Crystal's Christmas

As many of you know, the decision to have Christmas at my place was last-minute, and not my own. Because I had not planned to play hostess, I did not budget to purchase a suitable spread of food to feed about five people and a dog, in addition to the presents I bought. Enter my sister Crystal stage left.

She and Caryl (and Babygirl) arrived on Sunday evening with a carload of presents and groceries (her boyfriend followed a few hours later). She thought of everything--breadcrumbs, butter, marshmallows, aluminum baking pans, fresh kale and collard greens--all that you need for a soul food meal (her favourite).

My suggestion had been that we should buy a few boxes of pizza, a bag 'o salad, and some wine and have a very simple, kind of atraditional holiday. My mother was appalled. My sister rallied. Between the two of them, all of the usual carb-laden suspects were present on the table. It was wonderfully surprising to be there, but to not really be responsible for making most of it happen. Sure, I helped cook, did some prep work, but really this was my sister's show. She made this holiday what it was--with her time, her own planning, effort, and resources. And yes, it was a little chaotic, and there were lots of dishes to wash (several rounds over a period of 24 hours), but I'll tell you. That's the kind of hubub you want--a full house, laughter, and a content dog.

Once my mom and her friend arrived (at about 2:30) it was obviously time to open presents (Caryl had been antsy all day and wanted that to happen ASAP). What a blur of wrapping paper, ribbons, bows, and outer packaging! The dog just ran around the table in excitement the whole time. I no more knew what was happening than she did, I think.

Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised at just how well it came together, though by no means surprised by Crystal's generosity or efficiency. She is one of the most industrious people I know, and I got to see her in action. I know it's part of her personality, but it still really impressed me.

a longer post about the holiday to come, but in the meantime just wanted to report that i had a lovely Christmas with my family and got some very thoughtful gifts. More importantly, i got in some true quality time with my sisters, which I treasure so much. sarah and i hooked up on her way back into town from Richmond and did our gift exchange today. Just finished watching one of those gifts--The Bridget Jones sequel (edge of reason). Oh, and I checked my Independent Study grade online. A+. I figured on an A because I knew I had done the work, but that little + is a tremendous gesture of acknowledgment from my advisor. I know I deserve it, but it still surprised me, because I'm not accustomed to that type of generosity in academia, that little extra. I gave myself to the work and he recognized that. Now I just need to contest that thesis grade (my advisor is not the one who graded me on my thesis though he is the one with whom I did the work)--I was marked down an entire letter grade for not attending the reading. In any case, I have every expectation of rectifying that situation to my satisfaction soon. I'll report back as there is news to report.

Back later with more details about Christmas...

Parting ways with the post evangelical church subculture
(or God, save me from your followers)

The church is a huge disappointment to me. When I say “church,” I mean both the institution and the members of the body of Christ who comprise that institution. For years now, I have wondered at my increasing hesitance to attend a church, let alone become a regular member of one.

There is a biblical model for corporate worship—it should be a source of joy for the Christian to worship God together with other believers—but mere church attendance was never intended to be viewed as synonymous with a thriving, intimate relationship with God. That is an entirely private matter, but I cannot tell you how many times I have been berated by well-meaning Christian friends—ironically, at points when my life was the most characterized by prayerfulness, intense, intimate worship, and careful meditation on scripture—who chided me, deeply concerned about my relationship with God because my name was not on the registration log of a particular congregation.

Because my relationship with God could not be seen (and no one can ever say for certain what goes on in any relationship) they thought it must be nonexistant. If any of those friends had had even one unpresumptuous conversation with me during those times, they might have felt differently.

God tells us plainly that man is concerned with the outward appearance, but that he weighs the heart. The Church, at large, is guilty of deifying the outward appearance. At best, it’s a superficial hour (maybe more, depending on your denomination) of “fellowship” with others who profess faith in Christ, but, in the inner chambers of their hearts, judge more harshly and more arrogantly than any "godless" (for the sake of this post, simply those who profess no faith or religious affiliation)person I've ever met.

Being a member of the average protestant, evangelical outfit is an exhausting obstacle course of fake smiles, cliques, and small talk peppered with Christian lingo, bake sales, game nights, and general awkwardness. It’s worse when you are a single adult past a certain age. I’ve read countless articles about the plight of Christian Singles and they all pretty much boil down to one point. Singles need to stop emphasizing their singleness and look for opportunities to get “plugged in” (one example of the lingo I was talking about) to the church community.
The Church emphasizes the singleness of the single because it is an institution for families and clans (most churches have as part of their infrastructure, groups of smaller groups to aid pastors in delegating ministerial responsibilities). But if you have no family, and have not naturally folded in with a small group(formal) or subcultural clique (informal), then you stick out like a sore thumb. It stands to reason. I don’t know that anything can be done about that, and maybe we should stop pretending that there is a solution to this issue. But what is worse, if you defy easy categorization, you will be stuck into the default, unspoken category. Terminal Single. Everyone is thinking it.

It will be subtle at first, but soon you understand that everyone around you has come to terms with the fact that your window of opportunity for love and marriage has come and gone. It is dangerous to be a single woman in any church,past a certain age, if you want to know the truth. If you are, the very nature of the institution sets you up for failure. The last time I was truly happy and unconflicted about being a member of a church, I was 25. 25 is one of the last years I could be a truly carefree Church Single. The dye of expected servitude to the "women’s ministry," role of church maven,hospitality committee (setting up the coffee andcookies after service)member, nursery attendant, etc., had not yet been cast (there are certain “intuitive” opportunities to serve that Old Maids tend to be pushed toward). It can still work out for you at 25.

If you get to 29 and remain uncoupled, the likelihood of a viable man coming to the church,who is also unmarried, dwindles. And since the church is your main source of social connection and validation (obviously, you want to marry within your faith, so it’s natural to want to meet someone through this network), you get wedged into an increasingly tight niche. As is the case in most social structures, being a single man, of any age, is infinitely easier,though single men in church also have their burdens to bear.The Church is just like the secular world that it shuns when it comes to romance. It is based on possessing obvious good looks with Christianese terms like “godly character” thrown in for good measure. I have seen any number of men and women remain “unexamined” despite their godly character if they were thought to possess below average looks. I guess only the empirically attractive are really cultivating the heart of Christ.

I have been troubled, for years, by my decreasing desire to be affiliated with a “local body.” I have wrestled with it, prayed about it, and yet it remains completely antithetical to my wishes to even attend—because I have been made to feel that anything short of total involvement is to shirk my spiritual duty.

My ideal church scenario would be to go once a week for the service, receive the sacrament, enjoy corporate singing, and to hear the Word of God faithfully proclaimed without having to feel responsible to be a contributing member to one single community of people, forever and ever amen.

I am not rejecting God. I reject the precast role I would have to play as a single woman in almost any church I attempted to join. There is no room,no categorization that would also allow me to be intellectually curious or interested in things that are culturally relevant without feeling that I have to qualify those things. Anything other than a cookie cutter believer who comes from an "acceptable" family would be a sore point.

Church membership, at this point, would feel tantamount to cutting off any chance I would have to evolve spiritually, artistically, and emotionally, at the knees. More than the inherently hypocritical social subculture of the church as it pertains to matters of singleness and false-ringin g“friendships” based on holier than thou nonsense,there is the public inability of the church to be true to what it professes. This is actually far more significant than the Church's flawed social strata.

If one is going to publicly, politically proclaim the name of Christ, then one has a responsibility to live out that faith above reproach. I am thinking of the pastor from Denver who was caught in the male prostitute and ecstasy scandal a little over amonth ago. If you know you are conducting your life in direct opposition to what you say you believe,wouldn’t you take yourself out of the limelight? Wouldn’t you, knowing that you are schismed in such a profound way, not put yourself in a position of spiritual authority or moral superiority to people who conduct the same practices you do when no one you know is looking?

How can the Church see to remove the speck from the world’s eye when it won’t first attend to the plank in its own? Honestly, after that happened,I came to a conclusion that this might be a season for the collective of believers to drop its public agendas and take a closer look at the spiritual state of the Church before God, to whom it professes to hold itself accountable.

I know how much I fail to uphold Christ’s commandments. No one can live a sinless life on this earth—it can’t be done—the bedrock of the faith is that we have been saved by God’sg race—and it is in relying on that grace that we experience the most full expression of our faith. Yet, we’ve made the house of God a prison. And ourselves liars.

There are so many things I never could have been...

Catherine came over last night for a pre-Christmas sleepover. She arrived just a minute or two after I got home from work and I promptly filled her in on the latest drama with the university (which I will save for another time). I had planned to make her gorgonzola meatballs & linguini for dinner, but a time crunch dictated that we dine out. We already had dessert reservations at Sammy's Trattoria, but wanted to do something more simple for dinner, so we went to the reliable City Cafe for a quick, unadorned bite.

Catchka and I both love Hitchcock, so post dessert and after our present exchange, we slipped "Dial M For Murder" into the DVD player and were by turns impressed with the director's unarguable genius and tickled by the melodrama that characterized the acting back in the day. The dialogue in old movies is so weird--it's simultaneously formal and less subtle than conversations in films that are made today.

For example, this morning we watched another Hitchcock--"Stage Fright," and in it Marlene Dietrich said to a supporting character "Oh dear, you aren't going to become one of those explicit people who tells you exactly what they're feeling when you ask them how they are, are you?" Or something to that effect. Priceless.

Sarah dropped off presents for my sisters and for Catherine before she headed down to Richmond to see her parents. A gifty drive-by. Before C headed to points south for a pre-Christmas bash with friends of hers, we stopped off at the Sylvan Beach Cafe and shared an Almond croissant and talked a bit. She was so enthusiastic about my thesis, and I loved talking to her about it, the genuinely lovely struggle of getting it out. She really understood where I was coming from, and it just inspired me and invigorated me all over again.

I grocery shopped so I'll have some food in the house when my sisters (and the boyfriend of one of them), and the dog show up tomorrow. Had a late lunch of what else? Something shrimp and whole wheat pasta related, naturally.

Netflix delivered me Dane Cook's "Vicious Circle" (have only recently discovered this comedian, and I really enjoy him) so I watched that before getting up the nerve to head out into the world of retail. I boarded a light rail to Lutherville and got my mom's friend, my mom, and my sister's boyfriend presents. And now I'm done. Literally, I am spent. It's all about vapors of cash till the next paycheck.

In terms of what I never could have been. Well, it's joining a growing list of posts I'm saving for another time.

More Shopping

Unexpectedly, I hooked up with Sarah after work to do some more shopping and wound up getting a lot... for myself. I happen to need a lot of stuff right now--stock items like new sweaters, a watch, some shoes. It seemed indulgent, but then I reminded myself that I've held off on these things for too long, which is why I suddenly need a lot all at once.

And in the interest of keeping it real, I made myself a salon appointment for next Thursday because I cannot take my rebel hair a moment longer than necessary.

But...but... I did manage to get Sarah's mom something. So it wasn't an entirely selfish venture.

I think I've finally gotten the right balance of curry paste, coconut milk, honey, and crushed red pepper to make a truly good curry sauce. Tonight's shrimp curry pasta was perfect (and hot!). I sauteed scallions, roasted red pepper, and garlic in the pan with the shrimp, then added the curry mixture. I let it cook until the sauce thickened up a bit. Once the pasta (whole wheat) was done, I just spooned the shrimp and sauce on top. So easy and relatively easy clean up, too.

Talked to my mom tonight. I think we are now doing Christmas at my place, which is actually nice. That means I will not have to worry about keeping my sanity in a chaotic space. But it does mean that I can busy myself cleaning up and making things here as warm and relaxing as possible.

On other fronts, I am happy to report that both of my sisters are in relationships that are making them happy! Caryl's situation is fairly new, and not fully defined, but the gentleman seems invested. Crystal and her guy are beginning to talk marriage. I've met him and I approve. As with everything else, we'll see, but I think it's never bad to have love in your life, even if only for a little while.

I have been so restless lately! It's like I'm waiting for something awesome to happen, or for something to happen, period. I think it's just the internal chaos that precedes Christmas and the new year.

More Strides

I set up an invitation-only reading at a favourite local venue for next month. I'm very excited to share my work on my terms with my family and friends. Hope everyone I've invited can make it!

And I think I've also decided to join the gym near my job. I have got to do something--namely--to start moving and stop reaching for the candy jar.

I got into bed about a half hour ago because I was falling asleep on my couch while struggling to make it through an indulgent, well below par film and now I am WIDE awake. guess it was just that movie that was yawnsville.

After work I took the lightrail up to the suburbs (Christmas shopping expedition). I didn't buy what I went in search of (completely unreasonably priced), but I did come away with another little gem that I know the recipient will love to tiny little pieces.

Still haven't solved the problem of my hair. I mean, I know what to do. I have to go to the salon. But that's not happening before 2007 for sure. Yikes! Somebody get me a hat for Christmas.

It's impossible for me to be monogamous...

when it comes to alcoholic beverages. I decided that I would try to be faithful to the martini (dirty) last night. It seems befitting a lady to pick a drink and stick to it throughout the course of a meeting/conversation. Mind you, I wasn't going on a bender or anything like that. I figured I'd have two or three drinks tops (over two hours that's not so bad)... well, I had two martinis, but "pulled a Manhattan" for number 3. What can I say? I'm all about diversification in every sphere of my existence.

here are some things I desperately need right now, in no particular order:

A salon appointment (my tresses are so sad)
A gym membership (I miss the elliptical)
A plan for making it through 4 days at my mother's house with my sanity intact.

I wish I had a river I could skate away on...

I don't wish I had a river I could skate away on. This is called situational irony. Met with my advisor for drinks, to discuss, ostensibly, what i've done all semester. and we did discuss that, but we also discussed politics, how i became a Christian, the validity of my poetry, anecdotes, publishing possibilities, a trip to dc (in the interest of politics) together. It gave me every encouragement of this fertile collaboration continuting.

I had this moment yesterday...

this quiet, unassuming moment, in which I realized the following:

I am okay with everything that's happened. I am at peace with the past.

Wrapping Up the Weekend

I got back to my apartment from a weekend away (in Richmond with Sarah and her parents) at about 7:10 tonight. I ate the leftover curried shrimp with whole wheat pasta I made on Thursday night then set about wrapping presents (a task I don't really enjoy) I purchased. I'm pleased with myself--I think I managed to find three fitting items for my middle sister (I already ordered my youngest sister's present), small tokens for several friends, and a thank you gift for my advisor (really hope he doesn't already have it because I inscribed it).

Speaking of my advisor, I see him tomorrow night to "casually rummage through [my] thoughts about the semester" over drinks. I debated for a while whether it was appropriate to get him anything--for all intents and purposes my time at the University is over and done--so hopefully even if someone were to find out about it (and I doubt that), it couldn't be construed as any sort of impropriety or bribe or something (some bribe, a weekly bus pass costs more).

Besides, I contributed to a group gift for another faculty member who had little to do with my growth or development in the program. Once I was approached about "thanking" this man (who certainly deserves thanks and appreciation--though from me least of all, given my limited relationship with him), I figured no one could get mad at me for acknowledging the time, generosity, and crucial contribution my advisor/mentor has made to my writing and my evolution as a poet.

Well, this is the last week before the holiday. Let's make it count, people. See Sarah's most recent post for one excellent idea.

Criss-Cross

Just watched Hitchcock's "Strangers On a Train." Brilliant.

Strides

In the interest of rejecting the reality that is masquerading as my life, I submitted some of my poems for publication consideration to two online poetry journals tonight. I have also prepared two submission letters for two print journals. I'll have them out by the end of the week.

I've been planning a post topic, on some level, for months now...

This is not that post.

Yesterday my good friend Devika Keral made the train trek from Washington, DC to Baltimore to lunch with me and Sarah. She had planned to come to the thesis reading, but even after I made the decision to skip it, she decided to still make the trip. I am so glad she did. It is always soul-enriching to see Devika and yesterday was no exception.

She got to see my apartment for the first time. We hung out talking for about an hour, nursing glasses of my special egg nogg cocktail, before the Sarah One came to spirit us away to sushi in the suburbs. I have never had the pleasure of hanging out with them both together for any extended period of time, so that was also a real treat.

I didn't feel conflicted or regretful at all about not being at the reading. I wondered if I would, but it was just a superior way to spend the afternoon. I believe in doing what is organic, what brings you pleasure, with the people you love. And I love both of these women and I know they love me. It couldn't have been better.

After parting ways with Devika at Penn station, Sarah and I pushed on to her apartment for our standing Saturday night sleepover. We hung out for a few hours, tried to watch Woody Allen's "Scoop," but couldn't get into it, so shut it off. At about 9:30 we decided to go to Kinko's so I could get the tapebound/acid-free copies of my thesis that the University requires (I'll deliver them sometime this coming week). That process was delightfully simple (once we got to the store in White Marsh--the Timonium outfit's tape binding machine was broke and they had never heard of acid-free paper, which did nothing to inspire confidence in me...).

What a great weekend.

What I've Learned This Week About Outrage, Friends Who Could Not Possibly Rock Any Harder, Putting the Kabbash on Some Dubious Crap, and What It Means To Trust Someone...

At the start of 2006 I set a general goal for myself. Not a resolution, but more a guiding principle. Discretion. I have been very successful with employing this principle, on the whole, but of course, I have fallen short of the bar a few times, too. This week I have been sorely tested in this area. I haven't always known when to draw the line between "sharing information about my own life" and being a pot-stirrer. You know the type that keeps stuff going just because she gets off on it? I don't want to be that person... I've seen that "things" can get bigger and more blown out of proportion the more we talk about them, so I've started to check myself even when it's my own business I'm putting in the street.

It's not my intention to be vague here, but in the interest of putting the kabbash on the general ick that has resulted from some less than pleasant developments, I won't go into details. I can say this: I am already revisiting the object lesson of my post from about a week ago. I said there was power in understanding when something is not about you, in letting a person's negative impression of you stand. And letting it stand, in this case, for this reason, has nothing to do with a defeatist paradigm. It's about picking your battles. Sometimes you have to let another person, another institution, another entity try and convict you of some bogus, ambiguous social crimes in order to be at peace with yourself. You might just have to hang out there by yourself...go hard, etc.

But I'll say this, too. When you have an inner circle of people who know the truth, who can be all up in arms on your behalf, well that rocks. I can't say it any more simply. Look, I'm a strong woman. But sometimes it's nice to let someone else fight for you. Having a knight in shining armor, so to speak, doesn't make me feel any less formidable in my own right. It's made me feel even more powerful in this quiet, lovely way...

I know that trust has many illustrations and expressions. The one I've seen this week? Someone that I hold in high esteem not use his influence in my life to get me to do something I didn't want to do. I just felt so safe in that realization of his character. Like I didn't have to fight that battle in addition to the other ones because he got it.

As I said, this in addition to all the amazing friends God has given me who've kept me grounded and kept it real during the drama. Another terrific example. Last night my good friend E called me up and left me the best message. She'd told her dad about the recent goings on in Thesisland, and the man--who has never met me, incidentally--wanted to know if "he needed to go down there and storm the bastille."

Every woman needs a father, even if it's not her own, who would at least offer to storm an evil empire on her behalf.

Thesis Acceptance, Take Two

The University hustled to correct its mistake. As it turns out, almost everyone on the review committee had gotten the correct version, but the Poetry Reviewer, the one who actually had the final say over my thesis, did not. In any case, they all reconvened post haste after I alerted the Thesis Coordinator to the error, and re-reviewed my document. I got the new decision today via priority mail. This time my thesis decision was "accepted in this form," meaning I have no revisions of substance to make.

Now that I've calmed down I can actually see the compliment in the fact that my first draft was "accepted with minor revisions." Given that the only work that had been done to that draft was that it had been printed out, that's slightly remarkable. It was that rough by comparison. I feel so validated now, because as important to me as getting my thesis accepted, I wanted it accepted "as is." This is not, for my program, a lofty goal that few attain. I knew I could do it. It's great to know that my final draft earned the specific level of acceptance I set as my goal at the beginning of the term.

I am so grateful to my friends for not only supporting me throughout the semester, but for being there through the temporary crisis Monday night's upset created. All of you were appropriately outraged on my behalf while remaining positive and giving me some much-needed perspective. If it weren't for you wonderful people, I don't know that I would have gotten to sleep that night.

My coworkers, again, proved just how thoughtful they are. On Tuesday I received via delivery, at the office, a lovely basket of Afrian Violets. The card read "Kate, You will always be our Poet Laureate." First of all, I have never gotten flowers delivered to me, for any reason, so when the office assistant walked toward my desk with this beautiful arrangement, I was stupefied. Surely, she was not coming to my desk with this inspiring package...

Now I have the sense of joy and happiness I had hoped to feel on Monday night. It's all over and amends have been made; my work has been validated. I remember deciding to apply to this program 3 years ago. What a tremendous experience this was. It was everything I wanted, ultimately.

You know, I was so upset a couple of nights ago that I decided not to participate in the Thesis Reading on Saturday. In truth, I had never wanted to do it--not because of nerves, but for some inexplicable reason, I just haven't been "feeling it." But after the snafu, I decided there was no way I could even pretend to embrace the ritual in the proper spirit required for such an event. I told my advisor as much. And he replied that I was the only reason he would have attended--as a show of support, but more importantly to indulge in my work, my voice. This relationship has been the pivotal one of my master's degree candidacy. And I would be sad that this association is reaching a formal conclusion. I would be if I didn't already know that new contexts for continued collaboration await.

On to the next chapter of this book...

well, my thesis was accepted... with minor revisions. but the kicker is that they accepted the first draft. somehow the reviewer for poetry (not the person to whom I turned in my thesis and therein may be the problem) didn't get my final draft with new title, sans essay, and with extensive revisions. to say that i have problems with the fact that i was the last person in my class to find out my standing, and that i found it out in class (my thesis was handed back to me with comments) when everyone else got their results by mail, would be putting it mildly. i should not have had to process this information in a public setting--how much more horrifying to realize that i was looking at the old title page, the old table of contents, the essay, long since kabbashed, for goodness' sake... I tried for about three minutes to make it through the last class (this class, in case i haven't emphasized this enough, is something i had to attend in addition to my meetings with my advisor where the real work of my thesis was done), but i couldn't do it. i knew if i stayed i was seriously going to lose it, and just like with a child throwing a temper tantrum or who is unwell, there is only one thing to do--remove myself from the situation. i needed to get home and get on the phone and launch an e-mail campaign.

so i've submitted, via e-mail, the correct version to the coordinator. and i cc'd the poetry reviewer and my advisor. in short, i think i'm getting a master's degree. i still don't know, because now the correct draft of my thesis has to be reviewed. i am significantly less riled than i was last night, but i'm still at the point where i can't see how this has done anything but ruin the end of my master's career.

Some things happen and you know, intuitively, that they foreshadow something else (or you hope they do--in any case, they seem large with suggestion). For whatever reason, you are able to tap into the dramatic arc of your life and know This is important. Remember it for later. I could not stop thinking about a particular someone this afternoon. He occupied my thoughts for the entire 5-stop light rail ride I took from Mt. Washington to the Cultural Center, where I disembarked to go home. Right at the corner of Charles & Preston, I saw him. He was within calling out range, so I did. My voice has never had much power, even when I yell or scream, but he heard me and stopped.

The exchange wasn't long and the only remarkable thing about it, other than the unexpectedness of seeing him at all, is that in the course of about 30 seconds, he touched me twice. We were both on our way to our respective homes--and I was already somewhat late to meet my mother and her friend for dinner (today is my mom's birthday), so there was no belabouring of the moment.

It was kind of nothing, but you wouldn't know that by the stupid grin I sported all the way to my apartment. It was like I conjured him up and placed him squarely on the page of my day, right near the end of a chapter.

My sister rocks, literally...

The Perfect Winter Cocktail
(measurements not exact, but you really can't screw this up)

Half a wine glass of egg nogg
one fourth wine glass of 2% (or skim, even better) milk
a sprinkle of nutmeg
a shot of vanilla (optional)
a dash of Irish Whiskey
Stir.

I sipped this nifty little concoction while the red beans and rice simmered, the red cabbage (which is actually purple)cooked in balsamic vinegar and olive oil, and the yellow squash roasted in the oven.

There is power in simply realizing when something has nothing to do with you. There is grace in allowing the absence of your contention to be your tactical offensive maneuver, in letting your silence suffice.

It is a tiresome phrase by now, but the only thing anyone can control is his or her response to what happens. I believe in steering the ship—in as much as it can be directed—but something, someone will always blindside me. There is always a point at which I will be out of my depth. Sometimes this point is realizing that someone quite simply doesn’t like me (or worse, doesn’t respect me).

There is power in my choosing to let that be what it is. Less easy, perhaps, is the realization that someone pities me, or has some other misconception that is fueling their dislike (far better to be disliked for noble reasons), but I have disciplined myself to some degree in this area, too. It is not up to me to correct anyone’s perception or change anyone’s mind. I am not that important. Even God refrains from such manipulation, and if ever someone was egregiously misunderstood, it is God.

In the past, I have spent years trying to change the scope of a person’s heart. Ultimately, it was the surest course toward total division—my final division from the person whose mind I wanted to change—more importantly, more devastatingly, it divided me from myself.

Recently, I was part of a group discussion about marriage proposals (how they happened) and engagement rings (how they were chosen). A few people in the group mentioned selecting their rings online by way of a popular Web site. I brightened, having heard of the site. One of the women asked me if I’d ever purchased a ring from the site. I had not, I told her, but had “designed” a ring via the interactive feature.

At that moment another girl piped up and said with something akin to mild wonder “You always say the most shameful things—then I realize ‘hey, I’ve done the same thing!’”

My response to this comment was one of legitimate curiosity. I told her that I hadn’t even considered that this was something shameful—that I’d simply wanted to know what all the terms (emerald cut, princess cut, square cut, baguette) translated to, visually.

She self-corrected. “I meant, embarrassing…”

I know this woman meant no harm. It was a moment of unchecked candor. It may sound harsh, but I was there. I saw her face and heard her tone. It was not malicious. But between this disclosure about once designing an engagement ring (sans fiancé) and other things she’s gleaned from my life by other throwaway comments I must have made, she’s made an assessment. And I’m not interested in changing it. I am content to let her find me pathetic, not because I agree with her, but because the dye is cast. I have been categorized and that is that. I know this girl doesn’t give me much conscious thought—for good or bad—her reaction to my anecdote probably took her as much by surprise as it did me.

It is at a time like that, at this point in my life, when I understand the absolute value of knowing who I am, being convinced of that. I don’t have to go on an internal tear about this. I don’t have to do any campaigning (there would be no end to this if I began it).

But…

this situation reinforced another lesson. Thoughtless sharing, or too much anyway, is often the instrument of regret. There’s something to be said for being inscrutable.

Stranger Than Fiction

Sarah and I finished out the leisurely weekend with a movie matinee. I finally saw "Stranger Than Fiction" and it was definitely worth the price of admission. I enjoy Will Ferrell, in general, and found his dramatic efforts to be as worthy as his comedic ones. His performance was credible and enjoyable. I was very intrigued by the points at which truth and fiction converge and it raised all sorts of provoking questions. And of course it was hard not to imagine my own life as the result of some external, governing authorial intelligence. If my life were a narrative, I think it would almost certainly have to be 3rd person omniscient. Who would that narrator be? Would this voice be male or female? I'll have to think about that one some more.

I finished watching the latest Netflix offering from my queue a few moments ago. "Friends With Money." Hmm. Well acted, but these people's problems are not my particular problems,their concerns decidedly not my concerns, so I remained distanced from the characters and the stories.

But back to "Stranger" for just a moment. It made me think about the places where my life needs a push, where I need to move forward in some direction(any good movie should make you think about your life, I think). There is this beautiful point in the plot when the hero understands and is able to articulate in no uncertain terms what he wants. It was inspiring. I think we all know what we want, we've just talked ourselves out of the possibility of it. I know I do that. All the time.

I must be stressed (still). Have been having a slew of strange, absurdist dreams (John Mayer working at my office, but wearing his suit and tie backward as a demonstration of his rejection of the 9-to-5 business model) that indicate, clearly, that I feel uncomfortable with my abilities in each of the major areas of my life. The other night I dreamed that my advisor had invited his entire tuesday night class to a thesis meeting with me and fully expected them to all offer up revision suggestions, and when I balked at this, I came off looking like a complete and total ass. Finally, I attempted (in my dream life) to join a truly rinky-dink gym only to find out that it was $300 a month, so there was no way I could afford it.

Am trying to maintain perspective and regain some semblance of a feeling of control.

Must detox from the richness of Thanksgiving food. This is no time for me to fall apart (completely).

Leftovers

On Wednesday night I met up with Catchka for dinner. I decided we should go to this neighborhood pub that has survived for at least two years, though it never seems very busy. I figured it would be cheap and very no frills. Now I would say that it is subpar, and though my expectations that night were decidedly low, they still missed the mark. More on that in another post (blog wars!)

C dropped me off at Sarah's house after our lacklustre meal so that Sarah and I could do as much meal prep as possible for Thanksgiving dinner. Of course, by the time I showed up Sarah already had gotten quite a head start on the homemade sausage stuffing (with dried cranberries and pine nuts), the aroma of which filled her place with all kinds of goodness and love-- the macaroni and cheese casserole, and the gingerbread for the gingerbread pumpkin trifle (a la Paula Deen).

Thursday morning we woke up, not that early, did a few more things at S's place, then packed up the car and headed to my apartment where the stage was set for some fine holiday fun. I had asked my family to show up at noon. It was more like 2 when they got there, but that was actually better.

A lovely artichoke dip and red wine (and Sarah's homemade rum punch) were set out as appetizers by the time my sisters (and babygirl!) arrived. My mom and her friend got to my place about 20 minutes after the girls showed up. My Christmas 2006 playlist warmed up the dining room, while we all chatted and caught up.

Crystal's boyfriend wasn't set to arrive until about 4:30, but the food was all ready to be served by about 3:30, so we all ate (Crystal opted to wait for him, but sat at the table with us and occasionally I force fed her bites of my food). Once Brandon arrived, we were starting to do a little clean up, but all the food was still out and relatively warm... nukeable.

My mom, her friend, and Caryl got the tree assembled in no time flat while I washed and dried dishes. This, apparently, was exhausting, because they didn't even bother to put the lights on (Caryl and I did that later, then Crystal joined us to help decorate).

We took lots of photos, then played a rousing round of Outburst (then moved on to a less rousing, but still fun turn at Taboo). My mom really wanted to watch a movie, so we stuck in a DVD ("Over The Hedge"--originally we thought Brandon's young son would be joining us) and ate some of the three dessert options (carrot pie, dutch apple pie, and the gingerbread pumpkin trifle) and drank coffee.

Everyone left at about 9 or so, and since I have some light traveling plans with Sarah, I came back to her place last night so we'd already be together today when it was time to hit the road.

Well, I'm off to enjoy the rest of the weekend... and the leftovers.

I remember being a teenager and hating that the holidays meant being away from my friends. Of course, I looked forward to Thanksgiving and Christmas in some ways, but more often than not I felt relief when it was time to go back to school and regain the semblance of normalcy that a school schedule imposed on my angst-filled life. It was an unburdening to go back to the manageable drama of cafeteria politics, the navagable terrain of 6th period ennui. This continued through my college years, only it was worse because the breaks were longer, the family stress more intense.

As I've probably mentioned, I am hosting my mother and sisters (and a couple of friends of theirs) this year. Sarah is coming,too, but it hardly seems accurate to say that I'm hosting her when she's doing more than half of the work... anyway, the day that I couldn't wait for when I was 16 is finally here. And it's odd. This is what it's like to have the holidays on my terms, when I can technically do anything I want, be with anyone I want, and my only non-negotiable is that I am with my family. The people that I still wanted to flee prolonged periods of time with at this time of year not even 5 years ago.

I'm in a weird place right now. I feel very blah. And can't seem to get started, energy-wise. I mean, I'm working, I'm doing what I need to do, still plugging away on the Independent Study, awaiting the thesis decision...I cleaned my apartment. I mean I'm doing stuff, but I just can't seem to engage some things the way I want to.

So my family is coming and I think it's going to be good. I think it will go fine, I guess. But something is still amiss. I feel out of control of something small, but integral to my own peace of mind. I don't know what that is.

And now, we interrupt your regularly scheduled thesis and Independent Study angst for a slew of quiz results...

You Are 75% Left Brained, 25% Right Brained

The left side of your brain controls verbal ability, attention to detail, and reasoning. Left brained people are good at communication and persuading others. If you're left brained, you are likely good at math and logic. Your left brain prefers dogs, reading, and quiet. The right side of your brain is all about creativity and flexibility. Daring and intuitive, right brained people see the world in their unique way. If you're right brained, you likely have a talent for creative writing and art. Your right brain prefers day dreaming, philosophy, and sports.

Are You Right or Left Brained?

You Are: 40% Dog, 60% Cat

You and cats have a lot in common. You're both smart and in charge - with a good amount of attitude. However, you do have a very playful side that occasionally comes out!

Are You More Cat or Dog?

You Are Expressionism

Moody, emotional, and even a bit angsty... you certainly know how to express your emotions. At times, you tend to lack perspective on your life, probably as a result of looking inward too much. This introspection does give you a flair for the dramatic. And it's even maybe made you cultivate some artistic talents! You have a true artist's temperament... which is a blessing and a curse.

What Art Movement Are You?

You Are 5: The Investigator

You're independent - and a logical analytical thinker. You love learning and ideas... and know things no one else does. Bored by small talk, you refuse to participate in boring conversations. You are open minded. A visionary. You understand the world and may change it.

What Number Are You?

You Are 72% Happy

You are a very happy person. Generally, you feel content and that all is right with the world. Occasionally, you have a down day - but you have the ability to pick yourself right back up.

How Happy Are You?

You Are a Auditory Learner

You tend to remember what you hear, and you have a knack for speaking well. You excel at debating, foreign languages, and music. You would be an excellent diplomat - or rock star!

What's Your Learning Style?

You Are 79% Thankful

You are a very thankful person - for both the big and little things in life. Your optimism is powerful. Getting through hard times is fairly easy for you.

How Thankful Are You?

Your Aura is Red

You have a high level of emotion. This can mean passion, but it can also mean rage. Usually, you don't take these emotions out on others. You just use them as motivation - and it works! The purpose of your life: embracing all the wonders of the life, lots of travels, and tons of adventures Famous reds include: Madonna, Marilyn Monroe, Jennifer Lopez Careers for you to try: Dancer, Boxer, Surgeon

What Color Is Your Aura?

Your True Birth Month Is November

Patient Secretive Romantic Inquisitive Trustworthy Determined Hardworking High-spirited High abilities Unpredictable Never give up Sharp thinking Thinks forward Always thinking Motivates oneself Loves to be alone Has a lot of ideas Difficult to fathom Extraordinary ideas Unique and brilliant Brave and generous Well-built and tough Careful and cautious Dynamic in personality Deep love and emotions Uncertain in relationships Honest and keeps secrets Can become good doctors Less talkative but amiable Stubborn and hard-hearted Fine and strong clairvoyance Not able to control emotions Does not appreciates praises Thinks differently from others If there is a will, there is a way Hardly become angry unless provoked Knows how to get secrets out of others

What's Your True Birth Month?

Sarah and I just got back from Wegmans where all of the greater suburban Baltimore population was also shopping. I am usually annoyed by the throng at this grocery store (honestly, it was probably about the same as any other Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning that I've been there), but I purposed in my heart to be in a good mood, no matter how many clogged aisles I faced. I got a mix of hazelnut and dark espresso at the coffee shoppe and made my way through the maze looking for all the Thanksgiving trimmings to lay the best feast possible for my family. Having Sarah as my partner in this venture made the shopping trip less overwhelming, so I don't want to discount the impace of that on my mood, either.

Honestly, I can't wait for Thursday. I'm having everyone arrive at noon, so we can really have the whole day together. And as per a relatively new tradition of mine, we are going to put up my tree on Thanksgiving night to the backdrop of Christmas music. I can't wait for the smell of baking squash and the golden buttery scent of macaroni and cheese casserole, hazelnut coffee, homemade stuffing with sage sausage... all of it swirling into the dining room, our dog trotting around happily, just knowing she's getting leftovers.

V and I got together for breakfast (this is becoming our monthly tradition :)) at Jimmy's in Fells Point and had the best discussion about art and standards, and how one determines these standards. We talked about structural considerations and evocative qualities. It was all very thrilling. Jimmy's is pretty busy, so as soon as we were done we released our table (before we were out the door our table had been bussed and two new people had already been seated there)and walked over to Sound Garden. I almost bought two used DVDs but ultimately decided against the purchase (with V's help). I just paid a lot of bills so I don't have nearly as much leftover money as I normally do at the mid-month point.

After Sound Garden we walked over to the Daily Grind for a latte (V) and an Americano (me). We sat outside and chatted for a bit about the CNN article on happiness we had both recently encountered. I was interested to read that Harvard Psychologist Daniel Gilbert found that having children has a "small negative effect on happiness," and further that "Once you pass an income of $50,000, more money doesn't buy much more happiness."

Our last stop on the Fells Tour was Bluehouse (the location of my poetry reading this past summer). v had never been there and I had a hunch it was the kind of thing she would love. She did! We decided to get together next on November 30th--the day after her birthday--so we can celebrate.

Once back at my apartment, I freshened up a bit, blew my hair dry (washed it this morning and had just kind of let it do its own thing for several hours, so it required some assistance at that point), then went to GiGi for lunch (much to my chagrin, I had nothing with which to make a complete meal in the house).

At 3 I went over to Hopkins to participate in a scientific study (related loosely to brain function and visual perception). It was about an hour and a half total, and I got 15 bucks for my time. I took a cab there, but was feeling adventurous, so I walked all the way home (I was delighted to see that it was still daylight when I left the lab). Remembering that I still had nothing with which to make a meal at home, I stopped off at my neighborhood Market (Eddie's) and picked up a bottle of Yellow Tail Shiraz-Cabernet, two packets of fresh shrimp, brussel sprouts, and fire roasted red peppers. My earnings from the experiment came in handy; I paid for my wares in cash and headed the last few blocks home.

First, I let the wine breathe. After doing up a few dishes from last night, I set about making a roasted red pepper, garlic, and scallion puree for the shrimp (sauteed over relatively high heat); I lightly salted the brussel sprouts and put them in the oven to roast; when the shrimp were done, I started some grits (salt and black pepper, a little half & half and mozarella thrown in for good measure); lastly I warmed some maple butter corn bread I made earlier in the week. It all came together so well.

Later tonight, Sarah will come to pick me up. We have Thanksgiving shopping to do tomorrow!

I met K almost immediately after work for cocktails at the Brewer's Art. We had much catching up to do. In the time since I've last seen her she's dated and broken up with someone. We had the best time. We called her sister Catchka just before leaving the BA to tell her how much we really want her to be happy.

Happiness is much on my mind of late. I am reading Darrin McMahon's Happiness: A History as one of the last of two books for the Independent Study. I really want everyone I love to be happy. And what surprises me is how often that means not getting what you thought you wanted. But sometimes it does mean that. Whatever will give my friends the greatest ultimate, lasting satisfaction is what I hope for them. And the grace to know it when it comes.

(Be Here)Now

Some would say that it's a worthwhile challenge to issue one's self--to be fully present and attentive in each moment of one's existence. But what would that mean, exactly? How would that look? What would that require?

I've been in the presence of a few people (maybe 3 in my whole life) that I believe had found a way to affect this kind of attentiveness. And it's a seductive experience to have someone like that focused so fully on you. It's seductive just watching them be present where they are.

To fully possess yourself you must fully forget yourself, then remember what you forgot, but with forgiveness, with distance. Or something.

What am I on about, you wonder?

So do I.

The End

I watched the last disc of Arrested Development: Season 2. Now I have seen every single episode of the show that everyone loved, but that not nearly enough people watched. And, a couple of days early, I dropped off my thesis. Unexpectedly, Sarah and I got together today after work and she took me to campus to make the errand easier (I would've had to take the bus on Friday morning, otherwise). I anticipated, initially, that I would be working on it till the last possible minute, but it is what it is, and now it's not up to me.

In other news, I took the first step toward loan consolidation. After going into a small fortune's worth of debt for this program, I'm going to need all the help I can get.

Last Friday Night I enjoyed a delightful meal with two friends (Sarah and E) at the Brewer's Art. The Neurosurgeon was supposed to join us, but he did not get out of the OR in time. So, what was to be a happy foursome of witty, intelligent women, and the very-droll-in-his-own-right doctor, became simply a girls' night. The conversation was scrumptuous. We talked of men (we don't really understand them, but we love them), politicians (we understand them too well, we fear), and a host of other topics that kept us laughing heartily. The Shiraz-Cabernet was so mellow and round, the braised short rib, melt-in-your-mouth delicious, and the fig and carmelized onion crepe, the embodiment of perfection. It was one of those movie meals, one of those movie scene talk-fests. The dining room is perfect for fall-- high ceilings, dark wood, white table cloths. The essence of warmth.

Something a little out of the ordinary happened. A woman came up to me who reads my blog because her brother was kind enough to link to an article and a podcast I did that featured back in early September. She recognized me, I suppose, because at some point I must have posted a photo. Still, it was remarkable to me that I could be picked out of a crowd by someone who'd never actually met me before. I was and am so glad that she came over to say hello. If she's reading now, I say again--it was so nice to make your acquaintance.

In a matter of hours now, the thesis will be handed in. Quite literally, it will be out of my hands, but it's been so consuming that I haven't had time to be worried about anything that usually drives me crazy. I can't believe it's nearly Thanksgiving, and then after that, a few weeks later, that it will be Christmas.

I think having meaningful, personal work that drives you is the crux of happiness and contentment. It has caused me to have a singularity of vision that I haven't had to employ in years. Everything has been very clear to me. It has been so easy to say no to anything that threatened my committment to the work I was doing.

I wish this kind of healthy obsession on everyone.

I spend, as a rule, so much time not doing much of anything. And I hate it. I hate purposelessness. I always have, and yet I get sucked right into the vortex of it, with ease.

Going out to dinner with my friends was so wonderful because it was a reward--like coming up for air, just briefly. But the being submerged feels and felt like life.

These poems are finished. I am bereft. I understand, now, what writers mean when they say that depression often follows the completion of a book. But it's not just that it's finished, that it's over with these particular words, for this particular time (Lucille Clifton would say that "poems are never finished, they are only abandoned"), but it's also the thought of having to start all over again with new words. It feels like I just don't have it in me to do it again. I gave everything to these 25 pieces I'm putting out there as a statement to the university about my craft. And I am shredded. And I am invigorated.

That's love.

The Best Kind of Sunday

I was up a bit late last night (talking to my sister and watching disc 2 of Arrested Development, season 2) so I slept in this morning, but not too late. I showered, made a quick, protein-heavy breakfast of scrambled eggs with steak, cheese, and onions (coffee to drink, of course), then did up the dishes. Full of purpose, I made my way to the library to return the Wallace Stevens books, then hit the market. Fortunately, I thought to bring my back pack with me, so the trek home was much easier (most the of the produce and one bag of stuff fit snugly in the knap sack) than usual. Because I managed to scare up enough quarters in change from my marketing errand, I was able to do two loads of laundry, one of which included my sheets and towels.

I whipped up some banana bread (from a box mix, but I added vanilla syrup and chocolate chips) while the clothes spun and dried; I got an early start on dinner so that it would be a simple matter of warming it up when the time came to eat.

Things had really suffered around here for the last few weeks while I devoted the lion's share of my attention to my art, so I purged my mail and excess papers that needed to be processed then filed or discarded; I dusted, took out the trash, then made myself read the articles in magazines I'd been saving. Once I was done (I only skimmed them, which is so typical of me)I threw the magazines out.

Now I read for the Independent Study for the next few hours before bed. At about eight or so, I'll warm a piece of the bread and have a bit of tea.

This is one version of the perfect day.

A little comedy of errors...

So I had this meeting with my advisor planned. We were going to meet at the City Cafe at 8. Keep that in mind while I digress, out of necessity, for just a moment.

When my sister visted me last Saturday we decided to set up a family plan through my cell phone provider. She'd been without a phone for a month, and it just seemed like an easy thing to remedy, so we got the ball rolling. Her phone arrived, at my address (the billing address) yesterday. But she couldn't come to get it yesterday, so that meant she'd have to come by tonight. I figured I could just have her meet me at the City Cafe for a brief handoff during my meeting, and that would be that.

I got to the cafe a few minutes before 8. My advisor called; he was running late. He asked if I wanted to wait for him or if I thought meeting at my place would be better. I don't know why, but even though I knew this would introduce a complication, I told him I'd see him at my place. I figured I'd have time to call my sister at work and tell her about the change of plans. No such luck. She clearly left at 8 on the dot.

And thus began a complicated, sit-com-esque chain of events. My advisor shows up to my apartment and we start talking, but I'm all distracted because of all the hullabaloo (not being able to reach my sister, feeling thrown off due to the changes). My mother calls right in the middle of our conversation (I had already called the restaurant and left a message for my sister there), worried that Crystal would somehow come to harm because of the snafu. I was worried too... but nothing like my mother who WOULD NOT GET OFF THE PHONE.

You have to imagine my advisor laughing during the conversation that went something like this:

"Okay, mommy..."
[my mother talking]
"Okay..."
[my mother still talking]
"Mom, I really have to get off the phone... I know, but I left a message... Okay..."
"Please go get my baby!" [this would be my mother]

So off the prof and I went. Once inside the restaurant, I saw my sister immediately. She was on the phone with my mother, who WOULD NOT GET OFF THE LINE (my sister brought a friend with her, and was using his phone at that point).

Anyway, I handed her the goods and went off to resume what was an incredibly heartening meeting with the literary genius. With minor, minor suggestions and issues raised on a handful of the pieces, he told me that I've done good work and that it should be sent out for publication. We also talked about the Independent Study and how we'll meet once more to go over that, but that really that's also in the can as far as he is concerned.

I have really labored over these poems and have interrogated all of the reading I've done with as much integrity as I could muster, and this conversation was the payoff. He's happy with it; I'm happy with it. Honestly, I feel like celebrating already.

Thanksgiving In-Flux

Because my mother is a creature who is far more interested in possibility than actuality, I still have no idea what my family is doing for Thanksgiving. For the longest time she was going to be in Canada for the holiday visiting some friend of hers. Then my father died and she decided that she didn't want to be away from my sisters and me at such a family-focused time of the year. We felt the same way. But she decided to go anyway. Then she changed her itinerary so she's not leaving until the following morning.

So, now that she will be stateside, we are back to the guessing game of whose home will she thrust us upon so that her holiday can be just how she imagines it. My mother is a people person. She likes a lot activity and flurry--a good amount of chaos. She has no patience for contemplation and quiet, intimate gatherings. To her, this spells b-o-r-i-n-g.

My one sister really feels connected to my mother's side of the family--but that tradition of being with them, as we've always known it, has changed since my uncle died a couple of years ago. My aunt now goes to her son's house to celebrate with his immediate family. It's more awkward. We're not even sure if this is something to which we are invited...

Having a spacious apartment makes me a great candidate for hostess, and I would love to do it. It makes the most sense for me to be the one to make arrangements and buy groceries, go crazy with preparation stress, all of it--but trying to pin my mother down is like trying to grasp oil.

So this is my way of saying I'll keep you posted. You'll know something when I do.

I rejoined Netflix just so I could watch season 2 of Arrested Development (I've already seen all of seasons 1 and 3). The first disc came tonight. After I got home from another thesis revision session, I watched it, in its entirety. What is it about Bateman? No matter what he's doing, I'm charmed.

Early Bird

I love being such a naturally early riser during the week. I got to my polling place by 6:55, was done, line and all, by 7:21 and was at work by 7:40. Still an hour and twenty minutes before I technically have to start. Coming in early really helps me to get my bearings.

My meeting with the advisor is postponed until later in the week, and since Sarah is under the weather, she and I will have a marathon revision session via phone tonight. I want to focus on about 7 of the poems that I think need the most attention. This is better, actually. So when I see my professor I'll be giving him something that is pretty near finished.

Since I've been home, I've figured out the best direction for one of my poems. It nagged at me all day at work while I familiarized myself with some components of a project that's ramping up... anyway, the piece is infinitely more satisfying now. I'm meeting with Sarah, tomorrow, for another revision session prior to meeting with my literary sensei. My goal is to have all this put to bed by Saturday. I want to go into next week with the thesis in the can.

Oh, and of course I'm voting. First thing in the morning. See you at the polls!

Mary Tyler Moore Moment

You know the opening credits to the "Mary Tyler Moore" show? The sequence of her walking through the busy downtown streets of Minneappolis, alone in the crowd, that ultimately culminates in her throwing her hat up into the air in extreme, self-actualized jubilation? Well, there was no hat toss, but I did take a spontaneous walk through my neighborhood today. I tried reading Plato's Symposium and McMahon's "Happiness" exploration, but I am maxed out on reading for anything that requires concentration.

Anyway, I went on this walk while listening to "32 Flavors" on repeat and just felt...unobligated, for five minutes. After yesterday's birthing session of poetry revision (and yes, it does feel like labor at this point), I'm spent. I had just enough energy left to implement the changes and get them off to the prof., but I just couldn't make myself do anything more. I was and am so run down.

And while I traversed the cobblestone paths, saw the statues in the dog parks emblazoned by the sun, and noted all the dreadlocked artistic types, one refrain went through my head:

You're gonna make it after all...

After the walk, I came home and did a very little, I mean a truly negligible amount of work work, then I caught up on reading my O magazines (that have been piling up along with the last three months of "Real Simple" on the coffee table) and called Catherine ("Catchka" to the uninitiated). We talked of sociopaths (in the grad program, at her job), her own grad school aspirations, and just stuff, and it was wonderfully liberating to not force a strict intellectually-driven schedule on myself for five minutes. How freeing it was to just wash and roast carrots and potatoes for my dinner.

You know what I remembered when I took the time to not read those heady, daunting texts? I don't even need the Independent Study for credit. Clearly, I'm not about to blow it off (how ironic that I've worked harder for it, emotionally, than almost any other class)--but it gave me some much-needed perspective. So, I'll read selections from Happiness: A History and I'll give Plato's dialogue a fair perusal, but the thesis deserves my attention most right now. This week, I nail down the rest of my revisions, and then I turn it in. After Thursday the 17th, I spend the rest of the semester (about two and a half weeks) on the IS. And it is what it is. Maybe I need to give myself permission to not even try to read for the IS until this time next week. Something to think about...

You know what I predict? That when this is over I'll be utterly bereft. I haven't cared this feverishly, for anything, in a long time. Not since I was in the process of applying to the program.

This is the single best thing I've ever done for myself. I am going to make it, after all.

Sarah and I got together for breakfast and a major thesis revision session yesterday morning. Sarah is my copy and content editor, and as such, felt it would be better for us to have a face-to-face as opposed to her simply making marks on the document and giving it back to me. It was painful, but productive. I know that I am in full-on stress mode because my default solution at this point, if something is not working on first pass, is to remove it. Believe me, I have exhausted that privilege. At this point, I am down to 27 or 28 pages (poetry theses only need be between 25 and 35 pages), so I have no room to maneuver.

My sister Crystal came in yesterday afternoon at about 3:45. We talked for a couple of hours then went to dinner at Never On Sunday, where the cheesesteak is delicious, but kept me up with indigestion. It was responsible for quite a scare, actually. My rumbling stomach seemed to be the herald of a stomach "thing," and believe me, I cannot have a stomach thing, or any thing right now. I am down to 12 days. 12 days. I cannot lose a second.

So I prayed. And whatever it was passed. I guess maybe it was just a digestion issue, but I'm telling you, I had chills. I give God all the credit for the fact that I woke up feeling fine. Crystal is still sleeping. I think I'm going to have some oj and depith a grapefruit.

I sent my advisor the result of yesterday's revisions. I think it'll make our talk on Tuesday better. The stuff I sent him Friday morning was just not..., well it wasn't... you know.

I had a dream about my father the other night. In the dream, it was still the case that he had died, but he was sitting in a blue armchair. I asked him if people had a hard time touching him now that he was a spirit (i.e., did hands just kind of pass through him). He indicated that it wasn't really an issue. So I tried to tickle him. And he laughed.

32 Flavors (and then some)...

Is my "finish the thesis" anthem. It's on heavy rotation in my iTunes library at the moment, and 32 flavors is the forecast for the foreseeable future. I will not be doing anything, talking to anyone, or listening to any talk that makes me feel like I am less than 32 flavors...

I'm so tired tonight, but I'm pushing on and starting Darrin McMahon's Happiness: A History for the Independent Study. I meet with my advisor on Tuesday and I want to have begun this daunting survey of the intangible. I turned in the Wallace Stevens response yesterday morning and have sent him more thesis revisions as of last night, so I'm hoping we can have a fruitful discussion. I will be revising more over the weekend. I am going to tap dance circles around this thesis (a little mania can be useful)!

One thing is startlingly clear (other than that this is a bad day for Evangelical Christians and Republicans, but this is not a political blog, so moving on...):

I would love to pursue this type of study full time. Ph. D. here I come. Ph. D., you are not ready for me...

Life or Death

The pervading sense of alienation that has come from pursuing my scholarship alone has created a sense of urgency in my art, in me. I am fighting for something, for the first time, I feel that it's a matter of life or death if it happens. Galway Kinnell has a poem called "prayer" that is simply "whatever happens/ whatever is is what I want/only that but that."

I would never stick my head in an oven, but I understand why Sylvia Plath did. I love what I'm making and sometimes I think that love will kill me.

"how beautiful to be in a state of emergency," as the crazy sage Bjork states.

The Mean Reds

Today was a day, all right. As the illustrious Catchka, put it, "it's called 'a day'." This day was the day of Pale Flower Syndrome (so named by yours truly). I recalled the events of last night with a new clarity. I seemed wan to myself from the distance of hours--something in me reaching, that way that I can reach when I feel myself drowning. I wonder, seriously, if I'm not more socially awkward than I thought.

Wallace Stevens would call it "that old catastrophe." Some days it seems like I haven't made it very far at all. I'll tell you one thing, though. I refuse with everything I am to let my peace of mind be usurped. I am never going back to that familiar misery. God, no. God. no.

The things you learn...

I just returned from an outing with some people from the Tuesday night class and my advisor (I attended again this week because I wanted to be there for the conclusion of the Wallace Stevens discussion) and afterward, about four of us began a conversation that resumed at a neighborhood bar. It was fun and revealing. I hung back. I've never had an after class session with my advisor and others (in this case, all women), so I had to learn to negotiate the dynamic.

There was nothing unpleasant about it, but I sensed in myself that old thing that says "if there are other women here, I am the least interesting..." It happens in a variety of scenarios. In any case, one tidbit of the night. I learned that my advisor has played bass and guitar in rock bands. He just seemed like the type... I was in no way surprised.

I think it helps that I have been training myself not to shy away from scenarios in which I fear I have nothing to offer. It's all about perspective.

In other news, My smallish department at work today had a lot of fun dressing up as the president (my boss) and secret servicemen (me and my peers). The best part? Playing "Hail to the Chief" on a little boom box that we carried around whenever my boss had to go to the restroom.

Classic.

oh, and by the way... i heart this man.

What if I turned my attention only to what concerns me? To what I can actually do something about? How much more effective would I be?

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.