Spilled wine on a white table cloth,
the heat of embarrassment on a woman's cheek,
the rose of a sunset as it disappears beyond the horizon.
These are the shades of red I've known.
I thought I knew the contours of red,
had felt all the sweetness of the berry,
the salty tang of my own blood,
known the passion of rose,
the warm depths of a woman's body,
but in the mysterious depths of a toilet bowl
I've discovered a new shade.
There is no paint, no crayon,
that paints the aching shade
of blood in the chilled water
of a porcelain bowl.
As my daughter blushes through the burn
of incision, pain pills, and fear
her bare bottom perched atop the toilet
I see her blood mix with the water below.
My body trembles with the sight of it
the slow flowering of blood
flowering through the water
like the opening of a bloom.
She cries and holds her belly.
Done, she asks to be wiped
and I fold the tender fiber of paper
into four equal squares
and gently clean her.
I drop the tainted paper into the bowl
the force sends the blood curling anew.
Wispy tendrils reach and expand
to the out limits of the bowl.
I flush the toilet before I lift my daughter
hoping to hide the sight from her,
but she's seen the blood
and is curious about what it means.
I fumble for the flush,
depress it,
watch the smooth blush slide
of blood in a drain
and catch a glimpse
of time sliding away from me
in a pull like gravity.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
The Revision Room
We found ourselves in the Family Waiting Room of Emmanuel Hospital again today. This time the stakes were higher, the surgery more involved, and the door to the Physician Consult Room more shadowed and ominous than before.
The wait was longer. Instead of thirty minutes like the last procedure, we had to wait a full three hours for news from the nurses and doctors. The first update was uplifting. A middle aged nurse with sandy brown hair appeared and said, "Everything's going fine. They're almost done. Dr. Lashley will be out in a bit and he'll call you into that room over there."
That room. The last time I was here, I hated that room and all of its terrible potential. Now I found myself longing for it, desiring it, wanting to be enfolded in the comfort it would provide once the doctor appeared. The clock had been performing a meticulous do si do around the the dial. I streamed X-men cartoons in an attempt at distraction. I read Brady Udall's book. I listened to the iPod. I talked to Tracy. I people watched. Nothing helped. The slow burn of time unfold at a pace measured by tectonic movements, but the doctor finally appeared.
He waved us over with a quick gesture. I'd never been so happy. Here I was bounding across the waiting room to the Physician Consult Room with abandon. Talk to me! Tell me something! When Tracy and I were both secure in the room and the door was hitched closed, the doctor gave us his news. The operation was a success. He had no reason to believe there would be any complications, but it was still surgery and we needed to be cautious.
There was an extended conversation about the 1% probability of scarring, of tube blockage, of infection, of...the list went on. I wondered which statistician had been hired to figure out such things. My mind was racing. I was picking up snippets of this and that. We talked about after care, about when we could take her home, and the whole time my heart was aching with the desire to see her, to hold her hand, to touch the soft flesh at the back of her hand with the smooth oval of my thumb, to caress her, to coo, to whisper encouragement to her groggy anesthetized self.
Tracy was tearful. It wasn't sadness, I don't think, but relief. The doctor left us alone in the room again, just like last time, and our bodies found each other in the middle of the room. I encircled her shoulders with my arms, pulled her to me and held her. I felt her head tip into my chest, her hands reach up to my shoulder blades, and the quivering of her breath. It was like broken ceramic being fitted back together with glue. The pieces met up almost perfectly. There were imperfections in the fit, but the whole was reassembled for the most part. I exhaled for what felt like the first time in months.
In some ways, it was like a rebirth, a movement from the darkness of a womb of anxiety and concern into a lighter place, a passage through a tunnel to come blinking out the other side into daylight. There were still anxieties and concerns, real ones, we would be tested against in the coming days, but the main event had passed. It was like the turning point in a great war. There were smaller skirmishes ahead, but the main battle had been fought and won. It felt like momentum, like racing downhill with no hands on the handlebars, eyes closed. It was a thrill, an adrenaline rush, but full of danger and fraught with peril.
So, we stood hugging in the Physician Consult Room for a while. I was grateful for this small cell of a room. It afforded us a moment to breathe, to relax, to embrace, to come together as a couple, and not only as distraught parents. The relief in these moments is tangible and this cinder block haven afforded us the shelter, the reservoir with which to find purchase on solid ground after being awash in our own tumultuous sea. It was in this baneful room that I discovered I would be here again. But now, having survived the ordeal, I was grateful for the current of life that pulled us here.
After breathing the scent of Tracy's shampoo for a couple of moments, we picked up our bags and resumed our wait with the rest of the waiting room families. But it was different, more relaxed. I picked up Brady Udall's "The Lonely Polygamist" and my eyes skipped down the page in a movement that felt something like dancing.
The wait was longer. Instead of thirty minutes like the last procedure, we had to wait a full three hours for news from the nurses and doctors. The first update was uplifting. A middle aged nurse with sandy brown hair appeared and said, "Everything's going fine. They're almost done. Dr. Lashley will be out in a bit and he'll call you into that room over there."
That room. The last time I was here, I hated that room and all of its terrible potential. Now I found myself longing for it, desiring it, wanting to be enfolded in the comfort it would provide once the doctor appeared. The clock had been performing a meticulous do si do around the the dial. I streamed X-men cartoons in an attempt at distraction. I read Brady Udall's book. I listened to the iPod. I talked to Tracy. I people watched. Nothing helped. The slow burn of time unfold at a pace measured by tectonic movements, but the doctor finally appeared.
He waved us over with a quick gesture. I'd never been so happy. Here I was bounding across the waiting room to the Physician Consult Room with abandon. Talk to me! Tell me something! When Tracy and I were both secure in the room and the door was hitched closed, the doctor gave us his news. The operation was a success. He had no reason to believe there would be any complications, but it was still surgery and we needed to be cautious.
There was an extended conversation about the 1% probability of scarring, of tube blockage, of infection, of...the list went on. I wondered which statistician had been hired to figure out such things. My mind was racing. I was picking up snippets of this and that. We talked about after care, about when we could take her home, and the whole time my heart was aching with the desire to see her, to hold her hand, to touch the soft flesh at the back of her hand with the smooth oval of my thumb, to caress her, to coo, to whisper encouragement to her groggy anesthetized self.
Tracy was tearful. It wasn't sadness, I don't think, but relief. The doctor left us alone in the room again, just like last time, and our bodies found each other in the middle of the room. I encircled her shoulders with my arms, pulled her to me and held her. I felt her head tip into my chest, her hands reach up to my shoulder blades, and the quivering of her breath. It was like broken ceramic being fitted back together with glue. The pieces met up almost perfectly. There were imperfections in the fit, but the whole was reassembled for the most part. I exhaled for what felt like the first time in months.
In some ways, it was like a rebirth, a movement from the darkness of a womb of anxiety and concern into a lighter place, a passage through a tunnel to come blinking out the other side into daylight. There were still anxieties and concerns, real ones, we would be tested against in the coming days, but the main event had passed. It was like the turning point in a great war. There were smaller skirmishes ahead, but the main battle had been fought and won. It felt like momentum, like racing downhill with no hands on the handlebars, eyes closed. It was a thrill, an adrenaline rush, but full of danger and fraught with peril.
So, we stood hugging in the Physician Consult Room for a while. I was grateful for this small cell of a room. It afforded us a moment to breathe, to relax, to embrace, to come together as a couple, and not only as distraught parents. The relief in these moments is tangible and this cinder block haven afforded us the shelter, the reservoir with which to find purchase on solid ground after being awash in our own tumultuous sea. It was in this baneful room that I discovered I would be here again. But now, having survived the ordeal, I was grateful for the current of life that pulled us here.
After breathing the scent of Tracy's shampoo for a couple of moments, we picked up our bags and resumed our wait with the rest of the waiting room families. But it was different, more relaxed. I picked up Brady Udall's "The Lonely Polygamist" and my eyes skipped down the page in a movement that felt something like dancing.
Monday, December 27, 2010
She's Fine!
I'd like to sit here and put together an insightful blog post, but I'm exhausted. Shea's fine. She got through surgery great. She's eating, drinking, and moving water. All great signs. More later.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Twas the Night Before Surgery.
Twas the night before surgery and all through the house, the family was ascurry even the louse.
He was nervous and jumpy and a little bit frightened, it felt like his senses were electrically heightened.
The dog lapped at her bowl with wet slobbery sounds and the wife had all the laundry piled in mounds.
The bags were all packed and sitting by the door, the husband was hoping for a night without her snores.
He found himself confronted with that nemesis, that mage, the frightening canvas of the white gaping page.
The child was cuddled all snug in her bed, and the father's stomach sunk deeply like a cold piece of lead.
So as the night marched on in an endless series of ticks, the dog sensed my nerves and gave me some licks.
Soon I'll lay my head down and try for some sleep, and hope that the spirits will tend to my peeps.
He was nervous and jumpy and a little bit frightened, it felt like his senses were electrically heightened.
The dog lapped at her bowl with wet slobbery sounds and the wife had all the laundry piled in mounds.
The bags were all packed and sitting by the door, the husband was hoping for a night without her snores.
He found himself confronted with that nemesis, that mage, the frightening canvas of the white gaping page.
The child was cuddled all snug in her bed, and the father's stomach sunk deeply like a cold piece of lead.
So as the night marched on in an endless series of ticks, the dog sensed my nerves and gave me some licks.
Soon I'll lay my head down and try for some sleep, and hope that the spirits will tend to my peeps.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
"I Didn't"
Stuart Dybek wrote a beautiful story "We Didn't" and as I was sitting here this evening it somehow entered my thoughts as I was reviewing my day. This blog post is an inferior homage to that wonderful story which can be found in his collection I Sailed with Magellan.
I didn't grade papers today. I didn't sit down with a stack of files or a box full of portfolios. I didn't take time out of my family life to focus on the needs of others. I didn't sit on the sofa, alone, thinking about the slow slide of breath from between my wife's lips. I didn't look at the soft profile of my wife's face in the green glow of the alarm clock and regret the hours spent in the day.
I didn't kiss my daughter goodnight and slide away to the living room to read books for the class I will teach next spring. I didn't miss the opportunity to play with her because my mind was occupied with things I had to finish before I went to work the next day. The books sat piled up on the table next to the sofa, collecting a thin layer of dust from disuse.
I didn't find an excuse to step away from my daughter to check my email. I didn't ignore my wife. I didn't revolve around a thought process of obligation and duty. I didn't have to balance one set of obligations and duties against another.
Instead, my daughter and I had a "picnic" on a blanket in her room. I found a white blanket, a stuffed snowman, a wooden Santa, plastic figurines of children and created a winter wonderland where children were able to profess their wishes to Santa and he was able to fulfill them all. We practiced wishing for things for other people, making wishes to Santa for the plastic children. We practiced wishing goodness for others and thinking about the needs of others before ourselves.
There was a zoo and we fed the animals: a llama, a lion, a tiger, a bunny, a cow, and a horse with a mane of yarn. We whinnied, mooed, clucked, and roared. I read her The Polar Express and began The Night Before Christmas. She was wet part way through the second book and had dirty underwear. I cleaned her, cautious of the redness that was spreading from exposure to her own poop. I disciplined her for asking for things without saying, "Please."
I held her as she drifted toward sleep at nap time. I smoothed her hair back after I took out her barettes and tucked her into bed. She asked, "Is Christmas tomorrow?"
"It's on Saturday, honey. Just a couple of days away." I asked her if she was a good girl.
She said, "No." She reminded me of her accidents.
I told her she was a good girl and told her the difference between being good and making mistakes. She hummed a little under her breath after that. I kissed her, gave her a hug, and told her to have a good sleep. She fell into a deep sleep which I had to wake her from two hours later.
As I walked up the steps to wake her, I passed shadow versions of myself. Each one was me, but an earlier me, a preoccupied version of myself. I saw the furrowed brow of my other self. I saw myself weighted down by the burdens of work and art. I saw myself forgetting the beauty of my own life. As I passed these apparitions, these "other" selves, I felt bad. I felt bad that I could allow myself to forget. To forget my wife, that I could forget my daughter, even for the space of a tick of the second hand. As I crested the stairs and left my apparitions behind me, I felt my heart race as I placed my hand on the knob of the door. When I opened it and saw the light from the hallway spill over my daughter's bed, I knew I was where I needed to be, that I was my present self, my future self, and all endeavors would point the way back to this place, to Shea's side. It's a comfort to have at least that part of one's life stabilized and to not have to question.
***So, not the original, not by far, but it was fun to try and emulate the structure of the story and to make meaning within the confines of a format.***
I didn't grade papers today. I didn't sit down with a stack of files or a box full of portfolios. I didn't take time out of my family life to focus on the needs of others. I didn't sit on the sofa, alone, thinking about the slow slide of breath from between my wife's lips. I didn't look at the soft profile of my wife's face in the green glow of the alarm clock and regret the hours spent in the day.
I didn't kiss my daughter goodnight and slide away to the living room to read books for the class I will teach next spring. I didn't miss the opportunity to play with her because my mind was occupied with things I had to finish before I went to work the next day. The books sat piled up on the table next to the sofa, collecting a thin layer of dust from disuse.
I didn't find an excuse to step away from my daughter to check my email. I didn't ignore my wife. I didn't revolve around a thought process of obligation and duty. I didn't have to balance one set of obligations and duties against another.
Instead, my daughter and I had a "picnic" on a blanket in her room. I found a white blanket, a stuffed snowman, a wooden Santa, plastic figurines of children and created a winter wonderland where children were able to profess their wishes to Santa and he was able to fulfill them all. We practiced wishing for things for other people, making wishes to Santa for the plastic children. We practiced wishing goodness for others and thinking about the needs of others before ourselves.
There was a zoo and we fed the animals: a llama, a lion, a tiger, a bunny, a cow, and a horse with a mane of yarn. We whinnied, mooed, clucked, and roared. I read her The Polar Express and began The Night Before Christmas. She was wet part way through the second book and had dirty underwear. I cleaned her, cautious of the redness that was spreading from exposure to her own poop. I disciplined her for asking for things without saying, "Please."
I held her as she drifted toward sleep at nap time. I smoothed her hair back after I took out her barettes and tucked her into bed. She asked, "Is Christmas tomorrow?"
"It's on Saturday, honey. Just a couple of days away." I asked her if she was a good girl.
She said, "No." She reminded me of her accidents.
I told her she was a good girl and told her the difference between being good and making mistakes. She hummed a little under her breath after that. I kissed her, gave her a hug, and told her to have a good sleep. She fell into a deep sleep which I had to wake her from two hours later.
As I walked up the steps to wake her, I passed shadow versions of myself. Each one was me, but an earlier me, a preoccupied version of myself. I saw the furrowed brow of my other self. I saw myself weighted down by the burdens of work and art. I saw myself forgetting the beauty of my own life. As I passed these apparitions, these "other" selves, I felt bad. I felt bad that I could allow myself to forget. To forget my wife, that I could forget my daughter, even for the space of a tick of the second hand. As I crested the stairs and left my apparitions behind me, I felt my heart race as I placed my hand on the knob of the door. When I opened it and saw the light from the hallway spill over my daughter's bed, I knew I was where I needed to be, that I was my present self, my future self, and all endeavors would point the way back to this place, to Shea's side. It's a comfort to have at least that part of one's life stabilized and to not have to question.
***So, not the original, not by far, but it was fun to try and emulate the structure of the story and to make meaning within the confines of a format.***
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Running the Numbers
Today's been an eventful day and so as I sit here in the living room looking back on everything that's happened, I thought I'd run the numbers.
Number of facial bruises Shea picked up tripping face first into Tracy's cubicle at work: 1
Number of poopy pants from Shea's diarrhea farts: 4
Number of people we waited behind to see Santa: 40-ish
Number of good photos we got taken with Santa this year: 2
Number of times Shea told Tracy and I that she loved us: 15 or so
Number of times Shea said, "This sucker tastes like starlight": 2
Number of hours home alone where I got to play with Shea: 4
The amount of times I would trade this day for another: 0
"You and Me Day" was a resounding success today. Notice that I only say this now that Shea's gone to bed and I have a moment alone to think without scooping poop from a tiny butt crack. The trade off of parenthood is facing these challenges with poise and composure. The joy is that the moment those challenges are over, we are still faced with our greatest love. Our greatest treasure.
Number of facial bruises Shea picked up tripping face first into Tracy's cubicle at work: 1
Number of poopy pants from Shea's diarrhea farts: 4
Number of people we waited behind to see Santa: 40-ish
Number of good photos we got taken with Santa this year: 2
Number of times Shea told Tracy and I that she loved us: 15 or so
Number of times Shea said, "This sucker tastes like starlight": 2
Number of hours home alone where I got to play with Shea: 4
The amount of times I would trade this day for another: 0
"You and Me Day" was a resounding success today. Notice that I only say this now that Shea's gone to bed and I have a moment alone to think without scooping poop from a tiny butt crack. The trade off of parenthood is facing these challenges with poise and composure. The joy is that the moment those challenges are over, we are still faced with our greatest love. Our greatest treasure.
Monday, December 20, 2010
A Sloppy "Come to Jesus"
Everyone I know balances a multitude of relationships. We all have expectations that arise from each and every one of these. For the most part, they run like clockwork. There's a hiccup every now and again, but overall they run fluidly.
Then again, there are those moments where our relationships are not fluid. They are disjointed and chaotic. I recently had a conversation with some friends where it was identified that I should have a "Come To Jesus" moment. Loosely translated this meant a conversation of meaning. A reaffirmation of intention. I took their advice.
What did this mean? Well, in this particular moment, it meant a drunken declaration of affairs. It meant an awkward conversation where neither party wanted to participate. It was awful. It was hurtful. It was...honest.
For those involved, what did it mean? It meant a reckoning. It meant a facing of facts. A REAL conversation. It meant hurt feelings. It meant resentment. It meant a jumping off point for everything that comes after.
For me, it meant reaffirming the fact that even though I am having an argument, I can still be arguing FOR something and not against it. Sometime when we are at our wits end, it means fighting for the things that still have meaning. It means fighting for the person for whom we have meaning. It means being bitter in order to be loving. It means being angry in order to be happy. It means having all of those acidic moments and still coming out the back side with something to be hopeful for.
I fear anger. I do. I don't like feeling angry. I don't like feeling like I want to punch a wall. These are things I classify, normally, as primitive, unevolved, non-me. But, there are times where I am angry. Maybe I've been angry for a long time, and the only way I have to escape that prison is to be angry. We live in an era of pop psychology where, especially for men, we are taught that anger is inappropriate. We are taught that it serves no positive function.
I am here to tell all men that anger does serve a function, but it is in the healthy expression of said anger that we are able to move forward. It is only through communication that anything worth while is conveyed.
I've had "Part I" of my "Come To Jesus" moment. I've confessed. Now, I'm on the road to Damascus. I'm on the road to regaining sight. I'm on the road to reconciling my soul.
Props to A.K. and R.P. for some well played advice.
A long road to hoe ahead, but the first step has been taken.
Then again, there are those moments where our relationships are not fluid. They are disjointed and chaotic. I recently had a conversation with some friends where it was identified that I should have a "Come To Jesus" moment. Loosely translated this meant a conversation of meaning. A reaffirmation of intention. I took their advice.
What did this mean? Well, in this particular moment, it meant a drunken declaration of affairs. It meant an awkward conversation where neither party wanted to participate. It was awful. It was hurtful. It was...honest.
For those involved, what did it mean? It meant a reckoning. It meant a facing of facts. A REAL conversation. It meant hurt feelings. It meant resentment. It meant a jumping off point for everything that comes after.
For me, it meant reaffirming the fact that even though I am having an argument, I can still be arguing FOR something and not against it. Sometime when we are at our wits end, it means fighting for the things that still have meaning. It means fighting for the person for whom we have meaning. It means being bitter in order to be loving. It means being angry in order to be happy. It means having all of those acidic moments and still coming out the back side with something to be hopeful for.
I fear anger. I do. I don't like feeling angry. I don't like feeling like I want to punch a wall. These are things I classify, normally, as primitive, unevolved, non-me. But, there are times where I am angry. Maybe I've been angry for a long time, and the only way I have to escape that prison is to be angry. We live in an era of pop psychology where, especially for men, we are taught that anger is inappropriate. We are taught that it serves no positive function.
I am here to tell all men that anger does serve a function, but it is in the healthy expression of said anger that we are able to move forward. It is only through communication that anything worth while is conveyed.
I've had "Part I" of my "Come To Jesus" moment. I've confessed. Now, I'm on the road to Damascus. I'm on the road to regaining sight. I'm on the road to reconciling my soul.
Props to A.K. and R.P. for some well played advice.
A long road to hoe ahead, but the first step has been taken.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Creating Magic
The ride out to Hood River is a breeze. Tracy makes good time on the freeway and Shea is entranced with the many waterfalls that spill out over the rocky cliffs of the Gorge. It's a beautiful day. It's an unusually sunny day for December and we're on our way to the Polar Express.
Shea's excited to go to the "North Pole" and a visit with Santa and she's singing from her car seat. When we arrive in Hood River, there is some daylight left but the wind is chilling. We wrap Shea in her thickest winter coat and make our way to the train station. We are right on time and so we get to board the train immediately. As we step outside to the platform, we're met by the "conductor" of the train and a couple of the "chefs" who will bring the fantasy to life. The conductor greets us warmly in a thick New England accent and tells us to make our way onto the train.
As we enter the passenger car, there are garlands strung above the windows with Christmas ornaments dangling from them. All of the children are dressed in their pajamas and they are all anxiously looking out the windows or gabbing with their parents. Tracy and I lead Shea to our seats, two bench seats that face each other. The windows of the train are wood framed and old. They clasp with simple latches that you would find on an outhouse door. I wonder how fast we're going to be traveling. Everything in the train is old, worn, run-down, but charming in its antiquity.
As we pull away from the station, Shea is on her feet and looking out the windows. The loudspeakers crackle with a couple of announcements but the noise in the car makes it almost intelligible. The train pulls out of Hood River and shortly afterward, the "conductor" comes through asking for tickets. We give Shea the tickets and she hands them over. The conductor uses his hole punch to punch holes in them. He holds them above Shea's head as he does so and the punched holes rain down over her head like confetti. She smiles and takes the tickets back. She mutters a soft, "Thank you." He moves down the aisle and performs the same trick for the next family.
The world outside the train windows is slowly darkening and one of the train employees dims the lights of the cabin. The chefs come around with hot chocolate and a ginger cookie for everyone. Shea is over the moon. She sits on the edge of the bench seat and nibbles on the cookie. The loudspeaker crackles with life again and we're told we're pulling into the North Pole. The announcer tells us that we'll be passing through the warehouse district where the elves make the toys.
He tells them which toys are made where and then we come across what must be a Harry David warehouse where we can see in the windows. They're making fruit boxes, but you can hear the children squeeling, "Elves! Look at the elves!" Their little faces are plastered to the windows. They keep wiping the frost off the windows in order to see better.
Santa's house is adorned with Christmas lights and he stands outside waving to the children as we pull in and stop. The announcer tells us that Santa will be joining us on the train. Again, there's muttering throughout the train car, "Santa, daddy," and "Santa's coming!"
It's a big train and so it takes Santa a while to move up from the back of the train to our car. When he finally arrives, Shea's a little unsteady. She loves the idea of Santa, but is always a little wary in his presence. We'd left him a seat next to Shea, but he, probably wisely, chose to kneel in the aisle and talk to her.
He asks her if she has her list all prepared and she says, "Yes." Her voice is tiny and almost indiscernible, but Santa's doing great, pulling her out of her shell. When their done talking, his elven assistant hands him a single bell. He passes this to her. She takes it gingerly into her hands and says, "Thank you."
After Santa moves down the aisle to talk to the other children, Shea holds up her bell and presents it to us. Her eyes twinkle with the magic of the encounter. The train is not magic, the day is not magic, the conductor is not magic, and the man is not magic, but the look on Shea's face as she holds up that bell is. Her perception of the world is still infused with the possibilities of magic, of surprise and miracles. I watch her face light up and I can't help but believe too.
Shea's excited to go to the "North Pole" and a visit with Santa and she's singing from her car seat. When we arrive in Hood River, there is some daylight left but the wind is chilling. We wrap Shea in her thickest winter coat and make our way to the train station. We are right on time and so we get to board the train immediately. As we step outside to the platform, we're met by the "conductor" of the train and a couple of the "chefs" who will bring the fantasy to life. The conductor greets us warmly in a thick New England accent and tells us to make our way onto the train.
As we enter the passenger car, there are garlands strung above the windows with Christmas ornaments dangling from them. All of the children are dressed in their pajamas and they are all anxiously looking out the windows or gabbing with their parents. Tracy and I lead Shea to our seats, two bench seats that face each other. The windows of the train are wood framed and old. They clasp with simple latches that you would find on an outhouse door. I wonder how fast we're going to be traveling. Everything in the train is old, worn, run-down, but charming in its antiquity.
As we pull away from the station, Shea is on her feet and looking out the windows. The loudspeakers crackle with a couple of announcements but the noise in the car makes it almost intelligible. The train pulls out of Hood River and shortly afterward, the "conductor" comes through asking for tickets. We give Shea the tickets and she hands them over. The conductor uses his hole punch to punch holes in them. He holds them above Shea's head as he does so and the punched holes rain down over her head like confetti. She smiles and takes the tickets back. She mutters a soft, "Thank you." He moves down the aisle and performs the same trick for the next family.
The world outside the train windows is slowly darkening and one of the train employees dims the lights of the cabin. The chefs come around with hot chocolate and a ginger cookie for everyone. Shea is over the moon. She sits on the edge of the bench seat and nibbles on the cookie. The loudspeaker crackles with life again and we're told we're pulling into the North Pole. The announcer tells us that we'll be passing through the warehouse district where the elves make the toys.
He tells them which toys are made where and then we come across what must be a Harry David warehouse where we can see in the windows. They're making fruit boxes, but you can hear the children squeeling, "Elves! Look at the elves!" Their little faces are plastered to the windows. They keep wiping the frost off the windows in order to see better.
Santa's house is adorned with Christmas lights and he stands outside waving to the children as we pull in and stop. The announcer tells us that Santa will be joining us on the train. Again, there's muttering throughout the train car, "Santa, daddy," and "Santa's coming!"
It's a big train and so it takes Santa a while to move up from the back of the train to our car. When he finally arrives, Shea's a little unsteady. She loves the idea of Santa, but is always a little wary in his presence. We'd left him a seat next to Shea, but he, probably wisely, chose to kneel in the aisle and talk to her.
He asks her if she has her list all prepared and she says, "Yes." Her voice is tiny and almost indiscernible, but Santa's doing great, pulling her out of her shell. When their done talking, his elven assistant hands him a single bell. He passes this to her. She takes it gingerly into her hands and says, "Thank you."
After Santa moves down the aisle to talk to the other children, Shea holds up her bell and presents it to us. Her eyes twinkle with the magic of the encounter. The train is not magic, the day is not magic, the conductor is not magic, and the man is not magic, but the look on Shea's face as she holds up that bell is. Her perception of the world is still infused with the possibilities of magic, of surprise and miracles. I watch her face light up and I can't help but believe too.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Playing
I've been spending so much time studying a hybrid medium in which I've only partially participated that I felt it was time to play in the other half. I'm no artist, but here's a comic strip I made.
My intent with this was to say something significant while allowing the images to add an additional level. For that purpose, I selected some of the ways in which we make meaning: memory, fantasy, perception of reality, etc. What's interesting is that in the "Reality" panel, I've used visual abstraction and a deeper level of cartooning to further the rough ideas. The thought bubbles were an after-thought, and the question marks and exclamation points an after-thought to that after-thought. The tension, for me, resides in the exclamation points in the final panel. Instead of being a question, the abstractions become a demand, a desperate plea, a frantic cry for an organizing principle.
Another interesting point, for me, was that I almost subconsciously put art in both the thought bubble and the boxes the character carries. Why is that? I can wager a couple of guesses, but I'll leave it for you to decide for yourselves.
The Robert Byrne quote also came as an after-thought to the paneling and illustration. Again, for me, it plays as a juxtaposition to what is actually taking place in the panel itself. There are many things in the character's hands that could provide purpose, but it is the segmenting of these individual things that presents the problem. The character is having a hard time balancing all of these individual commitments. One can feel in the demands for "Truth! Beauty! Art! Justice!" a need for an organizing principle, a unifying force that will serve as a tray, a bag, a container for all the disparate elements being balanced. I also thought about including "Love" in the panel, but thought it would get too crowded. OR, it could just be a bunch of squiggles on the page.
I knew I was going to post this first effort on the blog, so I tried to find a subject that would suit its placement here. I hope it worked. It's an intellectual exercise. I'm going to ask my students to make a mini-comic of their own next semester and so I thought I should try my own hand at it. Never ask students to do something you yourself wouldn't do, right?
Anyway, I'll leave it at that. This was a lot more fun than I anticipated. Analyzing my own work after the fact also brought some insights into process and the subconscious. My apologies for the bleed over into the side column of the blog, but sizing down caused legibility issues.
The Superman logo is copyrighted and trademarked by DC Comics. I use it here for no profit but as an educational exercise.
My intent with this was to say something significant while allowing the images to add an additional level. For that purpose, I selected some of the ways in which we make meaning: memory, fantasy, perception of reality, etc. What's interesting is that in the "Reality" panel, I've used visual abstraction and a deeper level of cartooning to further the rough ideas. The thought bubbles were an after-thought, and the question marks and exclamation points an after-thought to that after-thought. The tension, for me, resides in the exclamation points in the final panel. Instead of being a question, the abstractions become a demand, a desperate plea, a frantic cry for an organizing principle.
Another interesting point, for me, was that I almost subconsciously put art in both the thought bubble and the boxes the character carries. Why is that? I can wager a couple of guesses, but I'll leave it for you to decide for yourselves.
The Robert Byrne quote also came as an after-thought to the paneling and illustration. Again, for me, it plays as a juxtaposition to what is actually taking place in the panel itself. There are many things in the character's hands that could provide purpose, but it is the segmenting of these individual things that presents the problem. The character is having a hard time balancing all of these individual commitments. One can feel in the demands for "Truth! Beauty! Art! Justice!" a need for an organizing principle, a unifying force that will serve as a tray, a bag, a container for all the disparate elements being balanced. I also thought about including "Love" in the panel, but thought it would get too crowded. OR, it could just be a bunch of squiggles on the page.
I knew I was going to post this first effort on the blog, so I tried to find a subject that would suit its placement here. I hope it worked. It's an intellectual exercise. I'm going to ask my students to make a mini-comic of their own next semester and so I thought I should try my own hand at it. Never ask students to do something you yourself wouldn't do, right?
Anyway, I'll leave it at that. This was a lot more fun than I anticipated. Analyzing my own work after the fact also brought some insights into process and the subconscious. My apologies for the bleed over into the side column of the blog, but sizing down caused legibility issues.
The Superman logo is copyrighted and trademarked by DC Comics. I use it here for no profit but as an educational exercise.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Word Play
Tracy's delicious vegetarian yakisoba noodles whisk away from the bottom of the wok with ease. My hands are enveloped in the warm water in the sink as I wash the dishes. This is a regular routine in my house. Tracy cooks and I do the dishes. Tracy's still moving around the kitchen, fidgeting with one thing or another, talking to me as I work. Shea dances in the kitchen behind me. Shea's singing to herself as we work, "Doo dat, doo dat," and dancing around on the linoleum floor.
In the natural pause of Tracy and I's conversation, I'm able to pick up a little of what Shea's singing. The "doo dat, doo dat," isn't as innocent as I first thought and I turn my head to listen more closely to what she's saying. As I get past the melody of her song, I become aware of the words. "Fuck that, fuck that." Tracy catches the look on my face and asks, "What?" I say, "Listen." It takes Tracy a while before she picks up on what's going on.
I turn to Shea and tell her, "Shea, that is a very bad word. It's a grownup word and one you are NOT to use." She looks at me a little disconcerted. She hadn't even noticed that I was paying attention to her as she sang. Her brow wrinkles and she gives me her death stare for which she's recently becoming famous. I reiterate that the word is not something she should be using and I tell her I'll swat her bottom if I catch her using it again.
She's immediately in tears and streaking up to her room. This is the moment that's hard. It would be really easy for me to follow her up to her room, comfort her, tell her everything is okay, and try to wash away the "hardness" of the lesson. I don't. I let her have a moment upstairs to think about what's happened. When Tracy hears her crying upstairs, she goes to her. I continue washing dishes and making coffee for the morning.
A couple of minutes later, Tracy and Shea emerge from upstairs. Shea holds her mother's hand as she crosses the kitchen to me and she's got her little head bowed. Again, this is the hard moment. The moment where I want to scoop her up, kiss her face, and tell her I'm sorry I was stern. I don't. Instead, I get down on the floor with her, sit her in my lap and talk. I ask her if she understands why I got upset. She does.
She asks if I want to play with her. I do. I ask her if she wants to go on the boat again (we'd been playing imaginary boat on her bed earlier that afternoon). She does. I ask her where she wants to go.
"New Orleans," she says. I seriously don't know where she comes up with these things.
In the natural pause of Tracy and I's conversation, I'm able to pick up a little of what Shea's singing. The "doo dat, doo dat," isn't as innocent as I first thought and I turn my head to listen more closely to what she's saying. As I get past the melody of her song, I become aware of the words. "Fuck that, fuck that." Tracy catches the look on my face and asks, "What?" I say, "Listen." It takes Tracy a while before she picks up on what's going on.
I turn to Shea and tell her, "Shea, that is a very bad word. It's a grownup word and one you are NOT to use." She looks at me a little disconcerted. She hadn't even noticed that I was paying attention to her as she sang. Her brow wrinkles and she gives me her death stare for which she's recently becoming famous. I reiterate that the word is not something she should be using and I tell her I'll swat her bottom if I catch her using it again.
She's immediately in tears and streaking up to her room. This is the moment that's hard. It would be really easy for me to follow her up to her room, comfort her, tell her everything is okay, and try to wash away the "hardness" of the lesson. I don't. I let her have a moment upstairs to think about what's happened. When Tracy hears her crying upstairs, she goes to her. I continue washing dishes and making coffee for the morning.
A couple of minutes later, Tracy and Shea emerge from upstairs. Shea holds her mother's hand as she crosses the kitchen to me and she's got her little head bowed. Again, this is the hard moment. The moment where I want to scoop her up, kiss her face, and tell her I'm sorry I was stern. I don't. Instead, I get down on the floor with her, sit her in my lap and talk. I ask her if she understands why I got upset. She does.
She asks if I want to play with her. I do. I ask her if she wants to go on the boat again (we'd been playing imaginary boat on her bed earlier that afternoon). She does. I ask her where she wants to go.
"New Orleans," she says. I seriously don't know where she comes up with these things.
Obsession and Laziness
Monday saw me entering in the final grades for three of my four classes. I won't receive the final assignment for my fourth class until tomorrow. So, what to do with today. Well, that's were obsession and laziness come into play.
A former mentor of mine once told me that the writing life when viewed from the outside will look like "sheer idleness". In some ways, he was right. After getting Shea dressed and ready for school, I returned home to a stack of graphic novels I need to read for my "Graphic Novel as Literature" course. I've read three in the space of the day. I turned on the electric blanket in the bedroom, crawled back into bed, and read, read, read.
The diversity of the materials kept me reading for hours on end. "Ghost World" by Daniel Clowes and its angsty teenage discourse kept me going for the first hour or so, but I had to put it aside. It won't make the syllabus. "Asterios Polyp" by Daniel Mazzucchelli was a fascinating voyage into the life and mind of a 50-something retired architecture teacher where he puzzled over the nature of duality. It had images ripped from Dante's "Inferno" and asked the question: What is the opposite of love? Hate? Or indifference? Not exactly your flights and tights expectation from the medium. It's a lovely story.
I poured over graphic novels and essays about graphic novels. I'm finding that my hobby, my personal obsession with the form, actually has a place in academia. It's new-ish and not entirely accepted, but it is there and I might have found my specialty. I love hybrid forms, chocolate in my peanut butter, and the examination of the tension between image and text gets me excited. I've come up with the titles for two academic papers already. The titles influence the content and I'm interested to see how these ideas play out over the course of a term.
Although the biggest victory today was the nap. In reading the graphic novels, I fell asleep with the book open on my chest. I don't remember deciding to nap, but rather was enveloped by it, surprised by it, and found the dream both restful and dreamless. When I awoke, the book was still open on my chest and I reentered the narrative dream of Asterios. Dreaming while awake, and dreamless while sleeping, I had a good day.
A former mentor of mine once told me that the writing life when viewed from the outside will look like "sheer idleness". In some ways, he was right. After getting Shea dressed and ready for school, I returned home to a stack of graphic novels I need to read for my "Graphic Novel as Literature" course. I've read three in the space of the day. I turned on the electric blanket in the bedroom, crawled back into bed, and read, read, read.
The diversity of the materials kept me reading for hours on end. "Ghost World" by Daniel Clowes and its angsty teenage discourse kept me going for the first hour or so, but I had to put it aside. It won't make the syllabus. "Asterios Polyp" by Daniel Mazzucchelli was a fascinating voyage into the life and mind of a 50-something retired architecture teacher where he puzzled over the nature of duality. It had images ripped from Dante's "Inferno" and asked the question: What is the opposite of love? Hate? Or indifference? Not exactly your flights and tights expectation from the medium. It's a lovely story.
I poured over graphic novels and essays about graphic novels. I'm finding that my hobby, my personal obsession with the form, actually has a place in academia. It's new-ish and not entirely accepted, but it is there and I might have found my specialty. I love hybrid forms, chocolate in my peanut butter, and the examination of the tension between image and text gets me excited. I've come up with the titles for two academic papers already. The titles influence the content and I'm interested to see how these ideas play out over the course of a term.
Although the biggest victory today was the nap. In reading the graphic novels, I fell asleep with the book open on my chest. I don't remember deciding to nap, but rather was enveloped by it, surprised by it, and found the dream both restful and dreamless. When I awoke, the book was still open on my chest and I reentered the narrative dream of Asterios. Dreaming while awake, and dreamless while sleeping, I had a good day.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The Impulse to Love
My writing mentor and friend Jack Driscoll has been known to say, "The impulse to write is the impulse to love." The moment I heard these words, I knew they were true. I've always had a problem with loving too much. I care too deeply at times and this causes me all kinds of grief. That is, until I realized that I could funnel all of those forces into the tip of a pen.
This blog is an effort to wrestle with my loves. Each role I place upon myself is a love obligation. I love the writing. I love my students. I love my daughter. I love my wife. I love my family and friends. I love the world at large. Each of these things brings me countless benefits, but also opens me up to multiple sources of disappointment and heartbreak. By writing my way through these roles, I am able to temper each of those emotions and navigate my day with a bit more surefootedness.
For those of you who read these pages, know that I love you. It is in an effort to communicate this sense of love, commitment, and struggle that I hope to be closer to you. Writing is, after all, communication. While I may not be eloquent when you stand in front of me, while the forces of anger and disappointment temper my ability to communicate in the moment, I am trying. It is here in this open forum, this public space, that I practice courage. It takes a lot for me to put these words down on paper and know that others will read them.
But, in the end, compassion, empathy, and, yes, love are what motivate me. The world is a beautiful place; I believe this, and I wrestle with my efforts to show this, to convey it, and sometimes the quiet space of a blank screen is the only place where I am centered enough to allow it to be true. So, this is my love letter to all my friends, family, students, colleagues, and acquaintances. I may be Clark Kent in person, but when I'm able to sit down at the computer and create, I can fly. I am Superman. I will do my best to live up to that legacy and document it here in the practice of my craft.
This blog is an effort to wrestle with my loves. Each role I place upon myself is a love obligation. I love the writing. I love my students. I love my daughter. I love my wife. I love my family and friends. I love the world at large. Each of these things brings me countless benefits, but also opens me up to multiple sources of disappointment and heartbreak. By writing my way through these roles, I am able to temper each of those emotions and navigate my day with a bit more surefootedness.
For those of you who read these pages, know that I love you. It is in an effort to communicate this sense of love, commitment, and struggle that I hope to be closer to you. Writing is, after all, communication. While I may not be eloquent when you stand in front of me, while the forces of anger and disappointment temper my ability to communicate in the moment, I am trying. It is here in this open forum, this public space, that I practice courage. It takes a lot for me to put these words down on paper and know that others will read them.
But, in the end, compassion, empathy, and, yes, love are what motivate me. The world is a beautiful place; I believe this, and I wrestle with my efforts to show this, to convey it, and sometimes the quiet space of a blank screen is the only place where I am centered enough to allow it to be true. So, this is my love letter to all my friends, family, students, colleagues, and acquaintances. I may be Clark Kent in person, but when I'm able to sit down at the computer and create, I can fly. I am Superman. I will do my best to live up to that legacy and document it here in the practice of my craft.
The Righteous Indignation of Students
Today I passed around a couple of student examples of research papers. One was barely passable and one was "A" level work. I passed around the barely passable version first. The students weren't even halfway down the first page when they began scoffing at the work.
I was amazed at how quickly they are able to identify the faults of another piece of writing and yet so blind to how closely their own papers resemble the poor example. It wound up being a great exercise for them. After we got beyond the snarky comments and the smart ass remarks, they were forced to actually dig into the paper and identify the things that made it poor.
This is the first time I've given a bad example of a writing assignment. I suggest it. It's a great way to get their critics working before you turn them loose on their own work. Cheers to a successful lesson plan.
I was amazed at how quickly they are able to identify the faults of another piece of writing and yet so blind to how closely their own papers resemble the poor example. It wound up being a great exercise for them. After we got beyond the snarky comments and the smart ass remarks, they were forced to actually dig into the paper and identify the things that made it poor.
This is the first time I've given a bad example of a writing assignment. I suggest it. It's a great way to get their critics working before you turn them loose on their own work. Cheers to a successful lesson plan.
A Well-Timed Beer
Last night I had the chance to hang out with a friend at the pub. It'd been a long time since we'd hung out and there were a lot of new developments to talk about: a new relationship, a school term coming to a close, and the various dramas that unfold in the living of a life. I got a chance to talk to someone outside my regular company and I found myself talking about things I normally don't talk about. I found myself sharing a part of myself that I don't normally share with people.
It made me realize how closed off I am from the company of others. I have a lot of conversations, but not like this. This was different. I found myself unclenching a bit. My friend, AK, sits on the fringes of my life, connected to me and me alone in terms of my regular cast of characters. He's not embroiled in the daily, or even weekly, goings-on in my life. When this happens, you are forced to give a broader context to your stories. You're forced to give the bigger picture.
For example, when you pick up an X-men comic book, there are decades of history that back up that story, but due to the fact they assume people are ongoing readers, they don't rehash all of the context/history that has come before. But, every now and then, they relaunch a line and they tend to give a generalized history that will bring new readers deeper into the fold and give a sense of who these characters are and what they've gone through in their lives.
It was much the same way last night. I was telling stories about the last couple of months, but I found myself filling in the blanks from years past. I had to see my life in the broader tapestry of the larger life than the minuscule dramas that unfold in a day/week/month. This perspective led me to realize things about my life that I hadn't considered before. It was the equivalent of removing horse blinders. Instead of seeing only the immediate situation, I was forced to place it in the larger context of ongoing relationships, larger themes, grander scope.
What did I realize? What grew out of this conversation? Well, it gave me insight into my current situation and made me realize that there are certain things that are being repeated, certain mistakes being made over and over again, and conversations that are still not being had. Sometimes it takes the insight of someone not sitting inside the situation to bring clarity. It makes me realize that I need that larger network of friends. I need to make time for them. I need to share with them, have them share with me, and reconnect with the larger tapestry that is my life both in terms of the people who occupy it and the way I live it.
It made me realize how closed off I am from the company of others. I have a lot of conversations, but not like this. This was different. I found myself unclenching a bit. My friend, AK, sits on the fringes of my life, connected to me and me alone in terms of my regular cast of characters. He's not embroiled in the daily, or even weekly, goings-on in my life. When this happens, you are forced to give a broader context to your stories. You're forced to give the bigger picture.
For example, when you pick up an X-men comic book, there are decades of history that back up that story, but due to the fact they assume people are ongoing readers, they don't rehash all of the context/history that has come before. But, every now and then, they relaunch a line and they tend to give a generalized history that will bring new readers deeper into the fold and give a sense of who these characters are and what they've gone through in their lives.
It was much the same way last night. I was telling stories about the last couple of months, but I found myself filling in the blanks from years past. I had to see my life in the broader tapestry of the larger life than the minuscule dramas that unfold in a day/week/month. This perspective led me to realize things about my life that I hadn't considered before. It was the equivalent of removing horse blinders. Instead of seeing only the immediate situation, I was forced to place it in the larger context of ongoing relationships, larger themes, grander scope.
What did I realize? What grew out of this conversation? Well, it gave me insight into my current situation and made me realize that there are certain things that are being repeated, certain mistakes being made over and over again, and conversations that are still not being had. Sometimes it takes the insight of someone not sitting inside the situation to bring clarity. It makes me realize that I need that larger network of friends. I need to make time for them. I need to share with them, have them share with me, and reconnect with the larger tapestry that is my life both in terms of the people who occupy it and the way I live it.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
End of Term Quotables
It is the end of Fall term at Pacific. As such, I've tried to meet with my writing students individually to prepare the last push toward completing their final research paper and, also, to debrief the term with them. Here's a couple of things the students felt they needed to share with me.
1. From a student who expressed anxiety about writing all term long, she said, "I can write now. I used to feel like I was mostly a test-taker, but now I feel like I can write a 10-page paper and do good."
2. From a senior student who displayed multiple writing issues and had an academic accommodation for Disability Services, she said, "I know what I have to do now. I took composition classes at my other school, but now I feel like I know what I have to do for me. I know my process."
3. From a fairly reserved student who didn't necessarily say much in class but who handed in lovely creative pieces, she said, "I want to talk to you about minoring in Creative Writing." I told her I didn't do advising as I was an adjunct, but she said she wanted to talk to me.
4. Via email I got a student who said, "Thanks for a great and fulfilling term."
I love these comments. It isn't that I had something to do with them, which I know I did, but that it means they LEARNED. They learned about their process, they grew past their phobias, they discovered a passion, and they achieved the rewards of working hard on a singular skill, a focused pursuit. THIS is why I teach. I want this for every student who enters my classroom. I want to facilitate this process for them. I want them to discover themselves and the world in the way writing makes possible.
It's been a long and grueling term, one that had me questioning my methods and my effectiveness. None of that has gone away, but maybe instead has been validated. Maybe this insecurity, this desire to be better for them, will make me a lifelong learner and push me to better myself each and every term. In the meantime, I'm basking in the glow of their development.
1. From a student who expressed anxiety about writing all term long, she said, "I can write now. I used to feel like I was mostly a test-taker, but now I feel like I can write a 10-page paper and do good."
2. From a senior student who displayed multiple writing issues and had an academic accommodation for Disability Services, she said, "I know what I have to do now. I took composition classes at my other school, but now I feel like I know what I have to do for me. I know my process."
3. From a fairly reserved student who didn't necessarily say much in class but who handed in lovely creative pieces, she said, "I want to talk to you about minoring in Creative Writing." I told her I didn't do advising as I was an adjunct, but she said she wanted to talk to me.
4. Via email I got a student who said, "Thanks for a great and fulfilling term."
I love these comments. It isn't that I had something to do with them, which I know I did, but that it means they LEARNED. They learned about their process, they grew past their phobias, they discovered a passion, and they achieved the rewards of working hard on a singular skill, a focused pursuit. THIS is why I teach. I want this for every student who enters my classroom. I want to facilitate this process for them. I want them to discover themselves and the world in the way writing makes possible.
It's been a long and grueling term, one that had me questioning my methods and my effectiveness. None of that has gone away, but maybe instead has been validated. Maybe this insecurity, this desire to be better for them, will make me a lifelong learner and push me to better myself each and every term. In the meantime, I'm basking in the glow of their development.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Smoke "Break"
I've been smoking again.
Anything I can say beyond that is simple excuse, but I've stumbled upon a new thought that I feel has some merit. Why am I smoking? Well, that's the big question isn't it? I have a couple of lame reasons I can think of, but I've found one that I believe actually has some merit.
I haven't had any alone time in a long time. I've had time alone late at night, hours between 10 and 2 am where I'm left alone in the living room of my house, but even those hours have been spent in service of others. I go to work, I come home to family and family time, and then I rededicate myself to the needs of students, of the schools I work for, etc. I don't take time off for myself as an individual.
That's not true when I smoke. When I'm smoking I step outside. I look at the stars. I come up with new ideas for stories and for poems, for essays, for lesson plans, for vacations, for memories and dreams. It's an entirely selfish pursuit. It's destructive and selfish, but it's mine. These moments are my own and I don't feel like I owe those moments to anyone but myself. I relish each drag, and I meditate in a way.
I'm not good at "no." Never have been. I concern myself with the needs of others. I've always played the backstories of others in my head. It's empathy. I feel what they feel and this often results in me not allowing myself to feel what I feel. I know how self-centered this sounds, how self-serving, but I'm trying to be honest about the impulse, about where I'm coming from. I need these moments. I don't need the cigarettes, but I need these moments where I can go out and be a person, an individual, where I don't feel my heartstrings being pulled by someone else's needs, someone else's demands.
I love. This is the greatest blessing I have in my life. It's also my greatest curse. I love people who treat me well. I love people who treat me poorly. I love people I've known for years. I love people I met 20 minutes ago. It's always been this way for me. It results in all kinds of complications and smoking is simply one of them.
For those with a "if you want to quit, quit" attitude, this sounds like a self-justification. I understand that. But this is also the reality of being me. I won't say "no" when others need me. I simply won't. So, I use the "need" for a cigarette to make the excuse for me. I use the cigarette to step outside and stand under the stars. In those moments after midnight, when I'm outside by myself while I know others are near, I watch the smoke leave my lips and rise into the darkness of night. The wisps rise into the dark and catch the breeze. If you listen closely, you'll hear the message in the smoke. It will be a whisper, a breath, and it will sound like "please."
***Let it be understood that I know EXACTLY who my audience is: family and friends. I know you'll all have a desire to talk to me about this issue. For now, I ask that you leave me to my struggle. Leave those admonitions and concerns for another day. I am aware of everything you can possible say, another "gift" of my empathy, and I tell you I will fight back.
Anything I can say beyond that is simple excuse, but I've stumbled upon a new thought that I feel has some merit. Why am I smoking? Well, that's the big question isn't it? I have a couple of lame reasons I can think of, but I've found one that I believe actually has some merit.
I haven't had any alone time in a long time. I've had time alone late at night, hours between 10 and 2 am where I'm left alone in the living room of my house, but even those hours have been spent in service of others. I go to work, I come home to family and family time, and then I rededicate myself to the needs of students, of the schools I work for, etc. I don't take time off for myself as an individual.
That's not true when I smoke. When I'm smoking I step outside. I look at the stars. I come up with new ideas for stories and for poems, for essays, for lesson plans, for vacations, for memories and dreams. It's an entirely selfish pursuit. It's destructive and selfish, but it's mine. These moments are my own and I don't feel like I owe those moments to anyone but myself. I relish each drag, and I meditate in a way.
I'm not good at "no." Never have been. I concern myself with the needs of others. I've always played the backstories of others in my head. It's empathy. I feel what they feel and this often results in me not allowing myself to feel what I feel. I know how self-centered this sounds, how self-serving, but I'm trying to be honest about the impulse, about where I'm coming from. I need these moments. I don't need the cigarettes, but I need these moments where I can go out and be a person, an individual, where I don't feel my heartstrings being pulled by someone else's needs, someone else's demands.
I love. This is the greatest blessing I have in my life. It's also my greatest curse. I love people who treat me well. I love people who treat me poorly. I love people I've known for years. I love people I met 20 minutes ago. It's always been this way for me. It results in all kinds of complications and smoking is simply one of them.
For those with a "if you want to quit, quit" attitude, this sounds like a self-justification. I understand that. But this is also the reality of being me. I won't say "no" when others need me. I simply won't. So, I use the "need" for a cigarette to make the excuse for me. I use the cigarette to step outside and stand under the stars. In those moments after midnight, when I'm outside by myself while I know others are near, I watch the smoke leave my lips and rise into the darkness of night. The wisps rise into the dark and catch the breeze. If you listen closely, you'll hear the message in the smoke. It will be a whisper, a breath, and it will sound like "please."
***Let it be understood that I know EXACTLY who my audience is: family and friends. I know you'll all have a desire to talk to me about this issue. For now, I ask that you leave me to my struggle. Leave those admonitions and concerns for another day. I am aware of everything you can possible say, another "gift" of my empathy, and I tell you I will fight back.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Faced with a Different Story
The majority of this blog is dedicated to the idea of identity. It is an analysis of roles, of responsibilities and duties, and much of it is self-generated. It is the way I approach these roles, these identities. But what happens when one is faced with outside opinion? What happens when that outside opinion is so contrary to what you believe about yourself? How do you rectify the situation?
Well, as in most things, that depends. I was recently confronted with a perception of who I was that was completely contrary to who I think I am. I consider myself a family man, a giver, but what if others don't see that? What happens when someone close to you thinks you are selfish, irresponsible, and thoughtless?
You reassess, that's what you do. It would be easy for me to simply say, "Pshaw, that's not me. That's not who I am." But what if I'm wrong? What if I am selfish? What happens if I don't think about others as much as I think I do? This blog post is full of questions and very little answers. I'm struggling under the weight of these ideas. I'm forced to consider that maybe I am an asshole.
I know the fundamental thing that was used to base this judgment was false. I know the situation is not what the other person thought it was, but that doesn't change the fact that this person believes these things about me. They believe me to be selfish, irresponsible, thoughtless. They think that I don't have consideration for others and their feelings and I don't know where that impression comes from.
So, I slide into those murky depths of self-analysis and the accompanying self-doubt. I was having a good day too before all of this happened. Like a really good day. I felt good about my work, about my contribution to the world, and now I'm left wondering if I've portrayed myself as the hero of a false narrative. I'm Don Quixote running after windmills. What if the good things I believe about myself are fabrications? I know this isn't true, or at least totally true, but it's hard to maintain when the accusations come from someone who knows me well, or should.
I'm stumbling through my day today, doubting my contributions, but I know I'll resolve this. I know I'll slowly knit the pieces back together and find my center, but I'm just now picking myself up after having the rug pulled out from under me.
Well, as in most things, that depends. I was recently confronted with a perception of who I was that was completely contrary to who I think I am. I consider myself a family man, a giver, but what if others don't see that? What happens when someone close to you thinks you are selfish, irresponsible, and thoughtless?
You reassess, that's what you do. It would be easy for me to simply say, "Pshaw, that's not me. That's not who I am." But what if I'm wrong? What if I am selfish? What happens if I don't think about others as much as I think I do? This blog post is full of questions and very little answers. I'm struggling under the weight of these ideas. I'm forced to consider that maybe I am an asshole.
I know the fundamental thing that was used to base this judgment was false. I know the situation is not what the other person thought it was, but that doesn't change the fact that this person believes these things about me. They believe me to be selfish, irresponsible, thoughtless. They think that I don't have consideration for others and their feelings and I don't know where that impression comes from.
So, I slide into those murky depths of self-analysis and the accompanying self-doubt. I was having a good day too before all of this happened. Like a really good day. I felt good about my work, about my contribution to the world, and now I'm left wondering if I've portrayed myself as the hero of a false narrative. I'm Don Quixote running after windmills. What if the good things I believe about myself are fabrications? I know this isn't true, or at least totally true, but it's hard to maintain when the accusations come from someone who knows me well, or should.
I'm stumbling through my day today, doubting my contributions, but I know I'll resolve this. I know I'll slowly knit the pieces back together and find my center, but I'm just now picking myself up after having the rug pulled out from under me.
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