit from mindfulness. I know we've all been at the other end of "constructive feedback" that was more deconstructive at best. But I know that I'm not yet giving that sort of compassionate feedback to myself, and I really need it. So, with everything, it starts with myself. This is today's meditation right now, to be more self-compassionate, which will then outflow to others. "Love your neighbor as yourself" is another way of saying it. But, yes, without judgment...no matter what anyone thinks about me, I've thought worse, and, for once, it'd be nice to be my best cheerleader instead of my worst critic.

So even if all this external stuff isn't happening to my satisfaction, I've got to continue to relentlessly cut myself some slack. Then it's easier for me to cut others slack...or at the very best, just observe without judgment. But again--it starts with me. It's a very lofty goal, but especially as a writer (an identity I can claim without snickering or making apologies over), if I don't get healed up, it's just gonna continue to leak into everything.

But if I do get healed up, and I'm on my way, then it's just gonna continue to leak into everything. But it takes a lot of...guts? I hate being humble braggy here, but yes, guts, to look back on what keeps not working and interrupting those processes--whether it's in one's writing or one's relationships or whatever it may be. So now it's getting to the good yet yucky part of sifting through all that, making connections to current disappointments to past behaviors...but being mindful about them. And breathing in that soft air of compassion, letting it permeate me and clean me out. It's scary to do something new, but also to look back and cringe.

But it's only for a season, platitude, platitude, platitude.

I have to hide my hope in a safe place and not let it mangle my realities and expectations anymore. See what is and go from there. I'm stuck in a groove, I know, but this is only for a season, too, yeah, yeah, yeah. Obviously this is still a voice I'm getting used to, this quasi-zen, wannabe wise voice. But I don't think it's going anywhere, so...I'll stop mocking it.

But now, it's time to go back to deal with those pesky externals...

no rush

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Tue, 05 Feb 2013 17:50:00 +0000

I'm less sick, yay!

Rush Hour (Photo credit: Neta Bartal)

Oy, I have forgotten about this little thing called rush hour that happens on American streets and highways every morning around 8AM. Um, I got caught up in that on the way to therapy. I wanted to start it at the beginning of the day so I can just get it out of the way. I was awake, and probably more vulnerable that I usually would be. But that's still going really well. My therapist is very empathetic and can mirror how I feel.

Um, I need to go check my place for mold, though, because I have a feeling that the HVAC has it, since the air blown out smells, especially when the air conditioner is on. So I'd like to feel less sick and maintain being less sick, although I am sure I will need a longer round of antibiotics. Le sigh.

But, I am encouraged that I am still in the right life path. I saw this video in my Facebook timeline this morning, about doing things that we want to do as careers, instead of just going for money.

Last night, I picked up this book about friendships (I'm forever a student about being a good one and retaining good ones), called "Friendships Don't Just Happen!: The Guide to Creating a Meaningful Circle of GirlFriends" because although the inner journey has been very enlightening, I still need friends for the journey, and I know I need to be more intentional and put more effort into that--which is so hard to do when I have to read 1.5 books a week. So far, it's been good, and the author had this riff on open hands, like that piece I wrote about (see below, "Open Your Hand"). Either that's a major trope in self-help-land, or it's just another sign that I'm reading what I need to be reading.

The past few months have been nudging me towards this, about how I need local friends. Patience and determination is required. But also, I know that I won't be here for long. Yet that doesn't mean I can't have meaningful friendships here. So much of this stems from an ambivalence of expectations tensed with reality. But I believe I'm teasing it out right now, and those tangles of need and desire are really coming clean. It's hard to admit, "Golly gee, it'd be great to have friends." It's not socially acceptable to talk about. And I don't exactly know why--besides the obvious lack of family cohesion stuff--I've been so about friends throughout my life. I do think it's because they have been a powerful part of my life; chosen family, even. In evangelical terms, maybe they were even an *gasp* idol in my life.

Anyway, I'm babbling and hungry, but even though I have said that, "oh, this isn't the season of local friends"--it's definitely always the season for local friends. For women, girlfriends have more of a positive bounce in one's life than even a spouse. Plus, most friends we don't keep over the course of our lives. As some move out of our lives, others have to be ushered in--at least according to the author who wrote that book I just mentioned. Not everyone can be your bestie! That's a big duh, but I'm glad I'm not the only one who is used to thinking like this.

So deep down, I get it--even if my circumstances, and my own blindnesses, occlude this from me. I just have to keep untangling and not skip over any knots. Although there's an immediacy, there's no rushing.

The Life Learner

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Mon, 04 Feb 2013 17:50:00 +0000

This week, I need to catch up!

Lake Michigan Storm (Photo credit: Tom Gill.)

So because this one lit class on autobiography and life writing is requiring a lot of time and focus, and thankfully my scores are in improving in that class, everything else is caught in its wake. I am hoping that before my BFF arrives on Friday, I can get my house in order, literally. I can now understand why my ex's apartment before I moved in was in shambles. He flew off in a hurry to Italy to be a prof, but, ugh. it was so very nasty. His best friend and gf/wife? I can't remember...they came and cleaned it up for me. Oddest sublet situation ever, but it helped us both out. But all to say, my apartment isn't nasty, but it helps to have a visitor stay with you so you can get it cleaned!

I still feel ill, though, and although I have to go to campus for a meeting, I am in no shape to be in classes for four hours. Tomorrow, if I still feel awful, I'll go to the doctor and try to figure out what to do next. I'm not even sure if this is bacterial or viral, meaning I don't know if I need to be on antibiotics. I don't think it's the flu. The flu is worse than this. But it's definitely making me one tired woman.

I also need to think about thesis work more, and what scenes I want to extrapolate on. Thankfully, I kept copious journals from the time I was 12, which is ironically when things got tense at home. My workshop prof mentioned in our last class that journals and letters are a good source for writing. So, I need to get ready to cringe over what I said and experienced. It's funny that I can't seem to remember enough for even one manuscript, let alone around 150 pages of prose, but I know it's in there. I just need to start piecing what I've already done together. The beginning of spring break might help with that, or whenever I don't feel like my one lit class is taking up all of my time. I believe it takes around 27-30 hours a week for that class. The good thing is, none of my other classes, I am hoping, will ever be this intense. I'm still so grateful for it, but at the same time, it's not great when I'm sick on top of being a jam-packed class. And, I still need to find a job, too! I'm not sure how I could jam in a job with this, but I want to get one ASAP.

And I realize that there won't be much fun to be had this semester. I wanted to check out this town on Saturday where it's really dark and you can see the stars really well. I haven't had that happen since I was in Michigan many years ago. I got a crick in my neck from looking up so much. And I still haven't gone to the art museum here, but their hours are kind of lame and limited, which is sad. All I can really do is try to get something out of the books I'm reading, besides just academic value. Even my DVR is full of things I haven't watched yet. I let myself watch the Super Bowl last night, which was a lot of fun. But beyond that, I'm trying to be really good and not watch a lot of TV. But at least there's always music to lean on, to feed and heal me. And I'm leaning on it very hard.

Anyway, that's me--really tired but really motivated to do well in school in a way that isn't making me feel like I will become some competitive perfectionist freak. If I ever compete with anyone now, it's just me, since I've already learned in high school that people will always be smarter and cleverer. And especially in grad school, in an art that is fraught with insecurities and self-doubt, it makes sense to just focus on yourself, work through all that junk (which, I don't know if you can ever really work through it, as much as cope with the idea of yourself, or your self, being out there, in written form, for critique, for acceptance or rejection), and give your best work. Learn from your mistakes. Be humble in reproof. Listen harder, to others and especially to myself. It's hard to do, to be, when I like being right. I am starting to find that way of being to be a mental block and emotional drain. No one can or should deal with that much inhumane pressure.

You've no idea how big that revelation is for me. I don't even know, but even last week, I don't think I could have ever come up with that human being sort of response to the imperfections of life. But I learned it from a book!

Something that I learned from The Education of Henry Adams is that helps to be forever a student in life, to always, to quote Steve Jobs, stay hungry and stay foolish. Henry Adams had a brilliant mind, how he was able to grapple with all sorts of disciplines and then making some sort of interdisciplinary synthesis of his analyses. It's admirable. And it seems easier to have this bent, to be forever learning, and never really fully getting it. It places the world, and the people in it, in the realm of complexity it belongs. And you've got to remain empty, hungry, and open-minded to do that.

With that in mind, I'm now trying to be a nerd without the slacker part, because now it isn't about just getting by. It's about doing my best without hurting myself, without crying over a C+ on a history test in 6th grade, I'm glad that my friends comforted me, while I felt stupid that I couldn't control my emotions over a test (that I may have not even studied for, or maybe I did, I don't know). That sort of drive scares me, but since that had so much to do with my identity as the know-it-all...what happens when I don't know it all? It's a balance. There is a joy of learning that sometimes school can rob me of, and I want it back--to be happy just to learn something new, to be enlightened. So even in failure, in rejection, in betrayal, in loss...there's always an invitation to learn something. And even with the drama from the last few weeks--some you know about, a lot you don't know about...and even with this mystery illness that I have, I can already see so much to learn. The cold ice of justice melts into rivers of mercy, for myself.

So, I put the blinders on. I plow in my own fields, in my own row. I celebrate the successes of others. I celebrate my own. Ultimately, I came to become a better writer and gestate and birth this book. That will take a Herculean effort in two years, but that's all I have time for. What happens next, or even along the way, I'm not entirely sure, but that's what grad school is about too--figuring out what you like and don't like. And I'm still figuring that all out...

This song has been in my head for a while, since last week was so trying. Mutual Admiration Society is Glen Phillips from Toad the Wet Sprocket and Nickel Creek (not Nickelback). The whole album, which debuted in 2006, is wonderful. Really great melodies from Phillips, great harmonies and instrumentation from Nickel Creek. Anyway, here are the lyrics. And the chorus has been stuck in my head. I believe, especially in grad school, but also in life, these words are a good yet solemn reminder for me, and hopefully, for you. So, take care.

And they say
Be careful
Be gentle with yourself
'Cause no one else will

a look at the stats

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Sun, 03 Feb 2013 15:56:00 +0000

So since I've been doing this blogging every day thing. Time to do a monthly check-up!

I haven't done this in a while, to look at where traffic from my blog is coming from. I always think that it's some weird fluke--or maybe good SEO--that lands people on my blog. When I had written about Whitney Houston after she passed away last year, that was one of the biggest search draws, maybe 2nd biggest, in the life of this blog.

Anyway, so it's been about a month going into this "write every day" experiment, and I had been cross-posting in this Facebook group, because we were all doing creative challenges. I saw some spikes from across the country and the world, and I was thinking, yeah, maybe it's them, which is fine and welcomed.

So the top 15 countries that have stopped by here in January are the following:

United States
Australia
Ireland
Brazil
(not set)
Austria
France
United Kingdom
Israel
Malaysia
New Zealand
Phillippines
Pakistan
Poland
El Salvador

So yay, global community OR Google search engine mistake! That's a total of 140 visits. Last month, I only had 34. So uh, traffic's gone up over 400%? What gives? It can't be that my writing is so amazing.

Then I saw that Florida was the number 1 state for visits, specifically the city where I live. A bit surprising since it's usually Illinois, where I lived for much longer. I had already mentioned in previous posts that I saw that spike and the deep-drilling down into my blog and wondered--oh God, it's my classmates! And I was 95% sure about that, because I really don't know many people since I'm still new in town.

But then I realized that I'm in an open group on Facebook, so whatever I was posting on there ended up in my activity log. I'm not really on Facebook that much except for group activities, so that was really disappointing to see.

So now I'm 99% sure it's my classmates. So, if it is my classmates, I may as well address you all.

***

So, now you know how you landed here, and yet you saw that these posts weren't being posted on my page, but in a group. I don't expect anyone to come to talk to me about it face-to-face, since your arrival here was a while ago. This situation is like reading someone's journal that fell out of their bag, only this time it was being posted in their activity log without their knowing. And it sucks.

I am not ashamed of anything I have said here. This is my space, where I am documenting what is happening to me, and I'm very honest about it. The quasi-anonymity helps me to do that--be honest--and learn about myself so I can grow, so there's a therapeutic quality to it. Also, sometimes people connect on issues that I talk about here, and I love when that happens.

I don't have many good vibes about your being here, as in, I am not sensing much, if any, goodwill, or else you probably would have mentioned something to me about this already. I'd love for you to prove me wrong about that. But either way, I'll know if you stick around or not. I wish you nothing but happiness and peace, so hi and bye.

***

So beyond that above situation, I feel like with this "write every day" deal, my writing is improving, slowly. Or, at the very least, I'm documenting a really important part in my life. It may not be literary, although I do want to improve my writing here. It is an experiment. Improvement takes lots of time and effort, which is why I'm in school. What I do hope, though, despite this mess, is that my honesty doesn't change. Maybe what I am honest about will change, but only because what I've been focusing on lately.

So this open Facebook group/activity log posting has been a big, painful lesson in social media for me. It really makes me think Facebook is not for me, although I need to, and want to, continue to use it. All of this smarts, but I will need to take my licks, forgive myself, and keep it moving. All to say, hopefully next month's stats update will be less dramatic.

Thanks for reading, for whatever reason you came.

February is here

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Sat, 02 Feb 2013 12:00:00 +0000

January is all but vapor now...
This is trite to say, but I can't believe that January is already gone. Lost in books, in confusion, in sickness.

But I need to write this before I get lost in Henry Adams' life and write a response paper.

Today, I was on campus for a few hours getting checked out for this sinus infection which isn't clearing up and woman's visit. I got more antibiotics. My health is still so-so, so I need to just continue to take it easy. Easier still.

I'm glad to put January behind me, even though I'm greeting February with a hoarse voice an exhaustion. I am trying to root for myself right now, rally a bit, especially since I'll be hosting my best friend here next week. I'm such a cranky mood. What I need is a good cry. And more rest. And to finish this stupid book and response paper. And to start another book on Sunday, Benjamin Franklin's autobiography. I hope I can get my focus back--eleven weeks left in the school year to revive.

So let me get back to reading, before I space out for another hour.

Sick of the sound of my voice.

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Fri, 01 Feb 2013 12:00:00 +0000

My voice is stuck.

Stillness n' Peace (View in full size) (Photo credit: . Dileepan .)

What I was going to tell you was that workshop tonight went well, even though my presentation was so-so. I didn't really get to talk a lot and...blah, it's over, I hate presentation time. This is my eighth class doing workshop, but I'm still not reading completely. I'm not sure if I can really read completely, because my mind's camera is always going to be pulling back, panning, going panoramic... But I am going to email my prof right after this for tips. OK, tomorrow morning, because it's late and it'd be sad if she got an email so late/early.

What I was going to say is that I hate my voice here. I'm all guru spiritual and looking at how I can learn from everything--from sickness, from disappointment, from being alone, blah blah blah. I mean, it's genuine, it's real, and it's good. But it's also really fucking obnoxious. Ah, an f-bomb has balanced the equilibrium. A little.

It's so strange here, me kinda failing at everything, and trying not to have a huge breakdown about it. I think The Education of Henry Adams is affecting me, because he's a perfectionist and hyperbolic about who he is, when he's, quite indeed, awesome. But yeah, I'm failing at life--my health sucks, don't ask about the love life that has phantom limb syndrome, I can't read books or manuscripts well (or is it that I can't bullshit well anymore?), I have no friends (hyperbole! isn't this fun?), and I suck at creative writing. All out failure. Nothing published, nothing doing, except that my sinuses are now committing mutiny.

And maybe because I'm so sick it's affecting my brain, but I don't care. I'm failing! What's weird is that it's not pitch black dark in here. I mean, granted, I'm sick because therapy kicked my ass--no doubt about this mind-body connection thing. But beyond committing daily epic fails, having nothing to show for in my life (OK, I have this degree and this certificate, but really, it's nothing), I still keep waking up something better will happen, by my hand. I'm not sure how yet, but I still keep hoping that I have that one day that my cheeks hurt because I've been smiling so hard.

So hopefully, by failing so much, and by doing so very little to better the human existence, I can learn to be better at being human and love myself anyway. Cuz somebody's got to. If I, a recovering perfectionist, try to ride through all this uncertainty and rejection and silence and, well, of course, failure, and keep trying to tune into what's going on, I'll be more than OK. I didn't mention that I was impatient, but I am. And haz-ing (not hayzing) a sad all the time...well, thank goodness that I'm consistent at something, circa 1990.

And this isn't an epic pity party. Just a state of a person's address, to myself. I'm just watching this super capable person disintegrate before my eyes, and it's sad, because she is so reliable when others consistently are not. But yet, her demise is necessary, cuz that person isn't really human, although I so like how she didn't need office hours or help or anyone. Now she needs office hours and help and, uh, some people? Right.

Change is unpleasant most of the time, even if it's changing into better things. I just would like the changes to not be so freaking earth-shattering (although, god...I know I live for that). The price is so high, and my body is paying for it. And yes, love is earth-shattering, and I will always want and need that, but that's not what I mean. I feel like this, whatever it is, comes before love. At least in my tidying mind it would make sense if it did.

I'm not withering; I'm burning. So I'm thinking of the phoenix. I hate how cliche that image has become, but then, cliches are true for a reason. I think of the handmade necklace I got with that image on it and I wonder...who am I becoming?

I'm splitting into two, too: one part who is seeking love within herself and one part that won't rely on herself so much. It makes no sense to me, but that worry that my ex wrote on one of the mixtapes he gave me, something like Who Will Take Care of You? (It was a song too, I think)--I'm not as worried about answering that anymore. And, still, that makes no sense to me.

But maybe if I can just be quiet, if I can be just be so...I'll find that there are new questions to ask.

And yes, my voice is going to stuck in this hazy meditative state for a while...

In sickness and in health...

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

I must write!

Emotion (Photo credit: rexquisite)
Girl, I feel you...wait, are you even awake? Then I feel that, too. zzzzzzzz

I skipped class tonight because somehow I was feeling mostly OK on Monday, and now today, I feel mostly awful. Stupid sinuses! Stupid moldy A/C unit!

And after having a disappointing afternoon yesterday, and having my post-therapy dogs run themselves into sticker bushes, I'm tired. Done.

But when I was 19 and in college, the last time I officially remember having the flu--it was finals week. I went to work as a bookbag checker at the library--no one could cover me. I wrote my papers. I had no other choice, really. Seventeen years later, I have some choices, but I wish I was able to be that tough and persistent.

I've been trying to read The Education of Henry Adams and, for some reason, nothing is really getting through and sticking with me. My focus was meandering terribly. I know a lot of it had to do with therapy, but a lot of it is that I'm sick in a way that messes with my head. Sinus infections do that. And I'm on antibiotics--I expect I will be on more of them. I wish I could skip class tomorrow, but I can't--presentation tomorrow. And, I'm only allowed one sick day, which is kind of ridiculous, since we meet 15 times, but then we only meet 15 times. I hate American culture's obsession with the Protestant work ethic.

Anyway, when I am ill, I am always reminded of Virginia Woolf's essay, "On Being Ill." It's an excellent read if you can get your hands on it. The first sentence is one of the longest but best sentences I have ever read. She went through a lot of mental health issues and would have very productive up times and very low times, too. So she knows what she's talking about. I should read that piece again...when I'm not reading for school. Sometime.

Even though my body is older, I'm here drinking coffee at 10:28pm, even though I technically had all this time, days and days, to read this book. I wouldn't wish simultaneous emotional growth and physical illness while in graduate school on my worst frenemy. It's an experience of great confluence and confusion. And since I prefer emotional growth over Henry Adams, although I am seriously trying to care about both, being ill, slowing down and being quiet, is making me wonder why I am down here.

Yes, it's for school, and to write this memoir, but I'm on this hyperspeed of growth and awareness, and ultimately, a deeper integration of self and self-acceptance. I know that I'd rather have that than stellar grades (although, I really want to have it all, and will try to aim for it as much as possible (which is becoming quite problematic)).

I had mentioned about how my identity is so wrapped up in education and learning and doing well in school. The more I'm in the ivory tower, the more I feel like I'm in a white padded room, locked. It's not for me, but being curious is. My identity is definitely shifting, and having my reading prowess shrivel to a tiny little acorn of distractibility, it's humbling. I'm so glad this is only a two-year stint. And I know that the emotional work being done, even as it's beating me up corporeally, will eventually help my writing and my thesis. I can't have all this emotional gunk in my soul. Granted, many people write so that they can purge it, too. There'll be a lot of both.

Ah, there's so much to do that has very little to do with school and the interiority of my life, and I hope I can get back to that reality this weekend somehow. But I have to keep reading and writing, even if I can't focus or remember and my body aches. Writing is the love of my life, but it's also the job that I hate. But I still have the ring on, so...I'll get back to this book.

within without

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Wed, 30 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

Now that I'm getting better, I'm seeing the wake of my spaciness.

I shouldn't be here typing this. I should be sitting in a salon chair getting my hair done. But because I hate grocery shopping and idle time, I shoehorned it in between therapy and that appt. In driving over, I called first and found out I was already eight minutes late, then I got a call back about rescheduling, which then, when I turned around and called back, didn't really work at all, because of other conflicting appts, my BFF coming into town (although I'm not sure about exact times), etc.

And then I found out I missed a deadline that I didn't even know existed, by almost a week, for a conference I was forcing myself to go to. But now I think I should travel elsewhere (even though it won't be paid for).

The apt is a controlled wreck, but at least that will get cleaned by the time my friend comes.

So, I feel like the missed appt was a blessing, or at least I'm going to turn it into one, since I am catching up on how my external reality has been neglected. (still have hundreds of pages of a semi-dry book to read). The lit classes are like competing jealous lovers, with the autobiography class taking up most of my time.

In contrast, therapy once again was great, and I have even more insight into myself. I hope I haven't been navel-gazing, but at the same time, when your emotions are ruling, or possibly ruining things anyway, you have to pay attention to them, especially if you haven't been doing so for the longest time.

I read in The Atlantic that the more your multitask, the worst you are at it. I keep hearing that over and over, how bad humans are at multitasking, and yet we still do it, and many times have to do it (texting and driving not one of them). I even try to keep up with my calendar, but then, like today, put down the wrong time.

Although this semester will most likely be the worst of my graduate career, I know I can handle it. I just have somehow cut off or drastically reduce the only real social stream in my life, Twitter, to do it. And I've already said over and over, how it will never ever ever beat real life interaction, for which I, and everyone else, am made. Or find a househusband. Neither seem like viable choices, but I believe that I need to do something, like cut down on the distractions, listen better.

I wonder if I'm really doing great spiritually if I'm sick and I'm not able to keep up with the quotidian duties of my life. I'd say that I'm not, even though I feel like I have made so much progress these past few weeks and months. The only way to figure this out is to experiment and see what I can stand to let go.. I still feel this is all doable, but I also feel like the two things that got dropped this week were things I didn't want anyway (OK, I really need the haircut, but not from someone so busy).

I remember, out of heartache and necessity, that, besides music, books were the best friends that I had. I'm being a tad hyperbolic, but books have always been there for me in some capacity. And now I want to write one, so I'm in that place again. It's a season of sacrifice, including reading thousands of pages, including not really going out, including letting the house go to shit until someone comes to visit, including not being online or watching TV nearly as much. I knew all that going in, but, now, I'm really in, and it's a one big ole lonely time, almost lonelier than Chicago. I'm in a quieting cloister, a convent of one. I was really stupidly hopeful that moving here would change things, social things, for the better. For now, I just changed the climate that the social things fester and grow mold in, vs freeze and become brittle in. The breath holding is turning into exhaling and door closing and centering...possibly some forgetting.

So somehow, I have to keep going inwards while dealing with the physical world without. I thought I was doing a good job of it. It's the worst multitasking event ever, but I hope that I'll come through on the other side. I'll feel better and connect both worlds,. I won't have my worlds so compartmentalized. Integration. Synthesis. wholeness.

Now that I feel chastened by life, I'm going to go read and try better tomorrow.

Also, this song really has little to do with what I said, but I like the song and the album, eve, from which it comes, and the band who sings it. And it has the same title as this blog post.

Chain broken, but post written

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

I didn't technically blog on Monday. I was too busy!

20-04-10 There Goes The Fear Again, Let It Go ~ Explored (Photo credit: Βethan)

It's Tuesday after 1am now. I got home two hours ago from school. Lit classes are still kicking my behind because I need to bone up on literary criticism theory like mad. And I have to get ahead for when my BFF comes in a couple of weeks for a visit.

I was also busy, um, being sick. I thought I had fought off my sinus infection, but I came into the student health clinic with a fever. Oops. So digestive issues = see a dietitian. So I haven't really been 100% as a student, which I've done before, but hopefully this zpak will knock it out. My doctor thinks I need to move, because I'm certain I got sick because of mold, which is a huge problem down here in the swamplands.

But I feel so much better know. I think my illness was making me so not myself--not in that spiritual sounding stuff I've been saying. Just really effing tired all the time. So go go, z-pak! And then probably some other stupid antibiotic.

I've also been busy reading The Education of Henry Adams. Talking about in class made me want to read more than the 40 pages I've read.

So...beyond that, I feel a lot more hopeful than I did the last time I wrote. Tomorrow will be therapy and going to the hair dresser for a needed trim and hairdo. Somehow, I need to finish about 380 pages in the next two days.

And about how I've been feeling, it's like--ugh, it's like I'm sick of cliches that involve the ocean! All to say, though, the ebbs and flows seem frequent, but not overwhelming. I watched Downton Abbey earlier in the day to make myself cry, and I did--'twas a very sad episode. I still need an exogenous reason for a release of tears, but at least I knew I needed to do it. Lots of internal stress about school, jobs, social situation that will not change and I need to accept, love and the lack of it, and just how writing is such a solitary experience. Most of the time, I embrace it, but today, it was a little pricklier.

And really, there are no answers to anything. I'm just actively waiting on people and circumstances, even myself, to come to terms, to come to the table, to come to phone, to come into focus. There's so much to understand, to do, to undo, to trust, to accept. Besides eating like a weirdo and not working out, I feel like I'm doing all the right things right now--OK, also, besides not being a supernerd about literature.

I'm walking through twilight, being guided by the stars and sometimes the moon, its various configurations. But I want to start walking into the light of dawn, into daybreak. I want to see that I'm actually getting somewhere, that my feeling somewhat morbid at times is because this old me is breathing its last gasps into this newer me, that I'm getting warmer, lighter...

Anyway, sorry for the hodge-podge format. But since I was thinking about fear last night, I thought I'd end with another song about fear, from another UK band, doves. They are in my top 5 of all time favorite bands.

there goes the fear again...let it go...

There Goes the Fear by doves

Out of here
We're out of here
Out of heartache
Along with fear
There goes the fear again
There goes the fear

And cars speed fast
Out of here
And life goes past
Again so near
There goes the fear again
There goes the fear

Close your brown eyes
And lay down next to me
Close your eyes, lay down
'Cos there goes the fear
Let it go

You turn around and life's passed you by
You look to those you love
To ask them why ?
You look to those you love
To justify
You turned around and life's
Passed you by
Passed you by, again

And late last night
Makes up her mind
Another fight
Left behind
There goes the fear again, let it go
There goes the fear

Close your brown eyes
And lay down next to me
Close your eyes, lay down
'Cos there goes the fear
Let it go

You turn around and life's passed you by
You look to ones you love
To ask them why ?
You look to those you love
To justify
You turned around and life's
Passed you by
Passed you by, again

Think of me when you're coming down
But don't look back when leaving town
Think of me when he's calling out
But don't look back when leaving town
Think of me when you close your eyes
But don't look back when you break all ties
Think of me when you're coming down
But don't look back when leaving town today

There goes the fear again, let it go
There goes the fear, let it go

Think of me when you close your eyes
But don't look back when you break all ties
Think of me when you're coming down
But don't look back when leaving town today

The fear is here

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

Oh, those screamin' schemas...

Herman Melville's studio where he wrote Moby Dick. Arrowhead, The Berkshires, MA (Photo credit: pablo.sanchez)

I just finished listening to/reading Benito Cereno by Herman Melville. It's for my African diaspora class. It's the fictionalized story of the goings-on of a slave ship. I don't want to give away what goes on, because that's the whole point of the book. You should read it; it was relatively a quick read. Now I'm on page 7 of 20 of supplementary reading, literary criticism that is actually easy to read, for once. But, I had to stop because I have to write.

There's lots of uncertainty that I'm wrangling with right now, and all I can do is keep going inward. It's the major work I have to do within myself. I'm trying my darnedest to embrace it, because by knowing myself more and more, then I can see the world, and others, more clearly. It is searing in its acuteness, yet I really must keep more things close to the chest; choose wise counsel and confidants.

Apparently, perfectionism is one of those screamin' schemas. It's creeping up through my schoolwork. Actually, it's scaring the bejesus out of me and making me miserable. I must remind myself that I have come here to learn, and as long as I can keep my GPA up, I will be fine. Easier to say, much harder to accept and to practice.

At least I can say that my workshop class was a lot better than the week prior. I feel less hostility for some reason. But I should hold my tongue, and possibly my breath, until I go through it myself next month. Just trying to hold out some hope to myself that it won't be so demoralizing. Or, if it's the same sort of granular commentary, I hope that I have a tougher skin and a gullet with enough stones to grind through that stuff.

I have been thinking about how to structure my thesis. That's probably going to be a chronological narrative. I'm not sure how else to frame it. But we'll see. Summer will be the best time to hammer it out.

My health has been so-so, so I'm going to the doctor tomorrow. I hope all the things that are ailing me can be ameliorated and then I can start working out in earnest, too.

I need to find a part-time job sooner than later, but these lit classes are taking it out of me, and I'm not even fully focused yet. But I hope I can apply to some places this week and talk to someone in career services.

***

Grad school, or at least my life right now, is much more than classes--even though, recently, that's all I have. It's a lot to juggle. I'm building my own internal support system while I'm jettisoning old hopes and dreams. Emotional multi-tasking! And I've been in worse situations, but I feel a lot more tender, a little more jittery and skittish, about the juggling, and what I'm juggling. Maybe it's because I have to face, in writing, why I had, and survived, those worse situations. Hope has a lot to do with it, and I'm doing a lot of hoping right now to get through this intense spiritual growth spurt.

But there are some beautiful things being grown in this time of my life. There are now a lot of songs that I understand more. It's not that it just sounds pretty. I will probably keep saying this, but it's like experiencing a whole new song. Despite the fears and uncertainties, the silences and the waiting, the throwing out and the building up, this part of the journey is one that I can savor and relish.

Finishing; in fields.

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Sun, 27 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

A semi-listicle.

Wildflowers at California Poppy Reserve (Photo credit: saintrain)

I just finished my weekly response about the autobiographies of Margery Kempe and St. Augustine. It was not fun, but at least I don't have a headache. I'm scared that I still won't make the mark, even though I'm sure I did my best.

My apartment smells of butter and chicken broth and cornbread and pork chops. I cooked a lot tonight so I can have dinner for the next five days.

I'm finishing my second big glass of Riesling, which helped provide liquid courage for my homework assignments.

The only noises I can hear around this apartment of my fingers clicking on the laptop and the loud whirring of two air filtration systems, to get rid of all that browned butter and onion and bell pepper and apple cider and seared pork chop smells.

At least my nose isn't very clogged right now. Maybe I don't have a sinus infection anymore.

I want to paint my toenails Mermaid's Tale, a blue-green glittery nail polish. Tomorrow.

I read a lot of Emotional Alchemy last night, and I so enjoyed reading for myself and learning about myself, while I was listening to music. I learned a lot about schemas, emotional responses to triggers that become well-worn in our minds over time. Although I have most of the ones I read, I knew about some of them already, and it was just a relief to know or confirm why I react the way I do to things.

And that relief looks like a field has opened up, full of wildflowers. But now I have to identify them and sniff them. It's strange to have so much clarity into my life right now, but I'm definitely running with it, or more like into it.

It's not like that I haven't been sad, though. Even today, without music playing to distract me from how I feel, while I was chopping bell peppers, I got very sad and down. I couldn't figure out why, but then it was gone. It's probably with school and feeling unmoored here. But I keep realizing, at least this semester, that it's not about outward goings-on. It's about taking all these books inside of me from my classes. It's about learning more about myself. The timing of everything is lining up for those things. And I keep repeating myself, like I'm drunk, like I can't hear myself, like I stuttered, like you all didn't get it.

I don't think I got it yet, but I will. It's already happening, and it's really beautiful.

Waves, and the stillness below

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Sat, 26 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

I'm starting to sound like some spiritual guru or something, and I'm sorry.

Crashing Wave (Photo credit: Clearly Ambiguous)

Last night, I hung out with my classmate and vented while drinking 25oz Yuenglings (only needed one) and eating pulled pork sandwiches at the bar in the student union. It was good and therapeutic to do, and yet I'm tired of feeling toxic about my expectations about school. The only way to really work on that is accepting it as it is. Very mindful, blah blah blah, but it's so freaking useful...and yet so annoying!

Today, it was nice to wake up later, but I still was able to work on my homework, usually due at the end of Friday, but now due on the end of Saturday. This autobiography and life writing class is making sense, but I'm not writing well. Granted, my prof is expecting perfection, and that's fine--I can usually give it. But on this third homework assignment, which I worked on for a few hours--500 words. This synthesis of data has left me wrecked. It's beyond what I did in college, I realize now, because I did it in a few pages, not less than two. It's good practice, but it's causing some waves, waves in the security of my identity.

I'm not feeling all that confident, but my identity has so been tied up in how well I do in school, there's some sick pleasure in seeing that, dare I say facade, crumble a bit. Who am I outside of grades? Outside of defining myself as a friend connoisseur? I'm failing in things that, as a kid, I excelled at. And it's really humbling. But in that whole looking for love in the wrong places, in looking under the waves, I still am me, really OK. All I have to do is keep a 3.0 GPA and I get a diploma. Not trying to undercut myself--just trying to be kind to myself.

I also have to realize that through all this learning, there's emotional upheaval that's been going on for months and months and months, before I got here. And I'm dealing with it while I am in school. I can see the same ole shit repeat itself and it's kind of devastating and depressing--like what have I learned?! Another wave crashes to shore. It's frustrating that so much has to be undone before I can do again. But all that stuff are just invitations to go deeper within myself, and really, sincerely, stop looking to others for any sort of salvic value (and oh, salvic is so a Christian word, but has to do with salvation).

And all of this sound so empty, like I'm Deepak Oprah or something. It's not, though, yet I can't tell. I really need to start meditating daily, so I can get even more centered, because writing this thesis will be tough, and I will mostly have myself and my therapist to get through it. Author Mary Karr said, “People need to do the therapy before the memoir. In therapy you pay them, and in memoir they pay you.” I can't really improve on that, but to say yes.

And maybe it won't be that bad, but the dreading is pretty bad. Dealing with uncertainty...it's something I've always been faced with, but haven't been able to deal with well. But if I can master that, then that's beyond something.

Anyway, it's weird to be down here, so meditative all the time. It sounds so strange, like my voice has taken on another tone now. And I'm not hiding out down below--I'm exploring, setting things aright. And this is where change is sparked. And the everyday is where it's maintained and nurtured.

It'll be an interesting semester and year, for sure. I hope I don't even recognize myself a year from now...

a quietness that I can carry with me

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Fri, 25 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

I'm really enjoying the silence.

So after reading The Book of Margery Kempe, because I had to read her in silence (that medieval music was distracting), and then the therapist session I had on Tuesday, quietness, unless I'm in my car, seems to be my preferred stance, or mode.

Right now, the refrigerator is gently rumbling. I'm not sure what else I hear besides that and the quiet roar of my laptop's fan the clicking of keys by my magenta talons, which, by the way, I have no idea why they haven't broken yet. Shellacking from last month helped?

So right, the therapist session. My therapist mirrored a lot of what I was feeling on purpose, to understand me, which I thought was not only sweet but very empathic. It also helped me to see that it was a good thing to do, not only when I was talking about what was buried in my heart of hearts, but just to carry with me. I came home from school tonight and I didn't turn on the TV, like I instinctively do. I was going to read, which I should still do but won't because my brain is tired. And since I'm not doing that, I am writing this now, for Friday, even though Wednesday night is slipping second by second into yesterday.

And where has that time gone anyway? I feel like I was a different person last month, so different. Time is compressing now, for a reason. How can I just learn all of a sudden to be quiet within myself? Because a book told me? From one or two therapy sessions? It's not probable or plausible. I feel like I'm being prepared for something or someone, because I don't go through crazy life learning spurts like this. It's for a reason.

And I'm not completely sold on fate, mainly because I'm really bad at spotting it, except that my classes this semester are tailor-made for me, as are my profs. There's some sort of universal collusion going on. My evangelical background would tell me that this would actually be for something pretty heavy and bad and difficult, but I don't think that's it this time around. I really hope not, anyway, especially since the last few years have had their own slow growth cycle, but a lot of frustration and disappointment. So, I know it's time for something dramatically good. I'll even settle for it being just the reclamation of my fragemented self. That's a BFD that affects everything. It's happening anyway. Therapy should not be this insightful and easy to learn from right now, but it is.

But back to carry quietness in my heart. Oy, is this religious writing affecting my writing? YES. Anyway, I just like it so much, like carrying a cashmere wrap around my soul, I just snuggle in it for as long as I can. As soon as I finish this post and close the lid on this computer, that incessant whirring will stop and then, it'll be really quiet. I stuff earplugs in my ears because I like not hearing anything, but then I do like hearing the bugs and frogs talk to each other outside. That's quiet and lovely. I can hear my heartbeat through my ears, it's quiet. The heater kicks on with its rumblings. And then I'm off to sleep.

Yet I can do that awake, put my hand on my chest and feel that coziness for myself. And no one really gave that to me--I created it. Or, at least I re-located it in myself. I'm not sure I can call it peace, but it sure feels like pleasure, like the best kind of love would. And it's self-perpetuating.

It could be coming from the reality that I am in the right place in my life, and I can see all this stuff lining up so freaking easily. It's not the things I wanted, though, like amazing friends or an awesome social life. It's the stuff I really need, like a whole self and a mission and doing what I love.

It's not to say I don't want other things, but seriously, that Key West trip was a testament of how strong and self-loving I can be. If I can drive myself to an island, on my birthday, during the Christmas holidays, and actually enjoy it, then I'm not going to be looking for love in all the wrong places anymore.

Maybe tomorrow I will feel utterly alone and existentially off outside of our solar system again. I know what that feels like. I felt like it last month. But I desperately hope that I never feel like that again.

Anyway, I'm gonna end with a song that I woke myself up to this morning.

"And if you follow your feelings, and you follow your dreams, you might find the forest, there in the trees."

Checking in--school life

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

Too much to do!

PHD Comics (Photo credit: Taekwonweirdo)

My internet is on the fritz, and I have more reading to do (it's really not going to end until the end of April), so I wanted to get this out before I retire to my bedroom and read. Special shout out to one of my best friends from home, who is in the home stretch of her doctoral program in anthropology (I don't think there are any other programs that are longer). M, I'm really proud of you! I hope you read my blog even though you're working on your dissertation. Just kidding, you don't have to, but I do hope you get back to blogging when you're done!

If she can do that dissertation (which is even harder than anything I've ever read for any class), and be an adjunct prof, then I can get through this time crunch time. Even though she needs a patron saint for the ABD (all but dissertation) crowd, she'll be mine for my MFA, which I'm now dubbing Masters of Fucking Awesomeness. I love being cheesy. Not really.

So today was about interesting conversations. I got my eyebrows threaded--I'm almost used to the pain until my eyes gush with tears. My aesthetician told me about the Zora Neale Hurston festival at the end of the month, so I need to work towards that, like literally do a lot of reading and writing ahead of time to have fun.

Then I bumped into my classmate at the library who is doing well in school--I'm so happy for her. She told me about diversity training that some folks are going through. Lord knows people need it at my school, at my everywhere I go.

Then, I bumped into my Nigerian prof who wanted to know about my parents and where they were from and all of that. But basically, anytime I talk about them, it's about my thesis. He told me that I should go find my dad. I feel like I'd be Joseph finding Joseph (my dad's name). Good premise for another book, but I don't know if I can handle the idea of going to find him, by myself.

Between you and me, I always wanted to do that when I was married, which I thought would be by now, so...yeah, it's weird to still have that schema. But the idea behind it was that if I found my dad in some altered state I couldn't handle, someone would be there to pick me up. I'm not that cavalier or brave yet, but it would make for a good story. Gah, I'm such a writer. I don't even care about how it would affect me or my family or anything else long-term. Just thinking about narratives. It's bordering on Hallmark or Lifetime, but hey, that's my life.

But obviously, I want this guy prof my thesis committee. He's brilliant and he's from home, in a sense. He knows about Ghana, which is cool. It feels providential that I'm in his class and the other lit class I am in. I'm grateful, even if my ass is being kicked.

Got a shitty homework grade back from my other lit class, but I find the work to be tedious. So I'm not really surprised. Hope I can do better this week. I learned that my professor can Facebook chat. I don't know if I need her office hours yet. I'm just not really focused right now, but I'm getting there...

At the end of class tonight, I spoke with two geeks about gaming culture. It's soooooo interesting and vast and deep. I adore them, even though one of them wanted to read a book for a presentation because of his ethnic heritage. Maybe I should've said that I wanted to read Malcolm X because I am black. *head desk* With that blight aside, the lit crit crew are more my type of demanor--intense and geeky, like undergrad was. But creative writing is more my style--flourished and deeper.

Then my accountability buddy wrote me about his fiction workshop--it sucked. Not surprised. Too bad people aren't learning how to do an actual workshop. Cuz then, that would be like, school and an actual education. Pffft. And now we'll be meeting up after class to dish. It'll be a late one, but yay for actual contact with actual human beings that I don't hate or loathe!

Right now, though, I need to read two short stories and find a new internet router on Amazon. I'm currently hooked up to the internet, literally, so that kinda is no good. I think I have to write Friday's post tonight, only because I have a lot to do for workshop tomorrow, and I'm already scattered right now. Ironically, I want to talk about quietness and carrying it with me, but I feel so freaking chatty and distracted!

But yeah, today was a good day for good connections, and I'm always grateful for them, even though I have been digging my own company.

One last thing. I wanted to check in with you, too, dear reader. This is me, breaking through a 4th wall here.

So readership has increased and deepened, or so it seems. So I just wanted to say hi and please, please comment here if something strikes you or if you have questions. It's great if you know me on Twitter or in real life, but I beg of you to comment here, mainly because I want to foster dialogue. It's kinda weird to do, though, when it's about my life. Is this a performance art installation? Nah, it's just me sharing one little corner of the human condition, and there has got to be some overlap.

So talk to me. I'll even accept an email, but, y'know...I'm writing for me, but I'm writing to you. So, thanks for reading and for sharing my posts--that really makes me feel, well, that I'm mastering fucking awesomeness, or at least attempting to do so.

Anyway, that was my day, and now, to read and write some more!

Margery and me, part 2; or, The Banana Bread and the Sleeping Dogs

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Wed, 23 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

Everything hurts, as it should.

Stray dogs (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This morning, I made a banana bread, but baking in this oven here has been a disappointment. I'm not sure what happened, but I ate it and something was missing. Butter? Salt? Ah yes, the savory side of a bread. The batter had been so pretty and whipped, but I'm just not sure what happened in the baking. I'm letting them sit for the day and I'll try a taste tomorrow.

Therapy today was a funnel of noise. I've been noticing how my voice drops decibels, to piano or pianissimo when I'm addressing matters of the heart or my interiority. My therapist helped me do that because she would stop me and ask what was going on with me physically. I still am not good at explaining that. The brain bypassing all emotional and visceral feedback is strong. But I started out agitated and animated, a little above normal speaking levels, and then by the end, we were talking like we were study buddies in a library. And then I left, sighing, and in pain, but still quiet. Until I started to singing aloud to the Lost Dogs (whom I will write about maybe on Friday or Saturday?).

I went back to therapy at the prodding of a friend (a very knowledgeable friend who was trained in clinical psychology), but also because I wanted support while I was writing my thesis. And at least the misery I had when I went in was gone, but now the mission, or goal, or destination, is to reconnect some necessary wires so that I can be fully human again. And I have to get quiet to do that.

I was telling my therapist about a conversation I had some time ago where I wasn't really quiet, where it was about being heard and understood, and I was a bit punchy. I wondered out loud how that convo would have gone if I had talked to that person like I was talking to my therapist. I know it would have gone differently. Not that it's about blame--the convo itself was enlightening--but about learning about how to do this relating to other people, and myself, better.

So, I come back, and like I said, the emotional dogs are already let out. But instead of running around, they slinked out and laid in the yard and fell asleep. It's still quiet. I'm trying to read The Book of Margery Kempe and end up painting my nails Jamaica Me Crazy (a very appropriate title for how I'm feeling about certain things). My mind keeps drifting and I know I need to have that convo within myself, about things I'm too afraid to even say to myself, let alone to anyone else.

I realize this journey within has no maps or direction. Everything is meaning something now, though. Reading Kempe makes me realize how so unlike we are--her love for Christ is so on her fingertips. She weeps uncontrollably at the thought of His suffering and death. No Christian I have ever met can be nowhere near this woman's passion. It's admirable. It's scary. And she's so cunning and witty, for a woman in the 15th century to tell me that they aren't worthy and that they should repent...tangentially, I wonder now how the women supporting Jesus' ministry withstood the disdain. How revolutionary it was of Christ to have his main supporters be people with very little rights. And then, fast forward 15 centuries, and the Catholic Church is run by men. Fast forward to now and women still have patriarchal hurdles of misogyny to jump over.

But instead of the religious or spiritual ramifications of Kempe's maudlin journeys across Europe and Asia, I'm more intrigued by how enraptured she is by her faith, the emotions of it. It's weird to be reading about her now as I'm tunneling inward. I'm not sure this is fair to say, but it is scary to say--that I have a little Kempe in me. I don't know if she wails as loudly or with such terror, but I believe she loves as big as she does. There's something to learn from her, about how unashamed she was about what she believed in, about how her emotions interfaced with her spirituality and about how both interfaced with her intellect. They all worked in concert, not against each other. I guess this is what mystics do.

So as those dogs I let out whimper in their sleep, I have to go have some talks with my inner mystic who really wasn't allowed to play much after childhood. It's a part of growing up, shooing away the wild ones, stuffing them in crypts, burying them with seriousness and adulthood. The challenge of maturation is having everyone be in synchrony--not in anarchy or in mutiny. And even now, I feel foolish talking about it, which probably means I need to talk about it.

And this isn't existential sadness--and thank goodness, because I've had enough of that, with its never-ending rolling hills of misery. It's very acute and specific, but I believe it'll teach me how to be more myself, how to feel less foolish when it comes to those things I can't yet speak of, but can only barely slip out in a whisper, things I could deem as crazy as how Kempe weeps over Christ, over her sin, over the sins of others. It's a tour de force of passion that most people cannot comprehend back then and certainly not now.

For me, though, it's about not putting on a brave face and being tough about disappointment, something I've been trying to do despite not getting much good feedback on. People like tough faced people and are concerned you'll be a moper. But, along the same plane, it's also being honest about what I want. Downplaying disappointments means downplaying the intensity of desires, and both blunt and blur my edges. It's more noble, to me, to just see both as part of the human condition to get through and understand.

So I'm letting that bread rest, and those dogs sleep. I've got to go unearth a cryptic mystic and partake with her in that communion of sorrow.

A habit formed, a look back

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Tue, 22 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

Three weeks of steadying writing--I guess now the 300 some odd days left should be a breeze.

The keyboard of the Malling-Hansen writing ball, invented in 1865 by Danish churchman Rev. Rasmus Malling-Hansen and first produced in 1870. It was the first commercially produced typewriter. Although as in many early typewriters, the page is not visible as it is being typed, as late as 1909 the writing ball was still being used in European business offices. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I'm just writing to check in about this whole experiment of writing everyday. Granted I'm not getting too literary here, but I'm not genre either. But I am doing it. And since I have a writing accountability buddy from school, I feel a little easier about starting my thesis work, again.

Apparently, though, according to HowStuffWorks.com, the adage about 21 days makes a habit is kinda true. So I will just have to keep having to come here, cough things up on this white examining table, and keep trying to fashion them in things that I like. It'll be bonus if you like it too, but I'm doing this to document this whole medicine to writing thing.

I realized today that I was really a writer when I got pissed watching the Obama Inauguration, and Richard Blanco, the poet laureate for the celebration, was reading his poem, "One Today", which you should view here, and people on Twitter were snickering like we were in high school assembly. It's a really beautiful poem, and says a lot about us as Americans. I got pissed enough to leave Twitter for a bit. I'm kind of a poet, but I felt a little disheartened that most of America, even the intelligentsia, didn't give a shit about the poem, and had a very narrow view about poetry and how it should be read.

So that's a bit of a change from late 2008. I give a shit about this writing biz and those who are in it a helluva lot more now.

But I have only been able to read about five pages of The Book of Margery Kempe. I'm amazed at how bad I feel for her. Lots of sexism and dismissive stuff. She's gone from Jerusalem to some town in the Netherlands, like it's no big deal. I'm intrigued, but I'm so distracted--today, just the inauguration.

***

Tomorrow's distraction will be therapy, which happens right in the middle of the day--on purpose, so I can salvage part of the day before my emotions start to run around like dogs let loose in the yard until they collapse in exhaustion.

It's funny how I can be at peace with things, and then silence, silence...needed and sacred, will disrupt it, like a big boulder being thrown into a small pond, like a selah that is testing your peace with its pause.

My newly engaged emotional side is throwing everything that's been stuffed in that small but deep closet, it's spilling on the table. She's emptying pockets of all sorts...not all at once, but still in a way that says--"Well, this is yours, you should deal with this." She shoves it in my hand and says, "Feel this." And what I'm feeling is ever-changing, mercurial anti-matter? And I'm tired. I don't know if mindfulness makes you tired, but I'd like these feelings to not melt into water, or sublimate as I palpate them. I want to stay in one, solid state of knowledge, of being, talismans of inner peace.

But feelings aren't like that. And I feel as thin as flypaper. But if I were really thin as flypaper, there's no way I'd be here, sitting here, writing this. I'm talking about sad feelings, mainly. I also want those good feelings to appear, re-appear, re-animate, and, well, stick around. But maybe if I hold onto the feelings long enough, "Feel them, " as she says, maybe I will transform into someone who is a little less cerebral, concerned with synaptic information. Maybe I will transform into someone who is a little more flesh and blood and in connection with [insert something more human here].

***

The only thing that's really been sticking around is music. Right now, I'm listening to the Lost Dogs, a Christian rock supergroup that I adored in high school. I know that sounds really awful, like no musicianship. But all their bands have been around before Christian rock got bad, like pre-90s. They are kinda country, but they are mostly awesome. It's funny sharing these songs on Twitter because no one will get them, at all. I feel so niche and silly, that maybe only a few people in my whole life will possibly get this part of my life. But, really, they made great music. I guess they still do, but I'll just talk about their first two albums...and maybe the other albums.

But back to old habits...I've been doing music, officially, since I was 12. Piano, clarinet, voice, hand percussion, keyboards. I miss it very much, because all I've done is sing a lot lately. It's been self-soothing, going back and singing along songs that I listened to when I was a teenager, even if they are religious.

But, oh. I'm reaching back, and back, and back...even today, watching the inauguration, I thought of my parents starting out their American lives in DC almost forty years ago. I'm not wishing I was in utero, or 16, though. For the record. This moment right now is the best I've had yet. It's only gotten better.

Maybe music is stitching all these disparate parts of me together--the Ghanaian, the Southern girl, the Midwestern woman, , the American, the Floridian grad student, the recovering evangelical, the academic, the musician, the writer, the friend, the desired, the loner, the driver, the driven, the 30-something, the effervescent six year old, the indie rocker...so many selves to shove into and keep in one body.

But back to writing...it's kinda funny how school can give you structure to learn how to do it better, and do it often, but then, the joy of it is gone. Without it, I wouldn't be writing. It's a struggle, to manage the tension. Even this blog, it could just be distracting me from other writing. But I do see it improving my writing, slowly.

I'm reaching back and reaching forward in the same instant, in that tiny little liminal space. I may split in two, or burst in a million atoms of memory and longing.

Margery and me

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Mon, 21 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

Schoolwork intersecting in my past and present.

Typical Gothic pen flourishes in an unillustrated working copy of John's gospel in English, late 14th century. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Today's big events were that I took my car, Bluebelle, to the dealership for its six month tune-up. Tires were rotated. Synthetic oil was changed. Surfaces were washed. She was a zippy little thing when we took off after they were done. But it took an hour.

So I brought my book, The Book of Margery Kempe, which is this English woman's spiritual autobiography as a Catholic mystic. It was hard to read while I waited in the customer service area--Big Bang Theory is blaring from the TV, and some TV show about buying cars is coming over the overhead speakers. And people were chatting, walking around, altogether distracting human activity. I wish I had brought my headphones. But I also hated being there because I hadn't been there since I had bought Bluebelle, a very unpleasant, long experience. But I was able to read about 10 pages in an hour?

She dictated this to two priests--think about literacy and the roles of women in the 14th century!--and she's like the female St. Augustine, but more intense than he was. I realize that not many, if any, western Christians could handle how Kempe lived. She felt everything so intensely--whether she was having sex with someone who wasn't her husband, or if she didn't want to have sex at all and be chaste. One whole page, I was reading her having an experience with St. Anne (Virgin Mary's mother) and then the Virgin Mary. It's so surreal. It's written in the third person, but you can tell it's her--it's her voice. I believe, too, she envisions having sex with Jesus. I mean, it's trippy, trippy stuff.

But she's also just hanging out with the Archbishop of Canterbury and Julian of Norwich. She went all over talking to people about Christianity. Did I mention it was surreal?

And then, I was just saying on Twitter about how a classmate asked me to be his accountability buddy. It reminded me of growing up evangelical, of how we were to have that but more so we could not fall into sin, keep up with our Bible readings, etc. But the sins here are of not writing. So my classmate grew up Catholic. His prof that suggested this is Methodist (which is amazing, cuz I never thought I'd know my profs' religious beliefs, ever, and vice versa).

It's just odd, because Kempe, at this point in my reading which is about a quarter of the way, is always being accused of being a Lollard (the Lollardy are what they were called), folks who were John Wycliffe followers and wanted to root out corruption in the Catholic Church, including the idea of confessing to a priest. In Protestant life, the idea about confessing sin is with one another and with God, not to a priest. Obviously, Lollardy are a threat to the Catholic Church, heretical.

Wording trips me up and makes me think it's something. But, for me, it may be something. I'm not sure in light of my implosion about writing about faith a week ago, before I had even started reading St. Augustine's Confessions. I'm not sure that it's not something, besides that I grew up with a faith that has very deep roots and an extensive history, and Kempe is a part of it. And as much as I don't really want to think about it, I have to read and write about it for school.

And maybe that's why it's hard to read for me. My prof and other classmates can just see this as a crazy lady, but I kinda see her as not that crazy. I've had mystical experiences within the Church, and now more without the Church, and it's been pretty wild how spot on I've been about things happening to me. After hundreds of years, after the Enlightenment, the Age of Reason (which really is a ruse, as if the rest of the world hadn't been enlightened already), engaging in the divine or the mystical side of life still gets you a side eye.

I may go to bed after this because the book is wearing me out emotionally, and yet it shouldn't be. But this crazy lady still engaged with the Church somehow (although it was with mainly the hermits, like Julian of Norwich), even after she was slandered a lot. Her relationship with God is ridiculously tight, and she tells of all he says back to her, tells of all the miracles that happen in her prayers. At least the Anglican Communion honors her, but she seems proto-typical Charismatic even, but that might be pushing it a bit. She's proto-Protestant, that's for sure.

But I have to read this in a literary critical way, which I can. But after reading it for four hours today, I need a break! She's an enigmatic character, especially in how it's written, in this very stream-of-conscious style that doesn't allow for many breaks. So I'm slowly getting to know her.

Oh, and top of it, I was listening to baroque music while reading this (first it was medieval music), and got very emotionally upset--depressed even. It's a sign I'm engaging myself in things that I would just listen to and say, "Oh, that's pretty." And maybe that's why this book is really tough to read. Maybe it's necessary for other purposes that I can't palpate or see right now. And that's OK. I don't think I can handle her intensity, though. And heck, maybe she was mad--religious preoccupation happens a lot in psychosis.

But I'm not here to judge if she's cray-cray or not. I'm just judging how her story makes me feel. And obviously, I'm intrigued and in some discomfort. I'll let you know if that persists. I need to be done by Wednesday, so I will let you know soon!

Until then, it's Margery and me for the next three days...

No Bad News

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Sun, 20 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

I'm not really good with the words today, so I feel like I'll let Patty Griffin say mostly what I want to say.

No Bad News by Patty Griffin
Don't bring me bad news, no bad news
I don't need none of your bad news today
You're a sad little boy, anyone can see you're just a sad little boy
That's why you're carrying on that way
Why don't you burn it all down, burn your own house down, burn your own house down
Try to kill your own disease
And leave the rest of us, there's a lot of us, leave the rest of us
Who wanna live in peace to live in peace

I'm gonna find me a man, love him so well, love him so strong, love him so slow
We're gonna go way beyond the walls of this fortress
And we won't be afraid, we won't be afraid, and though the darkness may come our way
We won't be afraid to be alive anymore
And we'll grow kindness in our hearts for all the strangers among us
Till there are no strangers anymore

Don't bring me bad news, no bad news
I don't need none of your bad news today
You can't have my fear, I've got nothing to lose, can't have my fear
I'm not getting out of here alive anyway
And I don't need none of these things, I don't need none of these things
I've been handed
And the bird of peace is flying over, she's flying over and
Coming in for a landing

For the record, I'm really about the second verse here, and the last of the third verse. I don't know any sad little boys, thank God. I had been kinda fleecing the universe with the meH~~armony~~ stuff, and still am--I'm open to loving and being loved.

This song is so fierce and open with what the narrator (Patty?) wants from love. But I don't think I have said that I'm unafraid now, to myself and the universe; that that's the type of love I want, is a fearless one, and one that seeps out of the boundaries of our hearts and into a community. I want the right someone to step up and say that they are unafraid, too.

And I'm still angry and annoyed from yesterday. So I need those things to be trampled by that bird of peace coming in for a landing. I need the urgency that fate brought to slow down to a simmer. I need the timing to be right, for once! And I still need to seek the love I need from within, whether external love ever finds me again or not. That's what really matters.

But, I thought I'd just say all this, on the coattails of Patty Griffin's song, here and now, cuz I need to hear what I want and need, and not let go until I have received it.

Hmmm, I'm really OK (midnight frustration)

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Sat, 19 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

I just spent two hours wasting my time with people I didn't want to hang out with. I won't be doing that again.

Deutsch: Paris: Eiffelturm und Marsfeld (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Although I was watching Midnight in Paris, which was cute. I still want to live in Paris for a year if that is at all possible--I know it's expensive, but I am going to start working towards it (somehow?). I also got inspired to write, so here I am, doing that, per the usual.

So when I hurriedly left a classmate's house, with classmates who kept talking and laughing through the danged movie, I huffed and walked out into twilight. I heard frogs and bugs chirping, the air laden with moisture from the rain--rain which I almost didn't know how to drive in. But anyway, I wish I could've just sat outside and listened to that. And then I got in my car and drove off, back here, listening to electronic music. I almost just started to drive around, to get on the 408 and just drive. But I am tired.

But it hit me that, as I called it on Twitter, taking my introverted self on a walk--it didn't do me any good. It felt good, though, to kinda sorta be better dressed than anything else. But beyond that, I'm so tired of trying to make things fit that won't. Like my classmates in my life.

I have to start understanding and acting upon the truth that everyone that comes into your life doesn't really deserve or earn a second look. The past few months have been just me trying so danged hard to make some roots here, or in the air. Both have been fruitless.

Right now, the friends I have are books, and more books, and myself. I really should have stayed home tonight, but then Midnight in Paris reminded me of what I just said. And that I'm really OK. Although, god, I am feeling some sort of fate about this year, I don't know if it's about any sort of people anymore except me. Maybe it's about people I haven't met yet. Peut-être.

While sitting in the dark, watching the movie, I was reminded of a convo I keep having about how my classmates aren't that arty, and how uninspired I am to be around them. I need arty people in my life, or just me--but nothing else right now. I've always had them, so it'll just take some time to find them. Or they just aren't here, and I'm calling off the search.

There's so much more I want to say, but I feel like the last three weeks especially, I've wasted time with being hopeful. With friends and relationships, I know what I want, and I've waited this long. I'm not going to waste anymore time with people that aren't really going to be...hm, the only word that is coming to me is serious. I guess serious about art? Yeah? Maybe.

I was waiting for that inner strength to kick in, and it just did. And a little anger, too. I'm mad at myself that going with these illusory emotions, or even what people say is best to do--it hasn't really paid off yet. I still think, even in this age of mindfulness, that my brain knows better. And I trust it. But I trust my gut, too. It's just time to have them work in sync, in symphony.

I don't have much time. I have all the time in the world. I can't wait any longer. I am going to keep on waiting, for those better things, those better people, that better country.

But my life is different, even though I'm human like everyone else. So, my mission is different, and this time right now, this very sacred time...it won't be lost anymore.

Hurts that go bump in a blog

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

I wrote a long comment on a friend's blog that I only feel bad about because I really don't want to engage in it.

Everybody hurts (Photo credit: c2rules)

Yeah, I'm all about being in tune with my emotions, but I was getting really upset that I took like, oh, over an hour to talk about church stuff. It's like my former self plus the newer self, merged and just kinda went nuts.

I don't even want to look at what others have said because I purposely don't care. I mean, I do, in the rightness of things, of what I said, but then...it's kind of why I'm not in church.

And it's been almost four years, and I just don't even care to look into what's going on in the evangelical world. I just want to burn everything and start over.

But it's only because there's such deep disappointment and pain there, tangled up with my family, with other families. So as I was writing, I was knocking around some of those hurts.

Anyway, it's a mind-soul separation. I can talk about things through my head, with new knowledge, but when I make comments like that, I really want to have a dialogue.

But I'm not really, at all, ready to talk as if I have any skin in the game anymore. But maybe I do?

And what I said, do other people feel as I do? About church? Do they want to break it out of the box, like I do? Like literally out? I'm not sure if I can hope like that, because it's messy. Life with people is messy.

Honestly, though, I would rather just hang out with atheists, as I have always done. And learn the Gospel that way, as I definitely did in college.

I also have to accept that I'm a shit stirrer, and I don't want to be, but here I am, feeling very vulnerable. And
I need to get used to this as a writer. My memoir will stir up some shit--in myself and in others.

But I wrote because I really wanted to share what I thought--and that's kudos to my friend who thought of the topic.

I say all this because sometimes you go into writing any sort of non-fiction, and then you don't know where you're going, or what you're going to find out.

It's kind of a mystery. And it's really a blessing, to find out new things about yourself. But I don't know how I will reconcile myself to a church or the Church. Is this phantom limb syndrome? I'm not sure.

And that's OK, if hurts go bump in a blog. It just means that they still need to be healed. Someday.

Swoon

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

OK, since I have nothing to say, I'll share music.

English: Mercy was fallend down without in a swoon (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I've been fixated on this song since last night. I feel like with all this emotional engagement going on, I'm able to really delve into the emotional side of music more (like with "Northern Lad"). So maybe this is like a musical diary of sorts?

Anyway, Imogen Heap, who was also a part of Frou Frou with their hit "Let Go", is a wonder to me. I can tell that she's probably a part of the gifted crew, and really creative. Her latest album, Ellipse, which came out in 2009, is the best she's done in my opinion. The album she had before that, Speak for Yourself, which had the hit song, "Hide and Seek," was wonderful, too. I really like how she's able to talk about these moments in relationships, like the endings of them, or in the middle of them, or, like the title of this song talks about, in the beginning of them.

With the song, "Swoon," I like how she takes that word, that's usually meant for women and fainting couches and puts it on a guy (I'm assuming it's a guy), but all the anticipation and wondering and anxiety and longing and unabashed desire (which, sometimes, is funny, because it's so raw)...she's able to wrap it up in under four minutes. And, it's great synth pop, too, although she's like a modern Enya--and I mean that in the best way possible. She can just use her voice as an instrument (check out "Bad Body Double" near the beginning of the song, or "Hide and Seek", although it's her voice synthesized). I like how modern it is with the cellphone idea. Rufus Wainwright's "Vibrate" is similar in terms of anticipatory coping (aka a crush).

But just so you know, I basically live in the chorus, with its sort of goofy lyrics and all. It's just so splendid; a really creative, direct way to talk about desire.

Anyway, maybe I'm a hopeless romantic who likes to torture herself, but the best part about relationships is right before anything really happens, and generally speaking, I feel like whatever has been happening the past few weeks in my life post-Key West vacay, there's anticipation for something good to happen, instead of dread that something will end.

Sometimes, music can be a repository of those elusive emotions that don't have words or rhythm or shape yet. Someone's said it all already. So, on this journey back to myself, it's nice when the emotional side of me can re-experience things. It's like being mute for years and being able to miraculously speak again. It's still all so jumbled up and rocky, this wild country of my emotional side. But music has always been able to speak for me and to me.

Emotional engagement

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

Therapy is so good.

English: Managing emotions - Identifying feelings (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I can't go into the therapy talk I did today, but it's just been amazing to see how I've been rapidly changing, and see it reflected in how my therapist talks to me. I'm getting affirmation that I'm connecting more into my deeper self, and I can feel it, too. It was primarily for writing my thesis, to be able to really tap into how I feel about my parents, but it's also for healing purposes. Always on the run in survival mode, this is where I'm catching my breath, I'm sitting down, and I'm meditating. And I'm not used to it.

And it's funny--for someone who talks about emotions a lot, it's only because I don't really live in them. I either skirt them or stuff them, sometimes marvel at them, but I haven't fully been engaging in them. Everything bypasses through my brain, like a guard to my heart. And recently, it's been a good thing, but I always wonder if the guard shakes my emotions down a bit too much and runs them off into part of my psyche I can't see.

Do feelings have origins? Do they just exist? Can they subsist like those air plants that sit in their own glass terrariums? Yeah, yeah, yeah, feelings are just feelings--you don't judge them, but I can't help but think they go from point A to point B, like a line segment. Not like a ray with a point of origin, shooting out into infinity, or a line, with no point of origin.

I probably should know. I did take a class on Emotion in my psychology studies, but I don't remember any of it.

But maybe I'll learn about this in practicing mindfulness, through a book I got yesterday, Emotional Alchemy. There's a forward from the Dalai Lama, and that itself makes me want to burst into tears. He's a very special person with very special wisdom and observations about the human condition. But the book also feels special. The other part of the title is How the Mind Can Heal the Heart.

But I want mindfulness for myself, not everyone else. I've been so attuned to how everyone else feels, to the point I can cry so easily at any little poignant thing. But if sadness or disappointment for myself comes to curl up in my lap, I just shove it off. But now, I've been learning to sit with that emotion until it hops off my lap. When you're running so hard and so fast from fires and calamities, it's hard to do that, to take the time, to be aware. That's not how fight-or-flight works. So I see myself transforming into a more integrated human being. And there's a real beauty to it; an art to it; a softening towards myself that's happening. And it's affecting my writing, too. Somehow, I feel like it's gotten more refined and more focused. I'm not darting around as much.

Finally, because of the emotional overexcitability I have (it sounds like a condition, but it's just a way of being), blunting emotions was a way to survive, too. Growing up, I withdrew into myself and my intensity turned into seriousness. Somehow, I was getting the message of being too much and I retreated. But there are people interacting with that shadow self (like those stories I told about being in Key West on my birthday), and I'm always surprised at the intensity of the interaction. I'm not doing anything! is what I want to scream back. But I must be. And by becoming more mindful, I can hopefully try to become reacquainted with this other self.

And so, as I keep wanting to look outwards for some relief of loneliness, keep wanting to connect with classmates, I keep being drawn inwards. I don't know if I'm giving up finding my crew to roll with down here, but I'm becoming less interested in it. Also I have almost 30 books to read this semester, of all varying lengths. There isn't much time for being social anyway. So, at least for this semester, it's a time for exploration of the oceans inside of me. And from what I've seen, it's a mysterious but beautiful world that I want to swim in and chart its topography.

Open your hand: a rejoinder

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Tue, 15 Jan 2013 14:00:00 +0000

So what should letting go really look like?

A jack-in-the-box (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I'm not trying to be all self-help-y right now, although I do have a BA in Psychology and have engaged in hundreds of hours of therapy. But this article from Jezebel by Brett Hannons came across my Twitter timeline this morning. You should read it, but its basic assertion is--there is no getting over people that you've broken up with, that each one was impactful in your life, and the idea of "moving on" is rubbish.

When I was having that pretty life-changing chat with my friend last week, I had felt held captive by the past, held captive by a relationship that had long since ended. But I wasn't necessarily sad--I just wanted it back. My friend was basically saying what Hannons was saying, which I definitely agree with (sorry, K, you were right!). Even guys I haven't dated but loved dearly and miss, they helped shape who I am.

I'm feeling quite desultory saying this term, first love, but he, and the friends we had, really charged up my love for music and a life centered around arts. And it makes sense that I would so be longing to go back in time, as a different person who isn't thinking about med school but is in an MFA program, to say--"See? I get it now."

Also, the idea of moving on doesn't really allow for the real processing of grief and/or remorse, that grief isn't something you move through, but allow to move through you and transform itself. Just like when someone dies, you don't move on from them not being there. And maybe that's not a fair comparison, but there is a sort of death that happens when people break up--the death of a future self with that person and the death of the relationship itself.

Here's what Hannons had to say, which is to me the linchpin of this whole inner conversation I've been having about past relationships:

There's a reason many of us tend to make the same mistake again and again. It's because we move those previous behaviors on to a shelf, into a taped up box containing one prior girlfriend or boyfriend. It's one we tell ourselves not to open. But moving past something means you can no longer learn from it.

And this is why I hadn't moved on, really. I hadn't opened that taped up box. When I did, in therapy last Tuesday, I could see how this guy had reacted to me, and the evolution and devolution of our relationship, still related to me now. Of course it did, since I hadn't really examined, really and truly, how I was feeling in that relationship (didn't have a sense of agency; still loved him but maybe had some very diffuse boundaries; was really raw after leaving school; his intense reaction to me caught up to his reality). So much wisdom there.

Maybe I wasn't ready to open the box either. It's like a jack-in-the-box. I keep winding the box and then, POP! There's the truth! But it's not even that painful. More than enough time has passed.

I can't do any time travel back to him, and that community we were in 12 years ago. And he's not traveling to the present to me either. "Northern Lad," still, is haunting me, and, as I have said, will continue to say, it's doing some sort of work, allowing me to feel pain and loss. It's not overwhelming, though, and heck, maybe I will cry over it. Maybe I won't. But the avoidance of pain in the name of "moving on," in the name of my pride and ego being shamed, in the name of hacking people off of my heart clean--none of that is healthy.

So, with opening my hand to new people and experiences, I can take all that I have learned and love better and with less fear. I have to keep digging through my past, too, now that I have time and space to do it. I'm able to feel a myriad of feelings about a myriad of people, simultaneously, and that's something I'm not used to paying attention to--emotional multitasking.

And I'm so grateful that my main issues are just aversion to homework and annoying classmates--it's kinda like high school but I'm twice as old and hopefully at least twice as wise.

But I'm still right in letting go of what I did--the hope of a return. The return that I'm really making is back to myself. I'm in this really divine place, where I'm learning and changing in leaps and bounds. This year feels really charged for substantive change. And it's funny, none of this feels like it has to do with school, but I know being in a new place, doing things that I (well, sometimes) love have helped bring change.

Anyway, this was definitely the universe giving me a rejoinder about what I was thinking about letting go and moving on. It really is more like synthesis of experiences. Most of the people who were formative in my childhood and adolescence are no longer in my life, but I carry them all with me. Now, it's about having time to savor the good stuff--I've definitely pored over the bad parts. It's about, again, looking back without judgment, seeing things as they were. And for that, I'm glad Hannons shared his experiences and reminded me to do the same, look back without judgment, with my past relationships.

Reaching back into my musical past

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Mon, 14 Jan 2013 14:00:00 +0000

I'm not sure why I am stuck in the 90s with music, but I am hoping it's for a good reason.

IMG_0270 (Photo credit: lilnerdette)

Having my own car with a decent sound system has been a blessing. I didn't drive that much in high school, probably because my parents were overprotective. We had a lot of cars. I got my license at 18 with a friend after I had failed the first time with my dad (I couldn't back up straight).

Anyway, there were a lot of songs and albums I didn't get to listen to in the car as a teenager. I listened to a lot of contemporary Christian music in my mom's car, and NPR and easy listening in my dad's car. And, as an American, there's something about listening to your favorite song, as a newly minted driver, as loud as you can stand, alone or with your friends. I missed out on all of that because in Chicago, I didn't really need a car.

My car, Bluebelle, a deep blue metallic small sedan (compact? I guess it could be), has SiriusXM radio, and when I wasn't paying for it (still not paying for it now--free trial!), I was listening to the channel Lithium, which plays 90's alternative rock. Tracy Bonham's song, "Mother Mother" came on as I was coming back home from erranding. It was a sunny morning, and I'm taking the curves back in to the apartment complex, and I felt like I was a teenager again.

And I don't mean this in a "Boy, it'd be nice to go back to high school and tell adulthood to fuck off!" sort of masturbatory nostalgia. High school wasn't all that great in the end for me--I got teased a lot by my high school classmates who couldn't handle my intense reticence. It was mainly about going back in time and enjoying music while driving, reveling in the sense of freedom that I didn't get to have when I was a teen.

I'm not sure why I've been going back to 90s music so much this week, but there's been something really healing and redemptive about it. Even if I'm not listening to that, I'm listening to a lot of house/trance music on BPM, which makes my car into a nightclub without the smoke, drinks, and lecherous dancing. It helps me to reset my mind and focus driving, too.

And I'm not sure what else will crawl into my psyche and stick. Tom Petty's Wildflowers, which was released in 1994, was really fun to listen to on blast, with my sunroof tilted up, on a nice summery January day. It reminds me of being back in Birmingham, hanging out with my friends from church. I also associate Petty with Florida a lot (since he's from here), and when I had my full first day in Florida, moving down here and staying with my cousin as my crap came down the East Coast, I watched a concert of him playing in Gainesville. I felt like he was the welcoming committee back here (to the South? am I in the South?). Or to here. Later, I had been desperate to play Wildflowers in my car when I first got it, but couldn't figure out to get my car to play it from my phone. But once I did, weeks later, it was another redemptive moment in my car.

Anyway, like I said, I'm not sure what this is all about. My present is OK. I hate school, but this is grad school--I don't think I will ever love it. I'm not freezing my ass off. But I feel like I'm subconsciously trying to go back and find the good things that happened to me, to stitch up these long gashes and tears in the fabric of my story.

I saw a picture of a family friend on my former youth group pastor's wall, and I shuddered. And I know there's some healing work there to do, but I didn't feel bitter--just sad, because I know that person cares about me, but there's a lot was undone between their family and mine. I'm not sure if I can say all the truth I want to say, and that we all need to hear, to that family either.

And sorry that this seems ominous. It's not--just a lot of enmeshment that I am thankful that I got left out of, or hell, I pulled myself out of, but I'm still left out--regardless. Also, I'm trying to think if they will end up in my thesis. They may not. Chosen family is weird when it's a lot too close.

Also, because my present is OK, I can think about all this stuff without envy or pride or anger; looking back without judgment, just seeing what it is and isn't, just seeing what I can live with or without. And maybe that's what this musical trip is about, too; like safe passage back to the past, being carried on a familiar wave that opens up a familiar coastline, seen through new eyes.

Back at workshop, or how I WAS having a good week.

noreply@blogger.com (d*) — Sun, 13 Jan 2013 17:00:00 +0000

What is it about grad school workshop that just crushes my spirit?

Climbing (Photo credit: Salvadhor)

I'm not going to sit here and bitch about being in workshop again, but I will say that I am surprised I felt so awful going back Thursday night.

First of all, I left early enough to get there on time, but it was on the northern side of campus. Most of my classes are in one building, but not this time. My adult life has been on a grid, and where I took my certificate classes was right across the street. But I always get lost and late on the first day of school on a new campus, without fail.

So after twenty minutes of walking in a big circle, I got to class. My classmates are in desks in the a big circle. I pull up a desk and sit right across from the prof, who is delightful. I don't know why I still get a kick out of profs cussing to make a point, but she does. This semester, we'll be focusing on the truth in non-fiction, which I find highly relevant after so many memoir hoaxes--J.T. LeRoy and James Frey are two of the most notable examples.

I felt nervous, even though I knew everyone in the class except one person. After I stopped sweating and got my anger at myself under control, I sat and listened to the conversation about truth. I was hoping we'd leave in an hour. It was more like 90 minutes, but that was OK. Overall, it should be a good experience, to workshop two pieces, hopefully pieces that may end up in a thesis.

But as I said, I was surprised at how much I was still wanting to be friends with these mofos, like in a very deeply desperate way. I've intellectually gone through this, but I realize that although I had a great academic and emotional week, I still need my local crew. I still need people that aren't trapped in my computer. And last night just punched me in the gut with ridiculous longing and enormous vulnerability. I'm still hurt, and so I have to continue to bind up my wounds, find what my new core will be--and maybe it'll be found in books.

Yesterday, I was re-reading Reading Like A Writer, and the author Francine Prose basically said this about workshop:

Though it also doles out praise, the workshop most often focuses on what a writer has done wrong, what needs to be fixed, cut or augmented. Whereas reading a masterpiece can inspire us by showing us how a writer does something brilliantly (pg. 11).

I really needed to hear that before I entered that classroom last night.

I was reminded, too, that just because I reach some sort of peak, that doesn't mean the climbing stopping. I have enjoyed the view, maybe to distraction, but just like "Northern Lad" has been haunting me, there's still work being done: hidden, inside, ceaseless. And that means I'll still need therapy. I must've been high on happiness when I said earlier this week that maybe I was done. So. Not. Done. After that gifted adults article, I got two more books to help me on the next leg of this journey.

I'm disappointed that I still need some healing up, but it's way better than where I was even a month ago. And I feel like, whether I like it or not, while I'm still stitching together my chosen family here, I will need to find solace in books again, especially since I need to read so much.

And I also need to learn how to find solace in myself, be patient in this new journey of mindfulness, of finding a new narrative for my life that doesn't involve hating professors or classmates, taking all of that inward. Frankly, they don't owe me anything except a decent reading of my pieces, and even with that, if they don't deliver, that's on them, not me.

Plus, the universe, so far, has been pretty good to me. I definitely feel like I'm in the right place in my life, and that I'm becoming better equipped to handle challenges like the dreaded workshop. It's really about my high expectations being doused by the waters of reality. It happens, but I've got to keep going.

(It was either this or Miley Cyrus. Dignity and nostalgia won)

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