Deletions

I decided to remove the essay from my thesis. Conceptually, it was fine, and to a degree, representative of my grad school career--but ultimately, not something I was willing to give the attention it needed. Sarah's counsel was clarifying. She expressed her opinion that the thesis should be what I've worked on. The product. The essay was something I turned in during the course of a class I took, but it's more of a comment on the work. I think the thesis will be cleaner, streamlined without this clunky thing and the end.

Initially, I hesitated because I wondered if I didn't want to cut it out of laziness or cowardice. But I'm sick of my own overly confessional bent in writing. That essay just gives away the milk and the cookies.

Fundamentally Alone

as i lay in bed last night, i realized i am alone. there was something powerful about it. grief is polarizing. it's more clarifying than i remembered. but this particular mourning is subtle. and more consuming than the violent despair i have experienced in the past.

my mother told me last night that my sister Crystal cries every day. i called her tonight--she said she's wanted to talk to me and Caryl, but couldn't bear the thought of the sadness that talking to us would bring--talking to people in as much pain as she is in.

but we all miss him differently. i cannot know, fully, the associations and implications of my sisters' collective and individual sadness. i can barely get my mind around my own.

sadness is the wrong word. melancholy is not it, either.

it's the whole world, all of a sudden.

Anxiety & Melancholy

Things have stepped up at work. I'm trying to get my bearings--I'm grateful for the challenge--but I'm nervous. And I think it's appropriate to feel that way. I've had to remember to pray, to ask God for help when I feel that I am out of my depth. That has been so good to remember. I can ask for help. Not only from my capable coworkers, but from my ultimate helper.

But I'm also nervous about the thesis. And the Independent Study. Last night I attended my advisor's Tuesday night class--the class I would have been in had the IS not been approved. It was refreshing to discuss a selected reading with other people again. I swear. I feel like Emily Dickinson tucked away at the homestead. An Ivory Tower Sylvia Plath writing in solitude. There is some romance to it--toiling away alone with only one voice (that of my advisor) directing my revisions...but it is not without its challenges.

I enjoyed the class; I'm going back next week so I can benefit from the conclusion of the discussion about Wallace Stevens (I've decided to make him part of my Independent Study since one aim of that course is to engage a poet with whom I'm not familiar). Solitary confinement aside, I'm glad I'm doing what I'm doing--on my own terms.

Now for the sadness. I am steeling myself against the encroachment of a real melancholy--my grief for my father a steady ache, and something else, too, something I don't understand, settling in.

Where the food is delicious, but the contempt for the customer is unpalatable...

V and I went to The Golden West Cafe for breakfast this morning. This place is a consistent favourite in Hampden and is famous for, along with its good food, its "absolutely no substitutions" policy. Fine. You are also forbidden to talk on your cell, for even a second, in the dining room. If you get a call you are expected to take it outside or into the restroom (per their Web site). Okay... a bold move in this day and age; I can respect it.

But I cannot respect what happened to V this morning when she asked about the pumpkin pancakes she saw advertised on their Web site. She was told that they were "part of a fall menu we haven't rolled out yet." So V jokingly replied "but it's almost November." At which point our server informed her that they start making items available when they "are ready and not before" and that it was "____'s restaurant, not mine, m'am."

Uncalled for. Absolutely rude, esp. since V was a) joking, and b) made an entirely credible point. It is almost November. By my likes (and most other people's) you start rolling out your fall wares in late september when fall begins, so that you can maximize the potential in October, which is decidely fall. November is a no man's land, practically winter, for goodness' sake.

And c) it was on their Web site.

This place is the kind where you don't even have the recourse of complaining to the management because it is clear that the management supports this attitude. It practically requires it of its staff. The message is this: If you're eating at the Golden West Cafe, you are lucky to be there.

No thanks.

Rewarding

My Advisor came over to my place this evening to discuss the revisions I poured my little heart into all week. The verdict? Categorical success. It seems that allowing myself to get a little unhinged--to leverage images more and weed out the tendency toward exposition made everything better.

I had been feeling daunted all week. I was convinced that all my efforts were tantamount to failure--that the University was absolutely going to reject my thesis. I worried that I had just gone off in an equally bad direction with the changes I made.

This is not to say that there isn't more work to do; there is. But we had an excellent, incredibly helpful discussion. I can see where to go and how to get there. Oh, I am so so glad that I have this man's sensibilities working for me and shaping this collection of work that summarizes the last two years of my life.

So, now here I am. Just me in front of the page again.... suddenly reminded of an Adrienne Rich poem (and I am not a fan of Adrienne Rich) in which she wrote I dreamed you were a poem I wanted to show someone.

Just Call Me A Revising Fool...

Chaka Khan's "Ain't Nobody" blaring, and me just unlocking the inner core of what I really mean. Sans decorum. Makes for good poetry.

Fits and Starts

I have managed to get some revising done this weekend in addition to sending my advisor two replacement poems for the ones I decided earlier in the week to eliminate. I actually have some more time now anyway, though. We are not getting together afer my class on Monday, but later in the week, as it turns out. I envision that meeting going something like this:

I will furnish several, versioned copies of about 5 poems and I'll be prepared to carry much more of the conversation this time around as he did the lion's share of the talking last Monday. We'll compare the revisions to the copy of the thesis I gave him a month ago and make hard copy edits to them, while we talk.

Also, I'll propose a new arrangement that makes sense, thematically. Right now the order is totally arbitrary.

Slightly under the weather, so maybe by mid-week, I'll be sailing on the high seas of literary effort.

Jung

My youngest sister called me last night at about 12:30. She needed to talk. Our grandfather (my father's father), I learned earlier yesterday, passed. Even after the hopeful sign of his waking up from his unconscious state a week ago, he did not survive.

We talked for about an hour and 20 minutes about this new onslaught of sadness. She was the closest to him of the three of us girls. They were buddies. She called him all the time.They laughed together and had a bond that I certainly never approached with him. This is not to say that I am not sad, but I also know that I am not experiencing the same grief as my sister. My middle sister's emotions are opaque. I know she grieves for my father--I have no doubt she registers, significantly, the loss of our grandfather. But she is so even-tempered.

When the doctor told us that my father was brain dead, Crystal began to cry immediately. But she never made a sound. Caryl and my mother sounded like wounded wolves. My own tears were those of someone prepared for the worst news. They were acquiescent. Not all together muffled, but not overwrought.

I'm glad she called. I was having trouble sleeping, though I had been in bed for 2 hours by that time. Even if I had been in the grips of R.E.M., I would have wanted her voice intruding. I told her when our father died to always call me if she felt untethered. To not worry about any ridiculous notion of time or convenience.

We lost both of the last men in our lives, just a day apart really. My grandfather fell, and in effect was lost to us the day after we lost my father. I am not worried about myself. I am 33. But my sisters are 21 and 23, which is very very young, it occurs to me just now.

So now I have moved on to Jung. The animus. The anima. The shadow and the conscious self.

Talking with Devika Keral is one of the best experiences in the world. The woman just gets it, gives the best feedback around, and is incredibly solid--both in grasping the nuances of what is being said as well as understanding all the practical implications. It was so good for my soul to hear her voice.

Had an awesome exchange with C, of poetry group/grad school affiliation, as well. We went to Pazo for a much-belated birthday drinks and desserts celebration. A great talk (of course)--and she got hit on by a gentleman (sadly not one she found attractive) as we were leaving the establishment. Me he gave a business card about his concierge service. That's fine... he won't be getting a call from either of us, for business or pleasure, in all likelihood.

Still need to get down to the business of some solid revisions. Hasn't happened yet. That's okay. I suspect there will be a windfall of activity tomorrow after work and on Saturday.

The latest development? My sudden overwhelming desire to have a child. Classic grief response.

feeling like i'm developing a little touch of something. well, i'm not giving in to it. this is just not a good time to be coming down with anything. so there.

feeling less powerless about the thesis today. i made some decisions then took actions based on those decisions. i'm eliminating, altogether, a couple of problematic poems and only giving energy to those that i think are worth working on. i'm also adding a piece that really should have been included from the beginning. the page requirement won't be affected by the deletions, and it will just be better all the way around if i can just cut the crap. literally.

after work i headed to the library in search of a few Wallace Stevens essays. No such luck, but i did find a pretty exhaustive volume of his verse. in addition to reading Jung for my Independent Study, I'm brushing up on Stevens so i'll be in the loop when I visit my advisor's class next week (the classI would have been in had the I S not been approved).

listening to the dave matthews band's "let you down." i still love his plaintive forgive me... oh, oh forgive me...

Objective Correlative

"The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an "objective correlative"; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." --T. S. Eliot

I have been tasked with finding the objective correlative for several poems and I don't know if I can do it. I suddenly feel very discouraged. I don't think I can get these poems where they need to go.

I know one thing. I am sick. and tired. of the message I keep getting. I'm sick of putting a lid on the most primitive, basic parts of myself. I can't stuff those things in anymore. I think my art is locked up because I'm locked up. The writing is so... sublimated...it's boring. It's wearying. I can't get at what I want to say because like all my deepest longings, it's locked behind glass for some other time.

I'm going to bed.

Met for two hours with my advisor last night after Thesis class and as a result got home at about 11. He confirmed my instincts where the writing is concerned--that is to say we agree about which pieces work less well (or not at all) and why. We will meet again in a week. Same deal, after class. Then our gatherings will become a bit more pointed. In a couple of weeks we'll meet at my place, per my suggestion (going out for coffee and/or drinks is starting to add up), and have a long work meeting in which we not only discuss poems, but talk about what's beyond the thesis process. I figure there'll be no time limit (except the one we impose on ourselves) and no tab to settle. We can drink what I've already bought! Between now and next Monday, though, I need to pull a rabbit out of my hat. I have so much revising to do.

It was good to be back in the swing of things at work yesterday. My department contributed to a very thoughtful gift and a couple of cards for me. Such gestures of sympathy and support. I got a few lovely e-mails too--one or two from people outside my department. Everyone in my life has just been so great, I don't know if I'll ever be able to fully express my gratitude.

Well. The Banana-Flax and Machta Green Tea cereal I've been eating is nearly gone so I think that means it's time to head out... Have a tremendous day, everyone.

I didn't have the energy to post about this before, but the day after my father passed, his father fell down some stairs, was taken to the hospital where he was assessed to be in critical condition, and put on life support. He had a very bad gash to the head and as a result has been unconscious for several days. Needless to say, he missed my father's funeral. No one could really guess at his chances for survival; things didn't look good. I prepared myself for the worst.

Today he woke up. My sisters went to see him, and though he couldn't talk back to them, he was alert and able to communicate through hand squeezes and with his eyes that he understood them.

In other news, I went shopping at my beloved Whole Foods (the first time in nearly 2 months) and got two varieties of leafy kale (since I'm not doing spinach right now), butternut squash, a red yam, strawberries, and papaya, along with some other goodies.

Heard back from my advisor, who had been in and out of town, and essentially hadn't gotten most of my messages. We meet on Monday after my Thesis class. I'm incredibly relieved. On so many levels.

When I returned home, somewhat late last night, I was wrung out. So tired that sleep came easily and fast. Sarah's post about the funeral is a beautiful chronicle of the day, so I won't duplicate the effort. I couldn't anyway.

My sisters and mother and I pored over countless pictures of my dad the night before, and I saw him again, as a younger man, before he was sick at all--and then later, pictures of him when he began to be ill--he looked like a different man. His diabetes and renal failure (he was on dialysis) ravaged his body and weathered his face. He looked so small the last 7 years of his life.

The pictures of him, my mother, and my sisters at Crystal's graduation in May break my heart. These are the pictures I would not be in because I was so upset about other things that were going on that day. I remember walking away and my father calling out to me to come and be in them, to stand with the family, and me calling back no, that I didn't want to. It reminds me of a John Mayer lyric ...should have smiled in that picture if it's the last that I'll see of you...
Given his health, it was a miracle that my dad even made it to Vermont. He looks so old in the photos from that weekend. He was only 55.

We decided, as a family, to donate his organs for transplant and medical research. His liver came at just the right time to save someone else's life. I know he would have wanted us to make that choice. I know he would be pleased. And even though my parents' marriage was dissolved, my mother arranged everything for him as a wife would have. God had done such a healing work in their relationship--they had become friends and were closer and more emotionally intimate than they had been when they were married. My mother told me that he'd shared with her, not that long ago, that he missed her. I know what he meant--I understand the nuances of the word missed he implied.

My mother's tears for him were the tears a woman cries when she has lost the man she loves. They had been together for nearly 30 years. When she wept over him in the hospital, her sobs were guttural, unhinged... and what she told us she remembered in that moment is how they would hold hands when they first met. I saw everything so differently. She had been in love with him for so long, and part of her always would be. The passion of their early courtship was still something she could feel. I realized. She had this man's children--this man who has died, and it humanized them both to me. I understood that my grief, however deep, however real, is completely different from hers.

He still loved her. She knew that. What was between them is something only they understood.

So when the soldiers at Quantico handed my mother my dad's flag and thanked her for his faithful service, I saw that this was exactly as it should be. She deserved his flag. No other person had the claim on him that she did. Before we left him, she put her hands on his coffin, her tears unchecked. It was so hard to leave him there like that--under the pavillion, waiting to be put into the earth, with our last letters to him tucked into his casket.

Exceedingly, Abundantly

"In that day I will restore David's fallen tent. I will repair its broken places, restore its ruins,
and build it as it used to be, so that they may possess the remnant of Edom and all the nations that bear my name," declares the LORD, who will do these things.

"The days are coming," declares the LORD, "when the reaper will overtake the plowman and the planter by the one treading the grapes. New wine will drip from the mountains and flow from all the hills. I will bring back my exiled people Israel; they will rebuild the ruined cities and live in them. They will plant vineyards and drink their wine. they will make gardens and eat their fruit. I will plant Israel in their own land, never again to be uprooted from the land I have given them," says the LORD your God.

Amos 9:11-15

It's the night before the funeral and I am frustrated. Posting from my mom's house, which is just such a chaotic space. She's been on the phone for at least an hour while at the same time trying to make a photo collage to display at the church tomorrow. Meanwhile, both of my sisters are also on the phone. It's just too much talking all at once. There's hardly any place to sit down in peace. I just wish I could disengage a little, but I can only achieve that kind of thing in my own space.

I continue to feel stressed because I've sent my advisor several e-mails over the last week, all of which are program-related, and I'm just not getting any type of response. I don't get it. I don't understand this blatant refusal to answer direct questions. I'm trying not to let it mess with my head too much, but it's getting hard not to take it personally.

I sent off the Nietzsche response paper to my advisor (who has been M.I.A. for days now) and I have moved on to Erich Fromm's The Art of Loving. I engaged Thus Spake Zarathustra from the vantage point of N's rejection of the doctrine of sublimation as I mentioned I would. It turned out okay, I think.

Fromm's contention is that the theory and the practice of love, and the necessity to be a master of each of these realms is what prevents most people from ever reaching their full capacity to love another. Who has time? Oh, and drug addiction and the obssesive quest for an orgasm? One in the same. It makes sense. The man is not anti-sex or pro drugs, he's simply pointing out that all forms of release and high are our attempts to stave off isolation.

Speaking of wonderful books, Catchka's birthday presents [to me] arrived today. Emerson's Collected Journals and Jane Austen's last completed work, Sandition. I could not be more thrilled... now I just have to make time to read them!

After I got home tonight I set about putting some things away on my bookshelf and I came across the birthday card my father sent me this year, written in his shaky script. I had been looking for it for days, so of course I found it in an unguarded moment, when it was the last thing on my mind. In it, he said he loved me and signed it as he did every card, with the year in quotes "06."

I attended the wedding of a friend on Saturday. A sacrament of hope. The ceremony was appropriately sombre (it rained tears outside). The reception was crowned by sunlight. Everything is burial and resurrection.

All My Friends

What does one do, think, feel, say, dream, hope, want after one's father has died? The sympathy and love of my friends is hemming me in on every side. Even a friend that I thought lost to me proved able to be there, to offer what he could when I needed it most.

People, I have this one thing to tell you. The cliches are all true. Life is too short. It [whatever grudge you're nursing] isn't worth it. You shouldn't ever go to bed angry. Love is the answer.

In all of my writing workshops I'm always counseled to avoid, at all costs, anything that smacks of an overtly redemptive moment in my poems. Redemption is not interesting enough, not when it's obvious, I suppose. This suddenly strikes me as being ridiculous. As if nothing is valid unless cloaked in irony. What has irony done for me, lately?

But my friends... oh, my friends. Well, winter, spring, summer, or fall... you know the rest.

Good-bye

We waited for hours to hear someone with some medical authority tell us what we knew in our hearts. My father is gone. But I was there to tell him that what I wanted most for him now is peace. I believe he has it at last. And I have no doubt that he loved me. I have no doubt that I loved him. By God's grace, he knows I loved him, too. Thank you God that he did not go until you had made things right between us.

From what I heard from my sister, my mother, and friends of his, the last three days of his life, he laughed so much. He was happy.

Redemption

My stepfather, the only father I know, really, has suffered a massive stroke. There has been significant internal bleeding of the brain. The doctors feel that they have done all they can. He is on life support. The last time I saw him was one month ago today at his mother's funeral. The last time I talked to him was on my birthday. He called me. I was so happy to hear from him. And the last two times I've seen him, I was truly glad to be able to hug him tight and call him daddy.

I don't know when I forgave him. It snuck up on me...happened while I was doing something else, thinking something else. I saw him at my middle sister's graduation in Vermont last May and simply realized that I loved him. After all of everything, I loved him.

This relationship with my father is the most pointed living metaphor of Christ's forgiveness that I have experienced. And through it I understand, at last, what I've heard in countless sermons. Forgiveness is not saying that what was done does not matter, that it did not happen. It's certainly not saying that what happened is okay. It does take time. It is a long, aggressive process. I did not forgive my father by accident. I prayed through the emotional trauma of his mistakes. I prayed for God's help to see my father through His eyes. And in some quiet, unchronicled moment, the answer I'd been praying to, became the truth of the situation.

To forgive is to reinstate the guilty party to a place of relationship in some instances (though not possible in all), to willfully decide that you remove the burden from yourself of trying to exact payment for what was stolen. Mercy.

When I saw past my father's anger to his soul, when I understood that he was just a man who had been dogged by fear, his own father's rage, and a crippling sense of shame all of his life, I felt compassion for him. When it was clear to me that he was... is... truly penitent, I reopened my heart to him.

This forgiveness was just as much for me as it was for him. You cannot hold someone a prisoner in bitterness without also imprisoning yourself. My mother said it best when she told me that there was a point at which, after acknowledging just how badly she and my father messed things up that I would have to decide how the rest of my life will play out.

Okay. Yes. We were wrong. I messed up, he messed up, but now it's on you. Now what are you going to do....

This is probably the wisest counsel my mother has given me in the last 10 years. Now what was I going to do, indeed?

I decided that it was too easy to choose the old, worn path of unmitigated rage.

The prognosis is not good. All medical things being equal, my father will probably not live. But I am prepared to let him go, with tears, certainly, but mostly with love. Finally.

Planned Outage

About a week and a half ago, BGE sent out a letter to all of the occupants of my building, at least, letting us know that starting at as close to 11 p.m. as possible, we would lose power for approximately 8 hours on Monday, September 25th.

In answer to this, a little celebration has been planned. A blackout party at a bar not far from where I work, actually, is being sponsored by some residents. One drink and snack, gratis. What a tremendous idea! I would be more inclined to go if I didn't have class tomorrow night... but the thought of leaving work, going to class, then heading back in that direction is completely unappealing. Normally, I'm in bed by 11 anyway... but this is the very kind of thing I've been wanting to challenge myself to do more often. To be more open to doing.

Once again this thesis class, as an idea, is annoying to me and really just taking up way too much of my emotional energy, which should be going into my thesis. I just remembered an assignment I have to do for class tomorrow night. Ugh!

I did manage to have a breakthrough with Nietzsche today. The point, for me, is to read the works that have been chosen as the focus of my Independent Study as a means of contextualizing my own work. Until today, I didn't know what the footbridge between my work and this novel/philosophical treatise could possibly be (and I was prepared for the fact that there might not be one). It actually goes back to the idea of sublimation--and Nietzsche's utter rejection of sublimation of the soul (I don't know that he would say "soul"). My poems all, in one way or another, are about the desire to reject the sublimation of motives and desire, in the context of my relationships.

It felt like a reward for hanging in there.

I had a lovely evening with V prior to Catchka's arrival (we talked on Thursday about her coming back to spend the night on Friday) last night. V and I went to the Owl Bar and both got the pecan-encrusted Mahi Mahi with banana risotto special and just caught up on the latest. C and I just hung out and watched "Something New" on DVD while snacking on M&Ms.

We got up this morning and went over to XS for breakfast then walked around Mt. Vernon for a bit. We sat in one of the dog parks and watched a Yoga Al Fresco session in progress. This guy that I had been thinking was somewhat attractive as I saw him approaching stopped and asked me in this complete stoner voice "Hey, where did you get your coffee at?" Kinda funny. Eventually Catchka and I made our way back to where her car was parked so she could push off and I could push on to my hair appointment.

I feel so much better about myself now! I'd had to cancel my last couple of appointments for one reason or another, and my tresses desperately needed some chemical treatment. It was just a bad scene that was getting worse by the minute. I am not one of those women who enjoys my hair in its natural, more "textured" state. I'll take a relaxer, thanks.

Right after a salon visit I always think about the intimacy of letting a relative stranger wash my hair. How it is a kind of intimacy, even though in the context of a service... how willingly we all submit to this. Sure, it's a necessity, part of the process, but such a gentle, tender thing. Under any other circumstance, we would never allow anyone other than a lover to touch us in such a basic, yet profound way.

Normally, my stylist washes my hair, but today her new assistant did the job. And this person, with whom I have no familiarity whatsoever, was able to communicate to me through subtle touches and shifts when it was time to raise or lower my head, or turn, slightly. I was reminded about the healing properties of human contact. Something happens when someone else handles your hair, the crown of your head. It's a vulnerable, noble time for the recipient. A ministration received. A good stylist is a shaman.

Well, it seemed like a good idea...

The Ice Cream Sandwich Diet Root Beer Float. But Catchka and I didn't quite get the ice cream sandwich to diet root beer ratio right. I think two ice cream sandwiches and regular root beer next time. It needed to be creamier.

The premiere of "Grey's Anatomy" was well done. Who's surprised? I had to do a little work to care about the bubonic plague epidemic--which now that I think of it was utterly superfluous, but other than that, bravo!

I did something I never do. I ordered a meatball sub from Subway for dinner. Now I remember why I don't prefer those.

Here's to tomorrow. Here's to a more flawless execution of ideas, both great and small.

Nietzsche by Candlelight

I made an irrevocable date with Friedrich for this evening. I've taken a new tack. Because "Zarathustra" is broken, naturally, into self-sustained sections, I removed the pressure I put on myself to read the work sequentially. I gave myself permission to jump ahead and back to sections as my interest dictates, and I've read a good bit of it as a result.

After I lit some candles, made a little cocktail, and put the TV on, I settled into a nook in the couch and read for pages and pages. I need to have a lot going on at once or I'm easily distracted. I know that sounds weird, but if I try to read to the backdrop of perfect silence, it can be disastrous.

Still pondering sex, spiritually, philosophically, etc. The desire is connected to someone in particular--even though the overall change in my ability to "deal" is a factor, it's also charged by a specific connection I feel with this person. Funny, I ended up editing a health piece on STDs for work today. That sobered me right up... well, not totally, but I also find that my ability to be honest, in this space, has helped to diffuse things a bit. I appreciated, so much, hearing from those of you who commented.

On the horizon? A hair appointment for Saturday late morning... but before that... a visit with the illustrious Catchka!

Sublimating...

Is something I've become practiced at. My faith requires it. There is nothing wrong with temperance, obviously, but what do you do when your instinctual desires outrun your ability to repurpose primitive urges? One can only go so long, perhaps, before one's humanness is simply too much of a contender for one's spiritual platitudes to hold up.

Of course, sometimes in order to redirect one overwhelming, persistent preoccupation we choose another obsession. Allow me to make this more specific. I do these things. I struggle, more and less successfully with my own will. Mostly intellectually, in the seat of my mind, where all battles begin and are lost and won.

Christ really upped the ante. He moved the concept of sinfulness from our actions to our hearts (our thought life). Believers in Christianity are exhorted to present [our] bodies as living sacrifices, to be transformed by the renewing of [our] minds, to take every thought captive. We know that we are prone to sin, but believe that Christ in us is the one who overcomes our sinful nature.

There are days when I wonder if I know Christ at all. Can I say that I know him, love him, want life on his terms more than I want them on my own? If I'm being honest, I can't say that all the time. I can't say that most of the time. Not because I don't believe the gospel, intellectually, but I see that my life does not comply with the things he said. And I see that this is my unspoken choice. How can I say I believe something if my default reaction is to privilege myself and my instincts above the precepts of my faith?

This is at once troubling to me and something I am not nearly concerned enough about. I am worried because I'm not worried. Does this make sense to anyone else?

I am posting this, not because I have some burden of guilt to confess, but because I think a light needs to be shone on the issue of a woman's sexuality and her awareness thereof, particularly after a certain age. It is hard to hold it together past a certain point. That point being the one in which your body seems to have a mind of its own--when all of your internal mechanisms seem to be conspiring against you to one end. Fulfillment.

Out of respect for the institution of marriage, out of respect for the sanctity of sex, I have refrained. At the age of 33, I am outward abstinence personified. And I'm not just talking about the letter of the law, I mean the spirit. Nothing. Nada. There have always been periods of difficulty, but they have been manageable, for the most part.

Something has shifted. I am having a greater degree of difficulty conceiving of a proverbial wedding night. I am far too pragmatic for that at my age. In the last year I've come to accept that I may be one of those people who doesn't marry--and not because I have the "gift" of celibacy, either. I have revisited several constructs I once took for granted.

This is not sour grapes. I'm not trying to prepare for the worst by saying I don't want it, or I knew it wouldn't happen. I believe it's entirely possible that I will get married. I just also understand, now, that marriage isn't the end of everything, and is by no means a safeguard for the future.

God made me a sexual being. That is supposed to give me comfort--the newfound urgency of my desires is no shock to him. Yet, he set parameters.

What I'm saying is that for as much as I respect the idea of those boundary lines, there are no longer any romantic, affected notions of piety attached to them--none that feel strong enough at present to keep me inside.

I know plenty of Christians who have not waited. For a long time I was incredulous. God's laws are so plain--so categorical--on this point, I thought. I see now that part of my success in abstaining has had less to do with the superiority of my will and more to do with the lack of a legitimate opportunity. How great a victory is it, then?

There are no answers. I'm just hanging on by a very thin thread.

Vibing

Class was better tonight, and that was in large part due to the fact that I decided it would be better. There were still moments when I felt that some of the exercises were elementary, but it bothered me less. Of course I knew I would be meeting with my advisor afterward-- a meeting I knew I would find much more liberating and engaging, artistically speaking--so perhaps it helped me to know that.

In any case, I handed off my thesis and we talked about the process in the context of my Independent Study. But we also just talked. And that was wonderful. I always feel so connected to the deepest part of myself when talking about the world through the lens of writing. We agreed about the romanticism of train travel, and when I told him that over the last year or so I had come to embrace rap and hip-hop (in the past I felt that I had to distance myself from anything ostensibly culturally black in the interest of not being pigeon-holed), he asked me for recommendations. So I'm going to burn him a few CDs.

We meet again in two weeks. So I need to plow through Thus Spake...

In a good head space...

I was able to leverage my time yesterday to achieve everything I wanted to achieve. I returned the books to the library, got some light grocery shopping done, then devoted some real time to my thesis (revisions). I definitely feel better about handing in the first draft tonight. I even managed to work through some more of Thus Spake Zarathustra, so my meeting with my advisor, who's also my Independent Study instructor, should be productive.

I need to leave soon for the office, and I don't really have a handle on what work will be like today, but I take comfort in knowing that I'm as prepared as I can be. I left the office with nothing unfinished on Friday, so I can take on a new task first thing. Hope the day flies by. I'm anxious to get to the evening. I'm going to try to be more positive about this class...

The mangoes' cloying sweetness is permeating the apartment. No matter what, I need to cut into them today. John Coltrane's "A Love Supreme" suite is the backdrop to my morning coffee and oatmeal.

Sarah and I had a pretty fun time browsing shops on Thames street yesterday. We started out with no clear agenda for hanging out, but after tossing several ideas back and forth, ended up in Fells Point (an area one might do well to avoid on a balmy Saturday, as people are always out in droves). We went to the Natty Boh Gear store and got a couple of Boh stickers (not that either of us are big consumers of the Boh; it's a Baltimore thing) and into Su Casa, a hip, eclectic furniture and home goods store; Later we got ice cream at Maggie Moo's before heading over to Sound Garden where I scored Mos Def and Talib Kweli's "Blackstar" album. The clerk actually said that it gave him a warm feeling to know that I was purchasing the second greatest Hip Hop album of all time...

Today, after I return some books to the library and do some light marketing, I hunker down with Nietzsche and try to make sense of it all. Oh, and do something more than just stare at the collection of poems that make up my thesis. I have to turn in two copies of the first draft tomorrow.

I have been conducting an experiment for the last week. I have been leaving my bed unmade in the mornings to see if my sleep would be better. It has been. I haven't left my house without at least pulling the covers up in years. Something about getting back into a rumpled bed at the end of the day was so defeatist, not to mention slovenly.

Last week I decided that my need to make the bed every day before leaving had become more an indication of how regimented and unrelenting I can be. So on Monday I got out of bed and did no pulling up of covers, no plumping of pillows, decorative or utility, and went to work without a second thought. When I woke up on Tuesday morning, I had the sensation of actually having slept (which had been elusive, in spite of having a new, more comfortable bed). Not making the bed also saved me about 5 minutes (negligible, really), so I continued this throughout the week. Every night's rest was so perfect!

But this morning, I took one look at my wrinkled covers and strewn pillows and decided that enough is enough. So the bed is made and it satisfies my desire to have everything just so, but I have discovered the object lesson, I believe.

When I didn't make the bed, I was completely willing to use the whole bed, sleep dead center, then migrate back to my preferred side, the left, as I chose to. When I do make my bed every day, I force myself to sleep in one position all night so as not to disturb the hospital corners on the other sides.

Hmmm...

Leaning Tower of Leftovers

E and I planned to meet up at Sammy's Trattoria (The place to eat in Mt. Vernon) for a plate of the delectable calamari and ended up, thanks to E's characteristic generosity, feasting on breaded chicken cutlets topped with jumbo lump crab. I ordered a glass of finely balanced, full-bodied, but divinely unassuming (yet completely consuming) Syrah. Because the calamari had been the point of our outing (catching up, a given) we put the lion's share of our energy into enjoying it. The chicken and crab came with a side of pasta (I got the penne with garlic and olive oil), most of which I have to heat up or repurpose as I choose.

Meeting with E is always a conversational feast as well. Most of her anecdotes begin with "Did I tell you about....?" In many cases "the disastrous date I had" is the phrase that takes up residence in place of those ellipses.

Am listening to June Christy sing "Something Cool." The quintessential smoky-voiced jazz vocalist was underappreciated while she lived. I think I'll put on a pot of decaf and do some more work on my thesis. I meet with my advisor on Monday after my class and it would be nice if I had actually made some more progress.

Every year, as soon as it starts to feel like Fall, I make a music mix to reflect how I'm feeling at the onset of the season. The word "leaves" is usually somewhere in the title. A couple of years ago it was Vintage Leaves (Volumes 1 and 2). But this year, as I'm right on the brink of finishing the grad program, I decided to name it after a quote by the eminently quotable Ralph Waldo Emerson. "Sometimes a sceam is better than a thesis."

So, it is the Sometimes a scream is better than a thesis: Fall Compilation. I'm pleased with myself. I managed to get, in a very seamless progression, the likes of both 50 Cent and Shawn Colvin on this playlist.

Oh So Dreamy (the one in the center)

I've mentioned my love for the man before. His new album Continuum has done nothing but substantiate my appreciation for his artistry. The song "Vultures" is my favourite so far, but the whole collection is tantamount to one incredibly sensual experience.

Just Another Wednesday Night...

I have created a character for a poem series. She is known simply as "The Hapless Spinster." I suppose she's a take-off on any number of single women in their early 30s depicted more and less successfully in literature and film. An amalgam. I understand the temptation some of you may have to think of her as me. She and I have some things in common, to be sure, but her voice is distinctly different from mine. She's much more low-brow and doesn't like to put on airs, which I have to cop to liking to put on, at least occassionally.

The Hapless Spinster would call this "just another Wednesday night." I was tempted to title this post "Negotiating Loneliness." I assure you. I am not having an identity crisis...it was just to illustrate the point.

I feel a degree of success in having even attempted a character series by way of poetry. It's one of the specific ways the cross-pollination of poetry and fiction that I have sought to privilege as part of my grad school education bears fruit in my own writing.

Anyway, when I say "loneliness," I don't want you to envision someone moping while eating chocolate with the television permanently on the Lifetime (Television for Women) channel, hoping for a better life. The picture of loneliness is far less pedantic than that. Even ironically, unlonely looking.

It's one woman (in my case) who is happy with her job, finally feels like she's coming into her own, has made as much peace as possible with her regrets... who laughs a lot these days, who has a respectful social life (though not a romantic one, specifically, at this point), who is good at her job, and has far less to apologize for than she thought she did. Loneliness is not simply the desire to have romance. It's the understanding that the Bible has it right when it says "two are better than one...if two lie down together they can keep warm, but how can one keep warm alone?"

You've heard me say this before. I like my space. a lot. But I also love the thought of someone wanting to draw near. This is a want I've learned to negotiate in the absence of fulfillment of that want. I don't feel sorry for myself, but I can acknowledge that on some Wednesday nights, here and there, I think of a scenario if which I tell someone in particular all about my day. Someone who wants to hear about it.

There are times when I am painfully aware of the help I don't have by virtue of being single. I do all the heavy lifting in my life, and while I do look forward to a consuming passion someday, sometimes it's just about wishing someone was there to help me get the groceries inside.

Downloading the latest version of iTunes and updating my iPod took significantly longer than I thought it would. All I wanted to do was redeem the iTunes gift card I received a week ago and was immediately prompted to update software. It was well worth it, but so much for getting right to the market after work and then starting some work on my thesis. I had no idea the software would automatically "analyze" my entire library for gapless playback something or other... Once I was committed though, I had to see it through to the end.

By the time my prefab "jambalaya" was ready I was ravenous, so I started eating while the food was way too hot and scalded my taste buds. It's 13 minutes till 10 and I've done no work. I always underestimate the time these techy tasks will take. How's that for alliteration?

I'm steeping a mug of tea and am finally decompressing. I can't justify going to bed until I collapse my thesis files, so I guess I should get to it.

Lest Kate Krupnik forgets...

because it's not like anecdotes about being hit on by quasi intoxicated men ever cease to be funny. So, yesterday morning while I waited at the Lightrail stop, listening to the 33rd Birthday Collage playlist I'd assembled, this man in a gold Ravens jersey motioned for me to take out my earphones. I felt slightly put out immediately, but tried not to show it.

Quasi intoxicated man [bobbing and weaving]: Good morning
Kate Krupnik [indulgently]: Good morning.

Then I replaced my earbuds.

Quasi intoxciated man: [getsturing with an inkpen and sheet of paper he'd suddenly materialized]

Kate Krupnik: [shaking her head no in polite decline of either a) giving her phone number or b) accepting his]

Quasi intoxicated man: I just wanted to tell you you're sexy. I had to give you your props.
Kate Krupnik: Thank you [replaced earphones once again].

At this point I tried to do the body language thing. You know the stance that says "this conversation is over"? Well the quasi intoxicated gentleman was not familiar. Not to be so easily deterred he went on to motion for me to remove my earphones three more times.

Quasi intoxicated man: I like your accent
Kate Krupnik [slighly more intrigued than put out at this point]: I haven an accent?
Quasi intoxicated man: Well, I can hear it-- I mean it's not Baltimore... that's all I'm saying.

So I thanked him and wondered where on earth that train could be.

Quasi intoxicated man [motioning for me to remove the music from my ears yet again]: What I'm trying to say is I like the sound [more bobbing and weaving].

Finally, the Lightrail made an appearance on the tracks. The clang-clang-clanging of its arrival interrupted what was not an altogether unpleasant event. I mean, the utter unsuitable nature of this man as a true contender for my heart aside, I immediately started thinking about the blog post I would write. Not bad for a Monday Morning.

Well, well, well... what have we here?

Hornet's nest? maybe. So I'm not quite sure what all is going to be kicked up in light of recent events (and those in the know, know, and that's that), but I have a feeling there will be, um, how do you say... implications....

Or. maybe I'm just a drama queen afterall.

Now then. moving on. I went to the first meeting of the thesis class. Hmmm... how do you say waste of time? Okay. my attitude sucks. I'm too punchy, and I'm feeling all "Mary, Mary quite contrary" about it. It seems that we will be rehearsing our selections for the end of the semester reading. Something about this just screams 11th grade AP English. Or. no. more like tryouts for a grammar school play.

Okay. Do I even need to mention that we have four things to do for next week? I'm starting to feel overwhelmed. Someone get me a paperbag. I seriously need to hyperventilate.

In other news, I left my keys at work. Because I went right to class afterward, I didn't notice till about 9 tonight when I was standing in the lobby of my building desperately, frantically searching my bag, hoping against hope for the sound of that familiar jingle. On the upside, the property manager lives onsite, so I was tucked safely in my place inside of three minutes after I called her.

Well, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of homework to do suddenly...

Commemoration /Acknowledgment

I know how important today is... to remember. To think on. To not let myself become hardened toward or forgetful about. And I do. I acknowledge all of it. I remember it all. But I also wanted to wish my younger sister a happy 23rd birthday, to acknowledge her, publicly. This day should also be about every moment of life and I am so glad that she's here, alive, with me.

Lighting

The buying frenzy continues. Ever go through a period during which you need several core items all at once and also happen to have the means to procure these things? That particular twain hardly ever meets in my life, but courtesy of another birthday gift card I was able to get two more lamps for my apartment today. My place, being significantly old (um, I meant "vintage") doesn't have much in the way of overhead lights--which is fine with me, but it does mean that I have to invest in other, ambient light sources. Fortunately, I caught some great clearance items. Exciting, I know.

Sarah and I attempted to have a "working coffee" this afternoon, but I was too hyped up on caffeine to really focus on Neitzsche--and kept distracting her from her reading with inane questions and "observations," so we cut it short and went out for a late lunch of crepes at Sofia's on Charles Street.

Now, being back in my nest, I'm rushing about doing laundry, getting in some much-needed e-mailing, setting up lamps, and obsessing about what I need to do at work tomorrow. That 4th cup of joe really sent me over the edge, I think.

At some point, if I ever calm down, I'll post something meaningful. These pedantic updates are getting tired, even for me...

Anonymity...

is only rewarding when someone is actually trying to find out who you are. I'm not the first writer to conceive of herself as a character in the unfolding events of her life. Philip Roth comes to mind as one contemporary who has done this far more successfully than I could ever do.

This blog began because I wanted to tell the truth of my life without fear of that truth being found out. Something of a cross purpose, wouldn't you say? I loved, but wanted to hide that love under a bushel because I knew it could not, would not be returned. Or later, because I was enamored of the concept of a me that had splintered off from my primary personage, who was me, yet also something more, something different.

How successful is a literary construct once the lid has been lifted? It depends, I guess.

Unrelated. I named the iPod. It's a boy, I feel. His name is Kafka. I am so predictable.

I've started reading Thus Spake Zarathustra...

and i'm not quite sure how I feel about it. I mean, I'm only a page in, so reserving judgment is probably for the best. Now at least I know the context of that oft-referenced Nietzche quote "God is dead." I'm reading this work as part of my Independent Study--the goal of which is to contextualize and inform my own poetry.

Next Monday night is the first meeting of my Thesis class. I wonder what that will be like. I'm not sure what there is to discuss, since I'll be being advised apart from those meetings. Guess I'll find out.

All these heady concerns aside, can I tell you, I'm mostly preoccupied with getting the iPod. One half of my amazon shipment came today, so the little beauty can't be far behind...

I bought the iPod this morning. I also got some books for my Independent Study, all courtesy of amazon.com. Everything has already shipped (I sprang for the two-day delivery), so I should have it by Friday (I'm having it sent to me at work).

I went marketing this evening shortly after getting home. Now I feel all settled because I have food for the next week or so--including my favourite yogurt, plenty of instant oatmeal for breakfasts, a corpulent salmon filet, and other creature comforts. And what is more, the new bed is like a dream, I have a hair appointment for Saturday morning, and a few new fall purchases in the closet. Ah, but this flukey weather. It's going to be 83 tomorrow and in the near 90s the rest of the week and weekend. September is a strange month. It's summer hanging on for dear life, but fall crouching at the door.

33 so far...

What a gorgeous, sunny day out. I'm at Sarah's; I've had pizza and coffee for breakfast (my choice); I've opened presents; I've talked to my beloved Catchka; Last night I went to Target and bought a lovely lamp with a friend's generous gift card present; later I'm going to Kohl's to buy a handbag (they have the best selection); and I'll round out the day at the bonefish grille with my mom, Sarah, and my mom's friend. Not bad.

But this week. Oh, this week... I buy the iPod. That's my present to myself.

Is this what it means to be a woman of a certain age...

That I can't sleep without doing the dishes from the small fete in my apartment? After a planned dinner out, I had a few friends over to my place for coffee and dessert. In the spirit of fun and letting my hair down I tried to leave the coffee mugs, plates, and forks in the sink. But at almost 2 a.m. I could not sleep, so I got up and did the dishes. It felt great. Now maybe I can grab some shut eye.

Rainy Saturday

It has been raining for more than 24 hours. The whole city is bathed in grey. I used to have an unhealthy preference for rain over sunshine. I can't explain it, but sunny days worried me. I saw them as a bad omen. Gloomy days were a talisman against disappointment. I guess it was some kind of ironic distancing mechanism or inverted expectations thing for me. In recent years, I have grown out of my melancholic disposition, but you know, I still love a good rainy day, under the right circumstances.

I wish that the fiends that I've enlisted to help me with the couch didn't have to deal with the rain in light of their errand, but that practical matter aside, I love being tucked up in my sweet, spacious apartment, listening to jazz, drinking coffee, and cleaning up in anticpation of my plans tonight.

More later...

Working at Home

To accommodate the delivery of my new bed, I worked from home today. I mean I really worked. With only small breaks for food (and letting in the deliverymen), I cranked out everything I intended to in order to best position myself for next week's deadlines.

I started dinner at about 6:15--I made turkey meatballs baked in sweet basil tomato sauce (Classico) with parboiled, then roasted red potatoes, and spinach. It all turned out very well.

The next big thing is waking up tomorrow and getting some cleaning in before the couch arrives. This is the couch I got from my friend specifically to warm my office up some. I still have the same livingroom stuff, but I really wanted to round out my work/writing space. Next I need more lamps and a few area rugs.

These are my preoccupations a few days out from my 33rd. It feels good to be so centered, to know what I want, to be pleased with how things are turning out.

Tomorrow the dinner party, then Sunday I hang out with my sisters for part of the day, then with Sarah. And then Monday. The big day, which I hope to spend relaxing before meeting up with my mom for dinner.

Happy Holiday Weekend, everyone!

Perspective

What I love about this photo that I did not take, incidentally, is the distinct line of perspective my sister captured. Rose on the floor, to a woven basket, to the edge of the door, to the grand painting in the entry way of my apartment. Oh, and the reflection of the rose in the wood. I just noticed that, I mean right now. As I was typing.

More thoughts on the book meme thing...

Aargh! We always forget something...

I really should have mentioned Kafka's The Trial and Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake in some capacity. In either case, both tremendous, for entirely different reasons. Well the same reason in that they are both expertly written, but the affect is completely different. Seinfeld is very Kafkaesque. That existential crisis we're all so fond of having... well that's K's brandname irony (do not even think about using this phrase unless you are quoting me. ) I'll say that much.

In other news, I burned my arm taking cookies out of the oven on Sunday evening. It hurts. Good night.

Good Fortune

I went to buy a bed on Sunday. I made the decision (due to financial constraints) to just get the bed and a new mattress and box spring. I'm saving the dresser and end tables for another time.
But this created a little problem. What to do with my old bed.

A new person just moved in across from me. I hadn't met her before today, but I had this idea tha maybe I could give it to her (I didn't even know it was a her until tonight). I bumped into her in the hallway when I returned home from the market. I asked her if she'd like a free, full-sized bed. I invited her to see it, sit on it, etc.

We're going to put it in her place on Thursday night. My new bed comes on friday.

Oh. and the Independent Study was approved.

Book Meme

1. One Book That Changed Your Life

The Catcher in the Rye. Think it's a hackneyed, adolescent choice? Maybe, but Salinger, through his much crushed-upon bundle of contradictions, Holden Caulfield, made a string of subversive, spot on commentary on hypocrisy... society's, mine, yours, and it's funny. More than 50 years later, it's hysterical. and honest. And if it's possible to have feelings for a construct of fiction, then I had feelings for Holden. I wrote a paper once, for my own enjoyment, comparing and contrasting it to Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

2. One book you have read more than once

Other than "Catcher," The Monk Downstairs. Tim Farrington is a contemporary writer who is preoccupied with questions of spirituality and personal faith as expressed in interpersonal relationships. His monk was disarmingly guiless, sexual, funny, and human. I was more than a little smitten with him, too.

3. One book you would want on a desert island

Jane Kenyon's Otherwise. A tremendous collection of the late poet's work. Accessible, unassuming, staggering.

4. One book that made you cry

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

5. One book that made you laugh

Christopher Moore's A Dirty Job. Just. could. not. stop. laughing.

6. One book you wish had been written

Well, I'll take a little liberty with this one. The story of my life. I hope it will be. Maybe even by me.

7. One book you wish had never been written

Any truly crappy, poorly constructed book. I'm not a snob, though I do love real literature. I've enjoyed a variety of genres, both high and low brow... academic and utterly pedestrian. Good writing is good writing.

Okay, anything by Nicholas Sparks. That man is a hack. And it kills me that he's living well off his truly bad, formulaic books. He's the writer's Thomas Kinkaid.

8. One book you are currently reading

Disgrace by J. M. Coetzee

9. One book you have been meaning to read

Persuasion by Jane Austen

10. Tag five new people

Sarah, Catherine, anyone else? Have at it!

Last Workshop

Two members of the summer-long group were out. One planned, on business, the other because of strep, but we still had a successful last meeting. My poems were discussed, as were two other submissions. I e-mailed the prof to let him know I was willing to forego group time on my poems, just so no one got short shrift, but he felt it would be doable. We made it work.

Sadly, we didn't go out afterward, but it became clear to me when class started that it wasn't the right group for that. Three married adults and me and the instructor. People have spouses to get back to, and the mood, though very cheerful, wasn't right for convivial activity.

I got some very encouraging feedback on my pieces. Including the one where I really took the risk. Huge payoff.

Well the fall semester, my last in the program starts in a mere two weeks. It's going to be a good one. I had a discussion tonight that mitigated my concerns about the fact that I still haven't heard about the Independent Study. Things will work out in my favor either way.

Okay, so I nearly didn't post this...

but I had a dream last night (or this morning... ever notice how there is no "time" in dreams?). One of a recurring series about letting go. Vestiges. Remnants of feeling. Clearly, this is how I leave things behind. In increments. The subversive life of my dreams processes the truth of "no more" for me.

In this dream, anyway, he (my unrequited love of years) and I were in a car together. On our way to his house where a party of people waited, his wife included, and he told me what he used to love about me. And he mimicked some gesture that I apparently had (though it is not an actual gesture of mine from the waking world) that was especially meaningful to him. And then a revelation. He said "if I had been black, I would have been able to be faithful to you" (this came, I'm sure, from a background concern of mine that race maybe kept him from considering me as a worthwhile partner).

At the end of the dream (I was leaving his party) he asked me if I would smoke with him [one last time]. My mother/best friend amalgam suddenly appeared and told me not to do it. But I said "I am going to smoke with him. I just am." But the cigarettes were dessert cigarettes and when he dropped them on the floor they broke...

My step-grandmother's funeral is Saturday morning. I'll go home on Friday evening (I had wanted to get the train on Saturday morning, but all the Amtrak options are either too early or too late given the time of the service.) and come back to my place on Saturday evening.

In other, less grave news, I have procured a couch for my office. Well, it's not yet in my possession, but I have a plan in place. I have an agreement with the current owner (Nina!). It's just a matter of getting it to my place...

There is a peace of mind that only comes with cleaning your house top to bottom. Well, I made some strides in the direction of that peace this evening. I got home at about 6, household supplies in tow. I did all of my laundry, textiles and linen included; cleaned the bathroom and swept and mopped the kitchen floor; I dressed my bed in its late summer, nearly fall suit; I made an approximated version of chicken parmesan; I managed to find some baby pictures of myself that I've needed to find; and I conditioned my hair.

I'm hoping to wake up tomorrow morning and scour the kitchen counters and tidy up the office before heading off to an Os game with my mom and a friend of hers.

But back to these baby pictures. I felt a somewhat disconcerting sadness looking at myself at that young age, in that time before my earliest memories began. I marveled at how much was ahead of me--how much sadness I would feel that I had no way of knowing was coming. And it made me wonder if any of us could ever go forward knowing what sorrow awaits us. Even now, perhaps, I am years ahead of some great pain that will completely level me. But all I know right now is the ignorant bliss that has come with the satisfaction of cleaning my apartment on a Saturday night in late summer in 2006...

The First Week

I feel good about my initial efforts. It's tremendous to be so willing, again, to give myself to my work. Really, this has been a fresh start in every sense of the word. I love the new commute (via the Lightrail, not the bus), I love the atmosphere of the office (big, bright room with fun lamps and light wood desks--it has a very organic flow). Let me say, for the record, how important atmosphere is to productivity. Very.

Anyway, I feel that all I've talked about for the last several weeks is work. I would hate to think this is all I have left to discuss.

Let's see... Oh, blast it. I'm just super boring right now. uber boring. I'm getting out of the habit of documenting my life with any sort of clarity or style.

Still haven't heard about the Independent Study. I wouldn't say that I'm stressed about it, but by the same token, I feel a little peeved at the amount of time it's taking for a decision to be made. I mean, fall classes start in about two weeks. What is the hold up?

Just wanting to check in before bed...

I have been incredibly busy at work (a good thing) and cannot imagine (based on what I keep hearing about the workload) that I will have the time I had to e-mail, blog, stare off into space that I often had at my old job. And It's not that I wasn't busy there. I was a lot of the time. I guess I just had arms around my work in a way that I won't have here for a while. So far everyone is great and being there feels good. I've been told that I'm doing well on the assignments I've been given, which is heartening, to say the least. It's not just editing. There's a creation/writing component to the work as well. It's good to be stretched.

Actually, the whole business of being there feels surreally normal. The three weeks between giving notice and starting at the new place helped me to appropriately process the change and to effectively separate.

My neck is still hurting a bit, but keeping heat on it all night last night and during the day today has helped.

Oh! The neurosurgeon and I missed the wine festival. I thought it was this coming weekend. Apparently it was this past weekend. I'm actually in no way disappointed. I told him that we all (him, me, and E) should hang out again when she's fully recovered (she's currently under the weather) and that seemed to go over well.

Heating Pad & A Medicinal Cocktail

I must have slept funny last night because I couldn't turn my head more than 45 degrees today. Slight pain aside, I had easy an easy, busy first day. My sisters didn't leave until this morning, which made the transition to living alone again much easier. I guess because I was going right to work as they were heading out, so I didn't have that weird time alone with nothing to do but think about them and Babygirl, and how they all been here with me... I love being alone, but it is harder right after I haven't been, if that makes sense.

Last night we watched two contemporary classics--"Jerry McGuire" and "Bridget Jones' Diary" after a supper of takeout pizza; we went to bed at about midnight. It was supremely good bonding time, overall, but I'll have to report more later b/c my neck is really hurting now. It doesn't help that I decided to lift a heavy box off a high shelf after getting home from work, I suppose...

Me and Bg in the park today!

My other tremendously beautiful sister with our beloved Babygirl...

My sister is leaving today. And I will miss her so much it will take me at least a week to adjust to the lack of her in the apartment. Not that her presence ever entirely goes away. If you've met Carly (a nickname of hers), then an indelible impression has been made.

My other sister, whose name also begins with a C is here and at some as yet undetermined time, they will get in the car with our beloved Babygirl and drive away.

As much as I love the sense of accomplishment that comes with closing the door on certain parts of life and times and seasons, this one is a bit harder.

So in homage to my summer (the second in a row) with Carly, I give you a little roundup of the themes of this particular season.

Song of the Summer: The Beautiful Ones (Prince)
Show of the Summer: So You Think You Can Dance?
Phrase of the Summer: Two more minutes... (spoken sleepily by C when I tried to wake her up in the morning)
Best "Something Good" of the Summer: You will be getting a new job soon (spoken in May!)
Worst Gig of the Summer: C being forced to sing a medley of "People" and "Reach out and touch somebody's hand" at my mother's community service organization's banquet
Best Gig of the Summer: The Green Door with Juanito!
My Favourite Moment of the Summer: Listening to C and her band guys practice in the apartment
Favourite way to make change for the bus: Going to 7-11 to buy ice cream sandwiches or diet black cherry vanilla Coke
My Summertime Obsession: Making the slightly earlier bus in the morning!
What I wouldn't have had any other way: Walking out of my old job for the last time with C by my side.

I had forgotten how brilliant Jeff DanielsBridges is in "The Fabulous Baker Boys." I remember seeing this film in 1988, when I was 15 and I got it then. I understood that his interpretation of the younger Baker brother was good, but I didn't fully grasp why. I was flipping through the various HBO channels this afternoon and it was just coming on, so I watched. The restraint. The desperation masked by a veneer of apathy. A tremendous performance. Wonderful lines.

the roses I got today (in sepia) on the dining room table

the view from the window at work

me in my [nearly] empty cubicle

my lovely sister

my dansko clog on the [home]office floor

From my [home]office window

Time on my hands...

Your Love Quote

Love is made by two people, in different kinds of solitude. It can be in a crowd, but in an oblivious crowd.

What Love Quote Suits You?

A coworker left a dozen pale pink roses on my desk along with a card while I was out on a brief head-clearing walk. They are not in a bloom as full as those in this picture, but they are fat and generous with intricate folds. Pink roses have been very significant to me since I was 23 years old. It's a story I've told on this blog before, and I won't go into it here... but I will say this. I had this vision, earlier, of leaving here today with a dozen roses. And I thought it odd, because I had no reason to believe that anyone would be getting me any (you can't exactly expect such a gesture). Perhaps my desire for some was so strong that I pushed the thought out into the universe--or, more as I would think of it, that God knows even the deeply hidden desires of my heart and grants them.

In Retrospect

It is fitting that I stopped in at Whole Foods on this, my final morning working at this job (contrary to the way it must seem, Whole Foods is not part of my daily routine). It is also fitting that as I sip black coffee (a lot has changed) from an egg white mug while eating an organic blueberry muffin, that I am blogging. If you click on the title, it should take you to my thoughts after my first day here. I cannot resist the concept of full circle. I believe in it.

Probably the most accurate result I've ever gotten for a test that measures this index...

You Are An Intro-Extrovert!

Sometimes you're social - sometimes you're shy You've got a bit of an Introvert / Extrovert split going on You enjoy all sorts of situations. Parties, small groups, and alone time. Too much of one, and you'll long for the other. You need varity! Chances are, you've got both serious and fun friends - and they don't get along.

Are You An Extrovert or Introvert?

Okay, I do like candles, but the rest of this is spot on!

You are Totally Realistic

"Romance" means you're about to roll your eyes Seriously, you can do without the sap or drama Save it for someone who has nothing really going on in their relationship For you, love is real - and easily integrated into your life You don't need candles, flowers, or chocolates to know he's the one Just some stimulating conversation... and maybe a great smile.

Are You a Romantic or Realistic?

Another... (these relieve tension/boredom)

Your Element is Earth

Your power color: yellow Your energy: balancing Your season: changing of seasons Dedicated and responsible, you are a rock to your friends. You are skilled at working out even the most difficult problems. Low key and calm, you are happiest when you are around loved ones. Ambitious and goal oriented, you have long term plans to be successful.

What Element Are You?

This is pretty much where I am right now...

You Don't Need a Man ... or Want One!

Generally, you're very happy being a single woman. And anyone who has a problem with that... well, that's there problem. Not that you wouldn't share your life with the almost perfect guy. You simply won't settle though. Your life is too good to share with some substandard man!

Do You Need a Man?

Finally, some down time!

You Are a Rose

You are a total alpha female who tends to be a leader. Your friends depend on you to hold things together and make decisions. Men are drawn to your feminine powers and strength. While you are the center of attention, you are secretly introverted and a bit shy.

What Flower Are You?

Barefoot in the Park...

was charming, as I had remembered it (I believe I had seen all but the last 5 minutes before). And a good sized, fun crowd came out. Such a feeling of community--friends, couples, dogs, a ferret on a leash...

Speaking of dogs. Before the movie started, V and I went to the "wrong" park in my neighborhood at first (the movie was shown in the one on the other side of the street, so it was an easy correction to make) and sat down by the fountain when one of several dogs came over to me. I saw it notice me as soon as we entered the park, and I understood that it wanted to make a connection. So, I sat down and she/he (I didn't have time to notice) came right over, and just stood looking at me. Its head was practically on my leg, but she (I'll just say "she") was still affecting an unobtrusive posture. I started to talk to her, "hello..." at which point she licked my fingers. I petted her head. More licking of my fingers ensued. Then she trotted off. I complimented the dog's owner on her fantastic animal. Really, what a sweet spirit she had!

Anyway, V and I spread a blanket I'd brought and drank the iced decaf coffees I made us at my place and settled in for vintage Jane Fonda and Robert Redford. The movie is really funny and I loved laughing outside with strangers on a balmy summer evening (occasional sirens broke the mood). Honestly, there will be three more Wednesdays of movies. It would be a tremendous thing to do with friends, alone, or on a date.

Any Given Wednesday

I had lunch at the James Joyce Irish Pub yesterday--with the coworker whom I lauded a few posts ago. What a stand up guy. We had to keep looking around the restaurant to make sure no one from work was in there... it was that kind of debriefing session...

Now I'm just eating a bowl of toated oats of some kind along with the requisite cup of black joe. Starting next week, I'll eat breakfast at my apartment before I leave because the new job starts an hour and a half later than my current one. Well, it was my choice to work these hours--and if I had the option at the new place, I would also work earlier hours. But...now my mornings will open up in a new way... and I'll only get off an hour later than usual. Not too bad. Oh, and I do have the option of working earlier on the days that I have classes. Pretty good.

Sidebar: I love it when employers show their support for employees' personal goals by allowing for this sort of flexibility. I would actually give my current company (at least the bosses I have had here) and A++++ for that. They have been tremendous about my schedule from the get go.

Tonight, I meet up with Victoria for "Barefoot in the Park" in the park!

And now for some Blogthings...

You are Dark Chocolate

You live your life with intensity, always going full force. You push yourself (and others) to the limit... you want more than you can handle. An extreme person, you challenge and inspire the world!

What Kind of Chocolate Are You?

You Communicate With Your Ears

You love conversations, both as a listener and a talker. What people say is important to you, and you're often most affected by words, not actions. You love to hear complements from others. And when you're upset, you often talk to yourself. Music is very important to you. It's difficult to find you without your iPod.

How Do You Communicate?

I've Been Through The Desert On A Horse With No Name...

That's what the latter part of July and beginning of August have felt like. Incidentally, I am also listening to America's classic "Horse With No Name" as I type this entry. What a curious bunch of lyrics.

Today was well-paced, even-keeled. Me in control. Had the last status meeting I'll ever have at this place. It was all about printouts, work logs, and having more information to disseminate than was necessary. I'm finishing things on my own terms in spite of some maneuvering on the boss lady's part (last week) to show me who was boss. I saw her agressive posturing and raised her an "above-and-beyond-the-call-of-duty" strategy. Yeah. So don't mess with me. So now she knows. But she doesn't know she knows...

In typical fashion, my initiative is making things happen as they ought. I had to ask HR about my exit interview (this has happened before at other companies). Heck, the payroll woman didn't even know I was leaving. Outside of my department and a handful of other people, I'm beginning to think this is the best kept secret in the company. Anyway, I found out that the process of scheduling an exit interview is being held up because my manager hasn't filled out a form. Maybe when she was busy making sure I completed a task outside the scope of my job, she should have made sure she'd gotten things that are her job done.

Well. It seems that I am downright snarky this evening. I'm trying not to lament the fact that because I took my July vacation before I'd actually accrued the days that I am 4 days in the hole... esentially, the last check will be a significantly shorter one. I am comforting myself by reminding myself that I could not have known I was going to be getting a new job so soon... and that that vacation was a Godsend. It saved my life. I was back at the office a little over a week when I got that interview at the new place. So this will all eventually work out.

But I had to postpone the honey brown highlights I'd planned to get this Saturday morning. 'S okay. Everything in due time.

I returned two books to the library--via the dropoff bin since this branch is closed on Sundays until October--shortly after waking up this morning. I checked the weather. It was a temperate 75 degrees that felt like 75 degrees according to the heat index. Realizing it wouldn't get better than this, I set about making some toast and coffee, put the "Quitessential Billie Holiday" in the discman and set off.

Once back in the roost, I started planning my day. I called the Sarah-one and we talked about resuming attendance at the Saturday church services we enjoyed so much. Long hiatus due to any number of circumstances, but we were in agreement that we need to start going back. I need that corporate worship experience. Or rather, I want it.

I've just polished off a spinach and jack cheese omelette, so it's time to start the weekly cleaning. Then I have some lists to write. This is the last week y'all...

You once asked me what I regret. This was about 4 years ago, maybe 3. Anyway, I remember having this overwhelming compunction to answer "you." I bit it back because I convinced myself in the space of a nanosecond that it was still possible for our story not to be tragic... okay, maybe not tragic... a cautionary tale, perhaps. That first, visceral answer was prescient, I know now.

Sometimes It's hard to believe I ever knew you... but then I ran across this rare bit of photographic evidence that we once existed in the same space. You used to occupy my life.

I want you to know I never thought you were something you weren't... well, I think I must have thought of you in some ways that had precious little to do with who you actually are... but what I mean is that I was never deluded about the construct of our relationship. It was a construct, wasn't it? I felt like I was caught behind glass for six years...

or maybe, that my doppelganger hijacked all my interactions with you... while I was locked in a closet somewhere banging desperately, wanting to be let out, but there was always so much to hide. At the end I was so tired.

Know what I've discovered? There remains this distilled part of the years I knew you, and that to me is still pure. It has nothing to do with my unrequited angst... but more the purity of our mutual yet separate artist angst. The common language of a painter and a poet. The one pure element of it...what I sometimes wish, when I wish anything concerning you, could have survived the seismic (for me) shift the complete mortification of our friendship meant, finally.

I'm writing all of this not even hoping you'll read it, not even a little bit. I'm writing this because I was overcome by a wave of missing you this evening... not the way I used to miss you--sharply, accutely--a year ago, but a prescient missing. Because you are leaving the town that has always been synonymous with you, for me. So much of my fierce longing for this city had to do with a fierce longing for you for the longest time. You tried to leave it so many times before, but it would not let you go until now. Everything waits for the right time.

And I knew I had really grown past the last vestiges of any hope I ever had for you when it became possible for me to imagine leaving. I loosened my grip. And though it is mine to call home for a while more, I suddenly, today, in a moment of noting the sun's loosened grip on the sky, marked this thought. In mere days, you will not live here anymore. You will not live in the place of all my memories of you. We are not friends anymore. Though I have a story that is connected to any street I walk--of having driven, walked, or crossed that street with you--on our way somewhere.

I let that knowledge settle. I have understood it as a fact for months, but I let my spirit expand to receive its full meaning. If you were staying I would not seek you out, as I am not seeking you out now. It is just my way of saying I had this moment, this little ache of acknowledgment today. And I missed you in a way that was alien to me after a year's distance.

I have stated often that I wish I had never met you--not so much because of you--but because of how I conducted myself when I knew you. I wish you had no such memories of me as the ones I know you have. I did not love the person you knew as me. She no longer exists. Maybe it was her I felt sad for.

After a dinner of spinach and three-cheese omelettes, C and I went to First Thursday. The one we attempted in June got rained out; we were both out of town for the one in July, so this was our last chance. The band was very good, as were the pale ales we sipped to beat the heat. There were so many cute babies and dogs in the park. I'm excited to go back next week for this.

We made our way back home to watch the "So You Think You Can Dance?" results show (Well, C to watch, me to check in with it periodically while doing other things).

Well, It's Friday. One week from today will be the last time I ever sit in this chair, clicking the keys on this keyboard, or look out of this cubicle window.
I'm really trying to stretch out the work now...there isn't much more to do.

I'm going to take down and take home all the stuff left in the cube (black and white photography post cards, mostly) next Thursday. I want to be able to walk out on Friday the 11th with just my purse.

32 Days to 33...

Okay, so the neurosurgeon called. Straight off, he asks me "why are the Israelis attacking my people?" If E hadn't shared with me earlier this week that he had asked her the same thing, I would have been taken aback. Just because it's so loaded, politically, to even discuss this issue--particularly when you are ill-informed, as I am, about the latest events.

Sidebar: I will only discuss politically controversial topics with people with whom I have an established relationship--family or friends--not because I am afraid of controversy but more because I want a person to know where I'm coming from, on the whole, so that any comments I make can be taken in context. Not that I want my friends and loved ones to agree with me, but I do want to know that they're disagreeing with me based on what I'm actually saying...not a misunderstood version that is being filtered through the lens of a certain predisposition.

In any case, I dealt with it by asking him a question. Something technical about what's happening. It seemed to reroute him.

He mentioned the wine festival that E told me she'd mentioned to him... that she suggested he take me to! But he just mentioned it. He didn't ask me to it. So I said "So are you calling to ask me to the wine festival." We're going. He also said that I should call him if I want to do something before then.

Look, people, this was not a love connection the night we had dinner or anything, and while I'm open to hanging out with him here and there, I'd prefer if it was in the context of group stuff... but I'm trying to be less rigid. I am woefully unpracticed. This would be great, I think, if he and I stay on the same page.

At the very least, it's an anecdote with a lot of mileage potential.

I have one coworker that I will miss, especially. He is my buddy. He likes my anecdotes--or at the very least suffers them. One of the funniest people...naturally funny... that I've ever met. And if he wasn't already taken, I would not hesitate to set him up with any number of friends. He's top drawer. He is also the only person here who has even mentioned taking me out for a farewell lunch. I don't expect my coworkers, for the most part, to make any special efforts because most of them are new or new-ish. I'm a relic from the company's first three years of existence. Almost no one with whom I was especially close (as far as work goes) is still around. But this guy, who has only known me for a little over a year, is being true to what makes him so great. He's generous, kind, and giving. And if you're ever lucky enough to work with someone like that--or currently have such a gem in your workplace, then you know that people like him are what making leaving a crappy situation a little sad.

I wish I could take him with me.

You've heard it before, but my manager is getting on my last nerve! This would be the new woman who just started about a month ago... it's subtle and not so subtle stuff. But really, Thank God I am getting out, because the veneer of civility between me and her is about to crack.

Listening to a Jazz Cafe playlist as I type. Waiting for the sun to go down so C and I can gather the strength to walk to 7-11 for a couple of ice cream sandwiches. Tomorrow is hump day. Halfway through my penultimate week.

Projects are closing down nicely...including this one I just really didn't want to do. I slogged through this morning. This freaking heat is making everything go in slow motion.