tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15945352467527867222024-02-07T07:41:54.257-06:00Missing MarylynThis blog is the place for what I'm missing in myself; it's an invitation. Build it and I will come? I will say nothing objectively new here, show no photograph that doesn't resemble one someone's already taken, but it may be new to me. The medium is (a big part of) the message. Presence on the internet may create an apparition within the soul, whose eyes are given anew by the world each day. (I don't even believe in a "soul," really, so there ya go; problematic enterprise from the start.)Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-14657292350032007272023-12-01T01:16:00.001-06:002023-12-01T17:49:13.206-06:00Ups and downs<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-h6OcGfLzhKlRvuhpfbWRbIPCU8suWToLUhGNmJr28c0QMhsmD6QQe0ufK7azigim0rxMpNcs9dk4GM7xG_vSIE64ZQPr0OAFkEUDaRrwzneCzHrfq1uLE-Ici12rEwH_1SiYR-6n1jxhXZ1BrCdWtg3rtVHQ5spdCZ1bMgzf_agu0ByHNH_qKDToQ00/s803/Paragon%20Park.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="803" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-h6OcGfLzhKlRvuhpfbWRbIPCU8suWToLUhGNmJr28c0QMhsmD6QQe0ufK7azigim0rxMpNcs9dk4GM7xG_vSIE64ZQPr0OAFkEUDaRrwzneCzHrfq1uLE-Ici12rEwH_1SiYR-6n1jxhXZ1BrCdWtg3rtVHQ5spdCZ1bMgzf_agu0ByHNH_qKDToQ00/w280-h174/Paragon%20Park.jpg" width="280" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br />I am not surprised that it’s been nine months since I last posted something here. I’ve been struggling to focus on the things I believe I want to do, and exploring the landscape of psychological discomfort, learning my way around. A few weeks after my February post, I simply quit drinking. It felt like the time had come. It’s not that I enjoy this dismally sober and brittle state of mind, but I’m getting used to it. Sure, there have been a few outbursts (two of them directed at brother Brian) of the sort that used to be fueled by mild spirits (I rarely ever indulged in anything other than beer or wine, but of course it’s not the type of alcohol, it’s the amount that one must be concerned about). This might be the longest span of time I’ve traversed without the sort of relief I was used to—since moving to Huntsville in 1981. At that time I’d utilized AA meetings during the summer to motivate both sobriety and dieting. Upon encountering Alabama's most Christian-oriented AA meeting (I should have tried others!) that October, I gave up. Now I’m simply on my own. Just what I do not need at my age.<br /><br />In addition to anger, or maybe even paranoia (Brian would call it that, and has), I’ve had gushes of anxiety. Not every minute, but in relation to perceived and forseen difficulties in the world. My little dog was diagnosed with kidney failure; she was throwing up and slowing down, and I made an appointment to have her euthanized (to avoid what I’m going through now), but was talked out of it by Russell and the vet at that very appointment. I’m glad Maggie’s still here after all, but the expensive probiotic pills she’s supposed to take have to be refrigerated. Can’t put them in warm food or they’ll be ruined. The result is that I stand over her, for long minutes, begging her to eat. I can slip the pills under her nose when she starts and she’ll gulp them down. But I still have to wait until her appetite gets going, which cuts into the time I have for worrying about other things! The cat has been a pain, too, meowing in a way that makes me want to kill her. I do not kill her. She’s old, and has decided that there’s always something I can do for her whenever she sees me, simply because I have not ever failed to respond, sometimes by tossing her to the other side of the bed, but often by giving her treats. These animal needs are constantly buzzing around in my home environment. It’s not world-broadening, it’s world-shrinking. Just what I do not need at my age.<br /><br />So much musical activity going on since February: attendance at many in-person open mics, and open mics online. Cyberspace is a good venue for me: the words and chords are on the screen where I can see them without making it obvious that I’m using that "crutch" (which can't be avoided in person; I'm the not-OK boomer with the notebook and music stand). An online open mic scheduled for the evening, songs chosen, a few run-throughs earlier in the day, a proper audio setup, and I’m ready to emote and deliver, close up, with a dark background. I’m told I’m very good by more than one person, and not in the way that everyone gets congratulated, but in private emails. Gratifying? Maybe, but in-person local situations are more fraught. I’ve made so many mistakes, technical (capo falling off) and performance-related (missed or wrong chords, losing my place on the lyric sheet, letting go of the mystical energy rope). I’ve sat by myself at a table, wondering how to socialize (without beer), and just as I was making new friends, the place of everyone's favorite open mic (Salty Nut Brewery) closed. I’m now recording songs for another album, slowly but surely. The experience is humbling. Just what I do not need at my age.<br /><br />Yes, Brian’s still here (after a year and four months), and Russell and I are trying to prod him to announce his plans. Of course he doesn’t have any (I wrote a song about that, of course). It’s at times like these that I understand cousin Denise’s horror at my situation. No choices. No room to move. But there will be a move anyway—Russell and I are moving to the smaller front room for our bedroom, and he’ll use the big room for his magic studio and office, the way it was supposed to be from the start. No more waking up because Brian is talking in his sleep! But Brian himself makes me anxious, simply by his hiding, his postponing, his relentless depression that he refuses to seek help for and yet makes obvious, and his Coffey know-it-all-ness continuing unabated despite his dire, dependent situation. During one of the aforementioned outbursts I accused him of hating me, but now I think it was me who perhaps hated him at that moment. I’ve also quite recently accused Joy of “despising” me, led there by her obvious avoidance of me (except socially at poetry meetings) since our final zoom session a couple of months ago. These days her reasons for living are to save the Earth and destroy capitalism; any deviance from that path or, god forbid, impatience with it, will earn you her silence, if not disdain. I feel I’ve lost that friendship, which makes me wonder how it ever came to be in the first place. But I know it was real for many years, and there's something that was once important missing now. Just what I do not need at my age.<br /><br />Recently I’ve run out of time for the weekly “women writers reading” zoom event on Monday evenings, I’ve struggled through a last 40Days program and almost lost my enjoyment of writing, and I’m taking weekly jazz ukulele lessons from a smiling old gnome at Harmony Sound, causing me to question whether I ever played adequately at all. Also, due to lack of privacy and Russell’s commitment to driving homeless Dave and Kim around whenever requested during the afternoons when Brian's out of the house at the coffeeshop, there’s been no sex for months. I thought that wouldn’t bother me, but now after many months, it does. Will moving to the front room at night bring that back (in its limited form)? Without being able to look forward to the relief of a couple of beers or a glass of wine with sparkling water, I have to take everything at face value, and it’s rough, and nothing flows smoothly except for practicing ukulele (the lull of repetition). The moment of finally putting my head down on the pillow at night is the closest I get to pleasure now, but then the cat ruins it by walking on my neck or pushing under the covers next to me but never staying put once there. However, for the first time since I had those gulps from the wine pouch, on the rollercoaster at Paragon Park with Ralph in 1966, I think I can do without. I really do. Just what I need at my age.<br /></span><p></p>Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-6678064652202545042023-02-09T21:55:00.004-06:002023-02-09T22:03:16.005-06:00Coming to a bad end?<h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fcff01;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Does my penchant for self-examination (often resulting in dead-end puzzlement) mean I’m really a “narcissist”? I can’t be the judge of that, but of course there are times when my behavior causes problems that I have to ponder, or feel guilty about, or feel victimized about.</span></span></h2><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Sure, it’s alcohol-related, I suppose. But the expressions that arise from me while I’m drunk surely have some deeper origin than just a random (unpleasant) release of inhibitions.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdqXmVl5pMRG4K7kq8ERuMLI38lr4Sy8ZsludmUOaO4uAW8qAgArnedC29oFjpAsH1E9LPWiapd3zYg5NE3VPEWs8aIn4-FMPCh5OeEdg3DbAM_ZB_xk5NLTH1aM1MnM0ZOgFieOFx5drAreVewVKYSdRipG2IkOdYiJph_Ax8eOR7S1Kc_xXItI3Mgg/s270/images.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="186" data-original-width="270" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdqXmVl5pMRG4K7kq8ERuMLI38lr4Sy8ZsludmUOaO4uAW8qAgArnedC29oFjpAsH1E9LPWiapd3zYg5NE3VPEWs8aIn4-FMPCh5OeEdg3DbAM_ZB_xk5NLTH1aM1MnM0ZOgFieOFx5drAreVewVKYSdRipG2IkOdYiJph_Ax8eOR7S1Kc_xXItI3Mgg/s1600/images.jpg" width="270" /></a></span></div><p></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I’ve antagonized people close to me once again, especially Russell. I did not respond well, in fact, I responded like a two-year-old being removed from a party, to his arrival at The Nook, where I sat feeling relatively comfortable with Joy and Susan Davis after our monthly WriteNightOut where we respond to prompts, write, and read aloud. Beer was involved, perhaps more for me than the other two, I’m not sure. But then, Joy says I’m a “lightweight” when it comes to tolerance. The name of the beer was “Pernicious,” and I had three of them. On a relatively empty stomach.</span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">So, my two girlfriends called Russell “behind my back” to come fetch me from The Nook, where, our meeting being more-or-less over, I’d continued loudly complaining about something-or-other (perhaps about Brian’s expectation of my not-worrying about him even after the extreme circumstances I found him in; or perhaps about my newly-discovered resentment—thanks to my cousin Denise’s bragging about her own lifestyle—of Russell’s never having had a ‘day job’ all these years.)</span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">When I saw Russell walk in to the patio where we were, sitting at a table with gas flames flickering on top (which Eco-Joy did not object to, so what’s up with THAT?)… I was surprised, then confused, then very angry, VERY ANGRY. Russell says I “traumatized” him by beating my fists against his very substantial chest, but I felt I was fighting for my autonomy, my psychic life, very much the same way I felt I had to verbally fight Felicia over Zoom when she criticized my songwriting last year. I know I shouted “Fuck you” to Joy and Susan as Russell pulled me out of there and I continued to fight him and to shout (he says). When he got me to the entryway of The Nook, he pushed me very hard up against a post, twice. It didn’t hurt, it just was evidence of his upset-ness. I suppose I’m sorry for that. I am still convinced that if I’d been left alone I’d have driven home perfectly well. I’ve done that so often, and from that exact location, and in even worse shape. True to the “drunk” profile, I thought I was pretty much OK. Was I? I don’t even know.</span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">My yelling got my vocal cords seriously strained (can’t sing right!), and my relationship with Russell is strained, and now he wants to accompany me to every outing I plan, including open mics and obligatory attendance at fellow ukulele players’ gigs. That’s fine; we’ve had fun so far, but he may get tired of it, and I still feel that my much-vaunted ‘independence’ is threatened. These, though, are superficial concerns.</span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxYLg5nV4zfYT8STP7zCHHr5-dT44tnXj2jeeTJ0nzwT2guVSwgDqCMVAFXnERzsyHbhoR2T1mODI6jfuqgaz0hxKvHDvj0AQ2bhR8P9fiYm040kamZ6XRYsGR7Kupiw43spebBU9pT4f0DaChvTsNFVossbC9w08kAc1-_YEX2GG9jGHpojkTyoqzQ/s200/OLD%20painting.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="182" data-original-width="200" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxYLg5nV4zfYT8STP7zCHHr5-dT44tnXj2jeeTJ0nzwT2guVSwgDqCMVAFXnERzsyHbhoR2T1mODI6jfuqgaz0hxKvHDvj0AQ2bhR8P9fiYm040kamZ6XRYsGR7Kupiw43spebBU9pT4f0DaChvTsNFVossbC9w08kAc1-_YEX2GG9jGHpojkTyoqzQ/s1600/OLD%20painting.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">My main preoccupation now is: Why is this happening at this time in my life? Back in the summer of 2019 there was an incident which Russell doesn’t remember with as much hurt: when I fell off a porch leaving a party of our friends, carrying a half-rejected food offering. My foot slipped inside my sandal, which might have happened despite the five beers I think I had. I hurt my hip and leg, I let go of Maggie (Sycamore fetched her) and also shouted at that time. I had unsightly bruises for weeks. <br /></span><p></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br />If I am a sort of ‘functional’ alcoholic, it’s kind of low-level. My intake would not sustain a ‘real’ alcoholic. I suppose I have a weird response to any alcohol at all. I’ve tried, over the years, to abstain. But I’ve never had peace of mind in any circumstances except for that (physical) mood after a couple of beers or glasses of wine. Peace of mind, you’d think, would be a reward of getting through the working years and having some money come in regularly. Maybe it’s not even ‘peace of mind’ I want, but just a sense of relaxation and a conviction that I’m good enough to hang out with people without having to GIVE or PERFORM or HELP others. Having been instructed as a child that simply being there was not enough, I’ve had a sense of obligation, even resentment, about almost anything I do—rather than a feeling of simply WANTING to do something. I’ve never really known what I ‘wanted,’ and have been angered by that very question. How the hell do I know what I want?! No one ever encouraged me to pay attention to THAT. With the result now that that is ALL I PAY ATTENTION TO.</span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">“What is wrong with me?” Is one question, bringing on the filthy flood of memories false and true, and then the counter-attack, “Maybe nothing. Maybe this is how you’re supposed to be.” Then the reality: “You’re really endangering your social relations, the ones that keep you afloat, such as your marriage and close friendships.” But maybe I should have sunk to the bottom long ago and found a different way up to the surface, I don’t know. I do not like depending on others, so this scenario is going to get worse, NO DOUBT, as I get older and more feeble in various ways.</span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">The glaring truth that I DO fuck up pretty badly (occasionally) CLEARLY does not help meliorate my chronic lack of pleasure or satisfaction with myself or my circumstances. Without at least some ‘peace’ with myself, it’s pretty hard to get through the day. I have willpower, and I can get a few things done, but I take no satisfaction in these things, really.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYZi6H2X1CRp6FfFdOAGfgh3nbvTdOzWHHY0X_v8ZpyzkvYwCCmdTbTObdf9LbHuADpbPJpUAvdeOsKFU0fuBXamjsoVJfatE3CG3dju5f5N4C5ixXUswqgb26wAX5lbwr4mHUnoaPQ04QHFV9JJ03OdznEOT34PpatXlkhpyMRa38NYSqk5WocaL6A/s579/Paper%20piles.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="579" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYZi6H2X1CRp6FfFdOAGfgh3nbvTdOzWHHY0X_v8ZpyzkvYwCCmdTbTObdf9LbHuADpbPJpUAvdeOsKFU0fuBXamjsoVJfatE3CG3dju5f5N4C5ixXUswqgb26wAX5lbwr4mHUnoaPQ04QHFV9JJ03OdznEOT34PpatXlkhpyMRa38NYSqk5WocaL6A/w229-h111/Paper%20piles.jpg" width="229" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">There are always more things to do, and some of them seem almost impossible. <br />I have a trunk and suitcases full of my mother’s memorabilia. I have an office-ful of my own. What am I supposed to do with all that? Projects to organize it disintegrate. No one cares anyway.</span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Yes, I take myself too seriously. I keep half-believing that there’s a reason I’m HERE. Am I supposed to write and sing songs? Am I supposed to just write? For whom, now that I’ve deprived myself of Facebook through my own stupidity (on the same night I cursed out my loved ones at The Nook, but later, when I thought I’d calmed down and a new musical acquaintance, James Leo, asked me to send him a code in Messenger.) Eager to make up for my transgressions earlier that evening, and wrongly believing James was hapless and might likely NEED my help, I responded cooperatively to the scammer’s message, thus doubling my bad luck and poisoning (with regret and attempts to get a response from FB) the hours that I try now to fill with reasonable small creative or pedestrian achievements that never make me feel better about myself anyway.</span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNI09IAasWqLTCMdry8Gi-jGhWiPtFUMTqDwrZ3OOBdpZVVq4R0J9SKB4FjCB_K_oz-e2aqXZs7N6VI1srvDTTAR8eHDL0dBxTNoq_xh54yQjW7RAVP-zECYqD-p5v53Hsp-MG7mJOkAvbcL_BygJqsKOyWNhOdHsmFMetVZOXfsLIsA_rlhQcIh9WuQ/s400/400.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="400" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNI09IAasWqLTCMdry8Gi-jGhWiPtFUMTqDwrZ3OOBdpZVVq4R0J9SKB4FjCB_K_oz-e2aqXZs7N6VI1srvDTTAR8eHDL0dBxTNoq_xh54yQjW7RAVP-zECYqD-p5v53Hsp-MG7mJOkAvbcL_BygJqsKOyWNhOdHsmFMetVZOXfsLIsA_rlhQcIh9WuQ/w247-h165/400.jpeg" width="247" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br />Shouldn’t knowing that 20,000 people died in the earthquake rubble in Turkey and Syria this week…never having strummed a few chords at an open mic…be a modifying factor? It should, but it isn’t. The sick feeling I have about THAT is different from the blank feeling I have about my own inner self and its puzzles and shortcomings. Right now a perspective from the outside (such as Russell’s) is only humbling me to the point of paralysis. I really want to feel better. A glass of wine will do the trick for a little while, won’t it?</span><p></p></div><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p></div>Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-28890508469103411662022-11-10T01:07:00.001-06:002022-11-10T15:54:06.424-06:00 An assemblage of concerns...<div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I just finished trying to record a song (in the studio I’ve been in before, with the person I’ve worked with before), and something was captured but I’m not sure it was worth capturing. It was a lament about David Foster Wallace’s untimely demise using his short story “Forever Overhead” as a theme. It’s getting so that I’ll write a song about anything. There was fingerpicking that I practiced for hours but was still unable to do perfectly, and there was singing that I hadn’t planned to do that seemed to be in a voice other than my own. This was the first step toward ANOTHER “album” and I’m not sure it was the right step. I could go on about the details, and how the next song will be a re-do of “Step Nine,” which is also fingerpicking, and after that I’m DONE with the sensitive acoustic stuff.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />But what does this have to do with the price of eggs? Oh, yeah, there’s INFLATION going on, as well as payments on my “new” car which means I can’t spend anything extra on anything, and yet, here I am paying for recording services. It’s a bargain, though—I’m lucky. At my age, why am I so involved in this enterprise? I know I’ve asked that question before. My only answer is that focusing on music is safer emotionally, than a lot of other things. I’m beginning to think I’m a secret narcissist.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Russell doesn’t have much lined up in terms of magic shows, and I know that affects him. He’s spent his entire life perfecting his trade, and it must be difficult to not have an opportunity to perform. He does other helpful things in the world that seem to be excessive (like driving the homeless Dave L. around) but I understand that these deeds are purely beneficent, unlike doing things around the house that I might criticize. I wish I were a more positive force, but it turns out I’m a judgmental force. If I am any “force” at all.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Brother Brian is still here, and that’s good. I have no idea how this will turn out because I don’t know where Brian will go from here or when. I’m not sure I want him to go at all! In the meantime, it means that Russell and my “sex life” is limited (lack of privacy), but it was going in that direction anyway. There is a lot more between me and Russell than that, however.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />And now youngest brother Ray may have some kind of blood disease (like leukemia?). He’s in the hospital for tests. This is a slowly settling weight on all of us siblings.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Here’s the stupid topper: Marianne O. requested (more than once) that I send her my CD. On the CD is a song about her (“It Ain’t Me or You, Babe”) that is NOT flattering. No names, no identifiable details, but she may recognize some descriptions. I was postponing sending it, but Russell mailed the package that I left on the table. So it’s too late. All I can do is be honest if she asks any questions. She’s wanting to “communicate” again, but who knows why? I tell myself I’m willing to be straight with her, but I may not even get the chance. What have I gotten from her except the dubious thrill of knowing someone who is an excellent musician? She did encourage me to record my songs, but she doesn’t consider me a contender, and she dislikes my email writing style (which is all I’ve got, really).</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Also, I feel I’m not giving enough energy to various REAL friendships due to the home situation (which takes my attention whether it needs it or not) and the growing focus on practicing and writing songs. I’m actually PROUD of myself for giving enough time to music finally. And yet, there’s guilt. There always was.</span></span></p></div>Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-46356558526451626492022-08-26T13:06:00.004-05:002022-08-26T13:09:42.595-05:00Coming back to "life"...<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Anxiety can keep a person up at night. Anxiety is triggered by identification with dire circumstances and projection of possible awfulness. I wouldn’t get anxious about just anyone, but when it comes to my siblings, it’s almost as if I am THEY and THEY are me. I’ve had to deal with sibling circumstances and possible awfulness a few times in my life, as the oldest of six. The most recent episode is still unfolding.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyaXhGh0xmTgMkEY5J7eVkhlmJ-TLHuEF_rZOExr_irjBqWQOMrOHoU7Fep6Z5erEY6j_F-FWd2av9JkijmoXwLs0awNMU3E5aoiYJMJihs1DcimIERtu7Tqbb6aVg7zLWe_dQf9GDM5k8yrAI0n8Huz7EV4VEPwDmPuDdfydrxt5meBS5IkyJngoOkw/s808/floppy%20flowers.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="684" data-original-width="808" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyaXhGh0xmTgMkEY5J7eVkhlmJ-TLHuEF_rZOExr_irjBqWQOMrOHoU7Fep6Z5erEY6j_F-FWd2av9JkijmoXwLs0awNMU3E5aoiYJMJihs1DcimIERtu7Tqbb6aVg7zLWe_dQf9GDM5k8yrAI0n8Huz7EV4VEPwDmPuDdfydrxt5meBS5IkyJngoOkw/w242-h205/floppy%20flowers.jpg" width="242" /></a></div><br />My middle brother is now living in our house, sleeping on the couch and presiding at a desk tucked away in a corner. He partakes of meals at the one extra place at our table, and his appetite is improving. Our house is tiny, but we’re managing to maneuver around each other. It feels crowded, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. My alone-time (if I even recognize a need for it, which I often fail to do) has to be taken outside the house; either that or I have to shut the door to my little office/studio, which I rarely do because of the dog, who will whine and sometimes bark outside the shut door. Not to mention that if I’m home at all, I feel I MUST be available to whoever lives here— to serve their needs. Cultural conditioning, I suppose.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My brother has his own relationship with music. He loves Brazilian styles, perhaps because he once had a Brazilian girlfriend. He loves smooth jazz and "easy listening" from a bygone era (the 1950s and ‘60s). He doesn’t actively listen to any of it now, though, at least not more than a few seconds of it. It’s almost as if he enjoys KNOWING about it more than the music itself. He claims to abhor vocal music, as did our father. This means that I’m now even more self-conscious about practicing my own music in the house. My brother doesn’t want to hear any of my songs, though one of them is about him.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Having retired too early from his relatively great job in Atlanta, my brother let his life slide into minimal maintenance mode, especially during COVID. When his duplex was sold and he was given notice, he didn’t, and in fact, COULDN’T do anything about it. His refusal to communicate about this, even with family, led to my aforementioned anxiety. That propelled me to pay him a surprise visit, and indeed, the situation was approaching “dire.” Now that he’s here, I can keep an eye on him, and he’s coming back to “life” (although what sort of life can we offer? He will have to make some decisions soon, and that’s not his strength. At 60, his strength is still CONVERSATION, amusing and erudite, though now interrupted by unexplained sighs).</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoRNX75gslMjXI0FQOJHf8vkhFFMWzi_xnRaDnklrSPemA-b--tTzoG23hV2c5hF_7qJhX7U_xnvrLnLSWVwCHCWFMuD2nCP9bm_mZc5HBqcF1_sjm8WirsTSkmK7irhQ7SmzJXMMpfigCwcTDRqZ78iidJnIEQnlL3KI2l7WcvrlkJhNJJ_EUwsm74g/s629/old%20house.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="629" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoRNX75gslMjXI0FQOJHf8vkhFFMWzi_xnRaDnklrSPemA-b--tTzoG23hV2c5hF_7qJhX7U_xnvrLnLSWVwCHCWFMuD2nCP9bm_mZc5HBqcF1_sjm8WirsTSkmK7irhQ7SmzJXMMpfigCwcTDRqZ78iidJnIEQnlL3KI2l7WcvrlkJhNJJ_EUwsm74g/w249-h153/old%20house.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wish we had a bigger house; I’ve always wished for spaciousness and high ceilings, even though I don’t deserve them. I wouldn’t care how old and crumbling the house was, I just need room to move and places to put stuff. That unfulfilled desire is a recurring, pointless sorrow I cannot erase after all these years, despite frequent applications of Buddhist-style thoughts and prayers. Years ago we had amazing chances to purchase larger dwellings, but weren’t ready financially (though I, perhaps wrongly, blame my husband’s fear of commitment for the stall in home-buying action). We bought this tiny house in 1999, just before prices began soaring in the early 2000s. It’s too late now, as prices have soared again beyond comprehension. I’m on a small fixed income, and my husband is trying to re-start his entertainment business, which was never very lucrative, but it’s what he wants to do.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But, isn’t music the important thing for me right now (according to my recent posts here on this blog)? I would have thought so, but since my brother’s been here, it seems less so. Writing and practicing my songs seems an ivory-tower activity now. A luxury I allowed myself during COVID, but which is now moot. Though I’ve recently struggled (successfully) through three public performances, I realize it’s not my favorite thing. Songwriting is what I love, and that calls for privacy. I have two “gigs” coming up, and the thought of doing my own (now old) songs over and over is making me nauseous. I will do it, but only because I’ve been asked and have agreed. I would seem ungrateful if I refused, and I do like SOME of the subsequent attention though I don’t NEED it. Younger performers have more energy and believe in self-promotion and probably NEED the whole scene.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><h2><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNHb_TjLOcmWodJt4LbleCLrYop5r7AecK2X9Q74MG_tKxaPrR7EblzjGdQgiVon-KxO7G5OeKCQXWZBGJwsTocHHu3pcDvyuz_qO1mO1Ms9Gxms8DWYhjkJYdJ5soqB19fFfqIV6mnFKNd8LArkYaXDrYhS1CDWdz14Cs6sualAU5XnQ1JRn5y_LHww/s300/old-woman-playing-guitar1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNHb_TjLOcmWodJt4LbleCLrYop5r7AecK2X9Q74MG_tKxaPrR7EblzjGdQgiVon-KxO7G5OeKCQXWZBGJwsTocHHu3pcDvyuz_qO1mO1Ms9Gxms8DWYhjkJYdJ5soqB19fFfqIV6mnFKNd8LArkYaXDrYhS1CDWdz14Cs6sualAU5XnQ1JRn5y_LHww/w242-h181/old-woman-playing-guitar1.jpg" width="242" /></a></div></span></span></h2><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I am (relatively) old, and tire more easily, and can’t stay awake more than 16 hours after first arising, and can’t memorize chord progressions and don’t want to stand up while performing. All of this should disqualify me from live performance, but it hasn’t. Perhaps people are humoring me BECAUSE I’m old. There is so much music out there; I have to ask WHY ME?! But if it didn’t happen, I’d probably be asking, WHY NOT ME?!.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, my brother has to get back on his feet, societally speaking. I have no tools to make this happen except my caring. I won’t pressure him to “seek help” because that’s been tried, and it simply doesn’t take with some people. I think it has to be organic and sincere and possibly long-term. My siblings are too smart and cynical for their own good. I am not unlike them.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></div><p><br /></p>Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-6028932559440712752022-05-18T13:15:00.001-05:002022-05-18T13:20:33.518-05:00Can't really stop...<div style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I’m a little past “three-score and ten.” I should be winding down by now. That thought hovers in the background as I, instead, gear up. Not that my physical body enjoys this. My feet are numb from peripheral neuropathy, an inherited affliction that no one can do anything about. My larger joints and muscles have ceased to benefit from frequent or slightly strenuous exercise and require only that they be moved in some way every day. I am not keeping up with the housework, but then, I never did. And yard work is beyond considering, even though it’s desperately needed (according to American lawn standards).<br /><br />I made this music, this “album,” in 2021, and it’s being “released” now online, with the “hard copy” coming soon. I’ll give those CDs away; it seems crazy to charge money for the privilege of possibly being listened to. Somehow, I got a half-hour gig in April at a ukulele festival (thanks to Kirk Jones, an almost Christ-like local ukulele teacher). I practiced an eight-song set daily for two weeks, including the patter between songs. I included only three originals because I didn’t want to challenge anyone. Four or five friends were there to hear me play. I played seated, with a music stand holding my printed-out song information. </span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiYY1pdrQCDvs9D6wTn7OA6MZcbDQ-tqOvfCfD9hrDKpePdb3CA0cdl0CHZjUzPhrL3gPMcYoeSrfiFkqtE3rtN4mpF_7v5G_N-o13D1zAokB2et4wfGUXvsGVV7LpOCQ_Q_geEE5M6InXBoLES4Wi2j--JG5po7Q_D_WDwKOxM6L4o5o8R-hztjiOmQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="729" data-original-width="1200" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiYY1pdrQCDvs9D6wTn7OA6MZcbDQ-tqOvfCfD9hrDKpePdb3CA0cdl0CHZjUzPhrL3gPMcYoeSrfiFkqtE3rtN4mpF_7v5G_N-o13D1zAokB2et4wfGUXvsGVV7LpOCQ_Q_geEE5M6InXBoLES4Wi2j--JG5po7Q_D_WDwKOxM6L4o5o8R-hztjiOmQ=w306-h185" width="306" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />The other performers played standing up with no props. This scenario may be repeated in July (again at Kirk’s invitation). It would be helpful to gain more experience between now and then, but there have been no offers, and I am not sure I possess much self-promotional energy, although I do value my own “creativity,” such as it is.<br /><br />This whole solo music thing is not something I could have predicted, and I’m not sure if it helps anyone but me (pyschologically, not monetarily). I am often mired in the minutiae of song details and finger-picking patterns, and now, online voice lessons (to deal with a few unwanted cracks in my ancient vocal range). At night when I lay me down to sleep, melodies I’ve written or played swirl through my brain, unwanted and not enjoyed. My inner voice says, “Stop it. Stop it!” Sometimes that works, sometimes not. I should be thinking about the world, about the suffering of humans and other beings, but I rarely dwell on that. I read the news headlines, that's all, and that's enough. Social forces have readily channeled any desire for political action into the notion of donating money, which I cannot easily do; I am spending any “disposable” income on music-related items and services, like recording studio time. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><a href="https://www.startlinglyfreshrecords.com/marylyncoffey.html">https://www.startlinglyfreshrecords.com/marylyncoffey.html</a> </span></span></span></span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span></span><br />This all could be seen as a vanity project, and as such, reprehensible. But other people are encouraging me, and I am NOT feeling vain about it at all, but rather self-conscious. Still, throughout my life, I always knew how to find other people to tell me to do things I already wanted to do, from having sex to spending money on getting my hair done. Now it’s playing music and writing songs. I’ll never be a great ukulele player, and in fact, I think of my baritone ukulele as an easier guitar. I am not wildly enthusiastic about ukulele group strums or festivals, and my own songs </span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpYAIlMaklMmRyq3WTUtLmYeQuRGjeRDaeKQTdV8nImP_jQDRRbSwRiHhC1oGkk1U_F8DAPbx9E24SrJLUxkhP1m29nSMV45Vh2R70LX9DFEkxAvTZom_I9hqCQX-BVfApYUf-8h8_GhsoWCkHo6pur7hNQQHY9O84UXSARHq4KikBw06e-FMp-XJhGA" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="764" data-original-width="900" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpYAIlMaklMmRyq3WTUtLmYeQuRGjeRDaeKQTdV8nImP_jQDRRbSwRiHhC1oGkk1U_F8DAPbx9E24SrJLUxkhP1m29nSMV45Vh2R70LX9DFEkxAvTZom_I9hqCQX-BVfApYUf-8h8_GhsoWCkHo6pur7hNQQHY9O84UXSARHq4KikBw06e-FMp-XJhGA=w257-h218" width="257" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;">are drastically introspective in both fictional and direct ways. I was told my songwriting is “quirky” during an online open mic the other day. Sometimes people comment on the clever lyrics. I wish they’d cite the “interesting” chord progressions, too, but I realize I sometimes create them just to BE “interesting” and to involve odd melodies that take some doing to memorize (that’s the only part of a song that I DO memorize these days, since I cannot write them down).<br /><br />This September I was asked to plan an hour-long set of originals for “Concerts on the Dock,” an outdoor venue that’s usually quite well-attended. Again, I’ll be opening for the opening act, but still, it’s something. The crazy thing is, I’ll be backed by what I consider to be REAL musicians, jazz guys who actually read music. This will involve some rehearsing. I imagine it will be very different from the current haphazard biweekly sessions in Huey’s basement (the guitarist/leader of my old ‘90s band, the Lonesome Lovers) with Claudette playing bass and Huey randomly bringing up old songs we used to do. And yet I keep thinking about death (not as far away as it used to be), and climate change (not as far away as it used to be), and the necessity to straighten out my “affairs” and clear out the house (although the problem is mostly Russell’s stuff, not mine). What have I brought to this world? No new human beings, thank goodness. But have I helped anyone? And is “helping people” just an old-fashioned notion mostly foisted on women to keep them out of trouble? To keep them from cluttering up the landscape with their personal shit? I do not know. All I know is, I can’t really stop now. </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy5t-Vl6Uu5iuIcGnaJvNuXJv7XqkmqKJTaZswaSa_8gTFUxH4CAoQUoeoKs6qHR0yp26OCH0s-yA97-_mVXg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><br /></span><p></p></div>Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-65918171402763875622021-09-03T23:35:00.003-05:002022-05-18T13:21:42.998-05:00Belated aspirations<div style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span><span>I desperately want to be good at something. I mean VERY good, not just good. It’s a leftover feeling from long ago, I think. Something that was never addressed. There were times in my life when that feeling didn’t matter, when all that mattered was “romance.” I would want to be VERY good for that particular man in 1970, another particular man in 1981. But now it’s too late for that. I can be GOOD for my husband now without giving up anything, because there’s not much to give up. No job, no place. All that’s been gone for a while. I’ll never get back to Massachusetts. It’s too late, and too expensive.<br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5g6fIzKIxFWNThUFtizC36pbtP0hk3Cu39dd-FC8_OX7YDrJYsqvcIW8zDvZC1tzKxND9ajIDOVgWxA6te3mNdxMbB8UmccvLDS8LZT9b8qlY9GyruEUscJcc58Ar7JalDB2xcYfOIJ7H/s1500/haptics-hand-reaching-toward-sky-by-jeremy-perkins.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1500" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5g6fIzKIxFWNThUFtizC36pbtP0hk3Cu39dd-FC8_OX7YDrJYsqvcIW8zDvZC1tzKxND9ajIDOVgWxA6te3mNdxMbB8UmccvLDS8LZT9b8qlY9GyruEUscJcc58Ar7JalDB2xcYfOIJ7H/s320/haptics-hand-reaching-toward-sky-by-jeremy-perkins.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span>I became pretty good at some things. I suppose I was a pretty good writer, at times. As a grad student in English Literature, I wrote some mean papers. There was a teacher to please, so I was motivated, even though I was in my fifties. Compared to how I feel now, I felt YOUNG back then, as if doing well in class would bode well for my “future.” Why didn’t I feel that when I was younger? Because I was too busy being an adult, trying to handle a middle-management job at a weekly newspaper. I thought I was a big shot, dealing with stuff moment-to-moment, which ruled out the idea of studying anything seriously (although I should have studied management techniques).<br /><br />Music kept rearing its lovely head when I least expected it. I was no prodigy at the piano when I was a kid taking lessons, but I enjoyed any opportunity to compose. Of course, that was rare, and only one teacher indulged it. No one encouraged me to go to ANY college, let alone music school. I wound up in art school because a friend urged me to join her, and it was cheap. There, at Massachusetts College of Art, a major in filmmaking led to more writing. As an afterthought I improvised some music for one of my films (long since lost to the dustbin).<br /><br />Now, a veteran of several bands and sporadic guitar and voice lessons over the years, I am trying to be a serious musician? It makes no sense. I laugh at myself, and yet I continue. But how will I know if I have succeeded? These days, there is no way to tell. I currently participate in (don’t laugh) a weekly ukulele open mic online (among a few other open mics online). The first few times I was clearly more “professional” than most of the other players on this particular open mic; but this last time (tonight) I was not perfect. Now I’m feeling like shit. My weakness is not hitting the right vocal note when changing keys. I guess I should work on that. It’s all about working on stuff. Working and working and working. I am supposed to be retired! I’m 71 years old, for crissakes! Good thing we’re in the middle of a COVID resurgence! I have an excuse for always being in my chair, at the computer, with my ukulele in hand.<br /><br />I keep writing songs, they do keep coming if I pay attention and, again, keep working, working working. But, what happens then? Except for the ones I recently recorded (which might as well be buried in an old mine, since nothing’s happening regarding completing what’s called “production,” and I’m too much of a wuss to nudge the person supposed to be doing that), my efforts are made in a vacuum. I can play them for one or two people, but that doesn’t satisfy me. At the same time, I’m very unsure of my worth in this area, and cannot bring myself to promote myself. It’s against my nature and nurture.<br /><br />And now I can’t even bring myself to watch any songwriters playing their songs (especially if they are female) on YouTube or wherever. I don’t want to be distracted or influenced. Which tells me it’s really an EGO thing with me, and that I don’t really LOVE music as I should! If I did, I’d want to hear all of it, wouldn’t I? I remember failing an audition to get into a prestigious choral group in junior high. They asked for the Star Spangled Banner, or was it America the Beautiful? I can’t remember. My friend Caroline made it; I didn’t. At the time, I really didn’t care. I didn’t care about the music that group, called the Well-Wishers, was going to do. I liked folk and rock. I was happy playing that kind of song with my other girlfriend, Janice. As is the case (for me) now, we never played in front of anyone except a few friends. I don’t think Janice plays or sings at all now, although I have no evidence. I think she’s still alive, which is good. She’s probably a grandmother, or even a great-grandmother, roles I’ve not even considered for myself, since I don’t have kids.<br /><br />I traded my first guitar, a classical, for some opium, back in 1967. Now I have three ukuleles, two guitars, a melodica, and eight harmonicas, and I’m about to finish a bottle of white wine. After which I will practice a song I just wrote called “Against Self-Examination.” There’s another open mic online tomorrow.</span></span></span></span><p></p></div>Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-80308166587625723582021-06-01T01:37:00.001-05:002021-06-01T01:38:52.481-05:00Emerging from Isolation<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I have a suspicion that coming out of the COVID “lockdown” (or what passed for that in the U.S.) is scary for me. I feel raw, vulnerable. I do not want to SEE large groups of people let alone navigate large groups socially. I do not want to be running from one place to another. I am now used to having swaths of time to segue from writing to walking the dog, from singing to cooking. I have had a taste of living in a slow, civilized fashion, and I don’t want to give it up.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuW41tVUeLXAOBmOG-2EjJAygejrJFZrL3__PrCpigfXQc4IW8L1y3HZk7L2gRJmFIzs5aTAChPjLQZKIJYuyEQvPPkj_xUSfnif8kgabGxCDPunfwdt0HOADr6WsemiEaT3ONxHis8QEX/s1000/hedgehog.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuW41tVUeLXAOBmOG-2EjJAygejrJFZrL3__PrCpigfXQc4IW8L1y3HZk7L2gRJmFIzs5aTAChPjLQZKIJYuyEQvPPkj_xUSfnif8kgabGxCDPunfwdt0HOADr6WsemiEaT3ONxHis8QEX/w277-h156/hedgehog.jpg" width="277" /></a></div>My luck (or “privilege,” as some would have it) has been good. Our house had been completely paid for a few years before COVID. I’d retired around the same time, so I didn’t have an income to lose, an essential job to endanger me, or obligations I’d have to invent an online process for. I took to “creativity”-related Zoom meetings eagerly. It seemed the perfect format for me. But then, difficulties DID arise with two people (one a family member, the other an acquaintance from decades ago who moved away, but during COVID became an online intimate, almost, without really being a real-life friend, simply because we had some things in common).</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I do take things too seriously. A few critical comments from either of those people and I’m a ruminating wreck for hours. Even independent of those relationships, though, I often slip into a state where I simply don’t have a grip on who I am, whether I am good or bad, an artist or a hack, a narcissist or an empath. I observe other’s qualities, but I don’t think I judge them the way I judge myself. It’s much easier to imagine that I know who I am if I stay home and don’t have much to do with other people at all. In some cases, it’s also easier if I don’t even communicate with some people even online. I did not used to be this way, really. Maybe I’ve become more blunt, as well as more sensitive, and I’m tired of acting the part of the Nice, Helpful Woman. I can no longer imagine how I did the people-pleasing job I retired from!</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Because it was necessary, because I couldn’t escape to a job or myriad activities, I think I became a better companion and a kinder partner for my husband during this time. It just happened, and I hope he agrees that it's true. I don’t think I could have done this with more than one other person, or maybe even any other person but him. This is probably a good thing, and I don’t think I twisted myself in knots to do it.</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I like to wait for my dreams to tell me things about myself, but my dreams during the past year or so have not been memorable. Only twice since March 2020 have I awoken in the night to write them down. The second time was just the other night. It was a semi-recurring dream about a person I was involved with when I was in my twenties, ending in a situation in which I was left wondering and confused. The specific dream situations change, but the confusion seems eternal. I really wanted more than that from my unconscious, but it goes its own way.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m now embarked on my seventies. Everything after this is 'lagniappe.' I am making use of it; I am writing songs and having them recorded. I have no idea if it’s worth it. The enterprise is unfamiliar because I have rarely done something like this under my own “steam” (as my mother used to call it). I do have one of those difficult people to thank for the initial impetus, but I continue dutifully, almost, pretending that I am someone else, I suppose, someone who has an obligation to herself and holds herself in some esteem. I have not yet become that person, though. And I am not able to think of it as "fun." I need to lighten up.</span></span></span></div><br />Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-67117157264915576152020-03-02T14:56:00.001-06:002020-03-02T14:58:59.735-06:00Music in the rain...<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2EcrdOqpETwLLwWMW5bMrhD_dfIZRQy7sOE3-Lew-fSh69rCPFn1Ql3whUGpS5GGVaBuFqDEFv0gjAWE68drj8IM-_kAhjgDduE4Ur0jkrEGvrKokeSSDuGbG5xEjytaHUOOg2PTdiF5h/s1600/baby+in+rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2EcrdOqpETwLLwWMW5bMrhD_dfIZRQy7sOE3-Lew-fSh69rCPFn1Ql3whUGpS5GGVaBuFqDEFv0gjAWE68drj8IM-_kAhjgDduE4Ur0jkrEGvrKokeSSDuGbG5xEjytaHUOOg2PTdiF5h/s1600/baby+in+rain.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The emotional position I’m expressing myself from is not good this rainy week as February crawls into March. Sure, I’ve stopped drinking alcohol almost entirely, due to an “incident” last summer (July 2019) involving me falling down some concrete steps while leaving a party, and then slapping and swearing at my husband when he tried to help me up— but finally learning my lesson doesn’t make me a great person at last. But I don’t want to be a great person. I wanted to be a great something-else-specific, such as a writer or musician. No one gets recognition for their achievements in personhood— in fact they’re more likely to get taken for granted. I do realize now that, that night, with five beers in my system, I felt like the same “person” but apparently was not, behavior-wise. Oh, well. Alcohol, no matter the occasion, was no longer making me feel good, just sleepy and mostly silent. My aging animal energy was no longer bubbly enough to bring motivation and excitement to the drunken state (until I was threatened with what I thought was humiliation).</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As our house fills up with boxes, papers, and random objects, I scan the domestic landscape and cringe. It is some relief to turn the lights down; even more to focus on the television screen. The best part of the day is the end of it, when I’m getting into bed with a book or something to listen to on my headphones. It’s nice if my husband is there next to me, reading or sleeping, but it’s not required. I’ve always been wary of “pleasure,” especially when deliberately sought, but I do admit to the occasional sensual journey provided by jazz classics. I relate more to piano and guitar, since those are instruments I’ve played, but I don’t object to horns, which surprise me with their aggressive precision sometimes. In this complicated sound world, everyone’s a genius but me. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih1mq8VhfzD-EEWr_rvD7QvQl3ni0qv0T5fuLiERtaWbAhwwxUYfcSofeNAfePVspthYCaYSQ0VCLeu0rqMw7HtO8JGqF9I7ieySmJzqPhHpoY899w6YIIF2mGn8NP08nywdybTTnmLRIw/s1600/e432013cd7270bdb304491747e23ff86.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih1mq8VhfzD-EEWr_rvD7QvQl3ni0qv0T5fuLiERtaWbAhwwxUYfcSofeNAfePVspthYCaYSQ0VCLeu0rqMw7HtO8JGqF9I7ieySmJzqPhHpoY899w6YIIF2mGn8NP08nywdybTTnmLRIw/s200/e432013cd7270bdb304491747e23ff86.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I used to think of myself as a great appreciator of many things, but now the awareness of being ONLY that fills me with shame, which I manage to hide from myself long enough to enjoy the music. If I eschew the music and listen only to news podcasts, I avoid the shame (except for the slight embarrassment of not actually being a good activist) and embrace the world’s slide into dystopia while slowly realizing that it’s always been that way. These are the gifts of getting old.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuHvLmwqJ8o8v2wnpPtH2Jbv_fdKrRkd3OdKaWN1eOjqSnXD1coawXUAwPjK34Z05iukZxt0d_1GWq_BsHz-uo5LDxgOwX_U076VrJJa8GCXklv7kLLLTsyOhd1i-O0YtsmUovqTYTu81y/s1600/ma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="440" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuHvLmwqJ8o8v2wnpPtH2Jbv_fdKrRkd3OdKaWN1eOjqSnXD1coawXUAwPjK34Z05iukZxt0d_1GWq_BsHz-uo5LDxgOwX_U076VrJJa8GCXklv7kLLLTsyOhd1i-O0YtsmUovqTYTu81y/s200/ma.jpg" width="161" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My cynicism is not a pose. It’s a treasured inheritance, mostly from my father. Though my mother had faith, it was the kind that posited heaven as the goal and ignored the possibilities of earthly existence, or so it seemed to me. I’m probably wrong, though. She was a lively young woman before marriage and children, and I know she laughed and played and enjoyed exercising her mind, skills and charms. In a few days, if I’m not mistaken, she’ll have been gone six years. I suspect that she was proud to have passed the 90-year mark, mostly because her sisters did not, though they came close. I cried at her funeral after-party, but only because I was angry with my brother Michael for taking over the living room with his sons into the wee hours. (That was the last time I cried at all, about anything.) My mother-in-law may be on a similar trajectory to my mother’s, but no one is sure about that, because who can be? My mother had a stroke during or just after her hip operation. My mother-in-law did not, so my mother-in-law is better off, but she’s not happy about her situation. My mother had religion; my father had his intellect; my mother-in-law is bored and miserable. How can I not be aware of this constantly? How can I not be wondering what will happen to me eventually? My thinking tends toward, “Well, I have maybe five more years to keep going to these open mic events and playing a song or two, but even if I do become more proficient at it, what difference will it make? Because I’ll have to stop at some point, probably for some health reason. I wonder what that reason will be?” (I already have numb feet, to which I pay little attention unless I suddenly do pay attention.)</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZEKlpefcKRhT2s51c9YZYnijTFNYQ3piD2N7x5LSKADVRLqR7Q2pnnp4DfzqyYc39rm8nlhuh4X22hF_TEcyHyL_LNAcRz-LQgXJPNX081VZmxilUy-rFX8KQQutlikjmTa0inN98UNVd/s1600/23-512.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZEKlpefcKRhT2s51c9YZYnijTFNYQ3piD2N7x5LSKADVRLqR7Q2pnnp4DfzqyYc39rm8nlhuh4X22hF_TEcyHyL_LNAcRz-LQgXJPNX081VZmxilUy-rFX8KQQutlikjmTa0inN98UNVd/s200/23-512.png" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">These open mics and jazz jams, though. They’re fun. I become a bit manic and strangely elated. I usually get to sing at least one song at the jazz jams, although I sometimes mangle it. Watching a video of myself from last week, I realized that for the first go-round of “All of Me,” I was singing in a key that wasn’t exactly the key that the musicians were playing in. How did that happen? If I don’t have the right starting note in mind I apparently can’t intuit the key in the chords played, at least not right away. (This was never a problem with my ol’ good-time band because the chords and keys were very simple.) During the second go-round of “All of Me” I was right on, but too late; I’d probably already established myself once again as a wacko wanna-be. I heard Marcia (who filmed it with her phone) in the background saying to another singer, “She’s got her own style.” Marcia is very kind, one of the people I feel I’ve bonded with at these events, although she isn’t a musician. She’s an appreciator par excellence and proud of it. It’s enough for her.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6-7y97DyO8nRJO1ZjO4hlVNWFI_wzP2RZSJ9EApMK6yVfSa_MsISqSysQSFBnAt9gnjE4TfByxKqeittYIYZPsIlR-_dXr7AOXNeykKe5gwqS4kMlP4zz05umiiBKDRK_OfDklX7FGuzL/s1600/KAB-large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="437" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6-7y97DyO8nRJO1ZjO4hlVNWFI_wzP2RZSJ9EApMK6yVfSa_MsISqSysQSFBnAt9gnjE4TfByxKqeittYIYZPsIlR-_dXr7AOXNeykKe5gwqS4kMlP4zz05umiiBKDRK_OfDklX7FGuzL/s200/KAB-large.jpg" width="116" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The open mics are a different story. I’m struggling and learning how to accompany myself on ukulele, and now on my tiny new tenor guitar, so I have some control, but it’s not easy. Every other week at Mad Malts, a local brewery, I try to do three songs I haven’t done before. I use the music stand and have stuff written down that I can refer to—I’m not proud. Lately, at our infrequent and pointless Lonesome Lovers band practices, I’ve been appreciating Huey’s guitar-playing and, most important, his prodigious memory. He may never have been the most subtle of players, but he knows hundreds of songs by heart, including the lyrics. I used to get so irritated and frustrated with him for his lapses and lacks, but now I realize I was probably lucky to be backed up by him when we were going strong in the early 1990s. I’m also realizing that, just very possibly, my loud, forceful, pseudo-Ethel-Merman-style singing and random harmonica playing were suitable only for my band, and almost nothing else.</span><br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/N7AgNNvPC1I/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/N7AgNNvPC1I?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, now music is back in my life in a big way, but who knows how long it will last? It’s a great world to get lost in when the “real” world seems not to satisfy. But my longing to “achieve” something with music will not ever be fulfilled, and is pretty mockable. I need to chill. Perhaps simply learning a few new things is enough?</span>Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-67543669544211608192019-10-01T15:17:00.002-05:002019-10-01T15:17:38.063-05:00Maggie in the Sky with Subpoenas<span style="font-size: small;">With American political news podcasts in the mornings, followed by crime dramas on the TV screen in the evenings, pouring into my brain, I think I might be suffering from ongoing deafness/blindness to my own impulses and thoughts. I dream for what seems like ten hours every night, and that’s the world in which I feel most comfortable, despite the aforementioned inputs. It’s a world influenced by my memories and the few real-world happenings that affect me these days, such as my former boss texting me a request to pick her daughter up at school. It turned out (that day, anyway) that the child’s grandmother was available to pick her up after all, but the damage had been done. Lillian had injected herself into my mind. My dreams that night featured a party at her house that I was obliged to co-host. It doesn’t matter that the party might have been dreamily strange and amazing, or that the location was dreamily strange and amazing. This was a scenario I’d lived out before, just a few years ago. I woke up feeling depressingly under her thumb.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZzHQN39o5oYGo1DkPuD54NRA34Zy4LiC40oNcKS63LpgtDLVaSBajcjyf_3ObsEfIHuGs8j0lI4_1jZ0SqdOq_OSG4MTsnP-YGwD5vY9KAHPKj63O8bDjb4n0sQd6mK-UdP79wc_17QZf/s1600/20190624_164150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZzHQN39o5oYGo1DkPuD54NRA34Zy4LiC40oNcKS63LpgtDLVaSBajcjyf_3ObsEfIHuGs8j0lI4_1jZ0SqdOq_OSG4MTsnP-YGwD5vY9KAHPKj63O8bDjb4n0sQd6mK-UdP79wc_17QZf/s200/20190624_164150.jpg" width="112" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><br />And yet, I am wondering if my personality actually seeks being under someone’s thumb, or at least seeks someone to do things for. It’s the rare occasion when I invent my own projects. If I’m in a situation where inventing my own projects is encouraged and expected, then I’ll invent my own projects. Just hanging around my house does not facilitate my creativity, though. Well, OK, I do create new dinner offerings occasionally.<br /><br />The huge project that whines at me in the face all the time is the crying need to remove all this “stuff” from my house. But it’s mostly Russell’s stuff, so I hesitate. I also hesitate due to lack of (positive) energy. Mostly I look for excuses to go on errands, or to the gym (where I either swim or walk on the treadmill without much enjoyment). My sister (11 years younger) is still doing CrossFit over there in Spain, despite having broken her foot weeks ago and being obliged to do rehab exercises for it. And my nephew Tomas has won a CrossFit competition. These people are trying to set a good example, eh? But I had an athletic era of my own when I was in my 50’s, so wasn’t that enough? A dozen trophies for running far and fast are sitting on a shelf. I’ve had eras of many kinds, from innocence to jadedness, from ambition to dogged pursuit of the mediocre, from laziness to nervous activity, from musical adventures to no-music. Once in a while I’ve tried something new, hoping it will ‘stick,’ but nothing does. Writing always comes back. Music is currently back. But that feeling of having something to say is long gone; now I’m into writing about the past and learning some technical things about music and singing. I know by now that nothing I write or sing will help anyone, and in fact, the wanting to help anyone is very faintly felt. Barely a pulse.<br /><br />I am not sure this is a result of, or preceded, my going on the wagon. I’m off alcohol and onto kombucha, which has sugar in it. That sugar is augmented by a new craving for spicy gumdrops, even more sugary. I don’t think I’ve gained weight beyond the ten pounds I slowly put on after retiring in 2016, but I’m not svelte. I am still flexible, though. I am attending what’s called Yin Yoga, led by my friend Joy, on Monday nights at the strangely elegant house on Holmes Avenue (near UAH) known as The Center of Light for Applied Metaphysics (formerly the Light of Christ Center). And I do meditation there every Friday, also led by Joy. This provides me with the necessary dose of being in my friend’s presence, although we rarely get together just the two of us. There are things she doesn’t like about me, and of course there are things I don’t like about her. We both persist in not changing for the other (not that we could). My notions of Friendship, and my notions of Love and Marriage have morphed so severely that I couldn’t define either at this point. Nor could I define Family.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0tAhus1zC0HFDjXmVel0KWXGQKtoIm1BqIlFOZwxWJ54O37IztQ8NhyphenhyphenxoFHl59tTXAcs_H4BbNauK5aJqonHrmPGn9FB9GafseNE0AWhyphenhyphenfEAJ5hkcGaWrQza4Cjn807Ow7vXI_xSox1pw/s1600/20180807_194005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0tAhus1zC0HFDjXmVel0KWXGQKtoIm1BqIlFOZwxWJ54O37IztQ8NhyphenhyphenxoFHl59tTXAcs_H4BbNauK5aJqonHrmPGn9FB9GafseNE0AWhyphenhyphenfEAJ5hkcGaWrQza4Cjn807Ow7vXI_xSox1pw/s200/20180807_194005.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />I no longer have my parents as a reason to travel north, and of course, there’s the dog, whom I couldn’t bear to leave for more than a long weekend. I’m stuck right now, but I am the only one to blame. I just need some motivation. However, given my age (nearly 70) my idea of motivation will have to morph also. There is no future to be prepared for or personal adventure to hope for. Anything I do will have to be its own reward. And I was never able to take in that sort of reward easily. At least I still enjoy petting Maggie and watching the sky.</span>Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-86341028174512508302018-06-25T14:34:00.003-05:002020-03-02T22:13:01.170-06:00"The Teenager"<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjp_g71p2XQ8UbjgNN6DR4DRo30ijaE0gEjtAGWO1ut8OxCD5em8QQ5JgzjRjVHntmF1WKrJKvHnmV87WJ1U5KE9iciNOSjnKj_wrtHmKhrC9f3vIeyuvxTs_boV7e39a2VQO7pyfDYhJD/s1600/30070358_10214916528282801_1999920703_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjp_g71p2XQ8UbjgNN6DR4DRo30ijaE0gEjtAGWO1ut8OxCD5em8QQ5JgzjRjVHntmF1WKrJKvHnmV87WJ1U5KE9iciNOSjnKj_wrtHmKhrC9f3vIeyuvxTs_boV7e39a2VQO7pyfDYhJD/s200/30070358_10214916528282801_1999920703_o.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">On
August 2nd, 2017, my nephew, Tomás Del Pino Coffey, came to live with me and my
husband in Huntsville, Alabama, for the 2017-2018 school year. He was 13 at the
time; his 14th birthday was October 2nd, 2017. (That was a “cheat day,” when he
allowed himself to go off his strict-but-plentiful diet). As a CrossFit
devotee, he was into protein and carbohydrates, but not fat or sugar. On “cheat
day,” however, he and Russell had breakfast at IHOP (International House of
Pancakes), we all had burgers and fries for lunch, followed by donuts. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">That
evening we went out to a pizza restaurant, where Tomás consumed an entire large
pizza and glimpsed his first American football being played on the television
there. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">
He found it boring compared with soccer (which he’d played at school in
Spain).</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib7hltJyh22kHXtQBvsPfI9c1Uf3V3P1BL6DVlCscAkb2PVRfQrDLGN1Rry_jKiZUdxcj9wmYHQ_rEtZer1iZ9szJmir5CIx8ih0GxgVr53K0kaAYVAaMmjoAnDJaDm4RqDWQeHhh5C0Jw/s1600/Haircut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1049" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib7hltJyh22kHXtQBvsPfI9c1Uf3V3P1BL6DVlCscAkb2PVRfQrDLGN1Rry_jKiZUdxcj9wmYHQ_rEtZer1iZ9szJmir5CIx8ih0GxgVr53K0kaAYVAaMmjoAnDJaDm4RqDWQeHhh5C0Jw/s320/Haircut.jpg" width="209" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">By
his birthday, then, we had adjusted to his being here. His bedroom was my
former office space. I was attuned to his needs, fixing his breakfast (three
eggs, two waffles, fresh fruit, ice water) every weekday morning at 7 am. He was
picked up for school (freshman class at New Century Technology High) at about
8:00 am by a friend whose daughter went to the same school. I was responsible
for picking both of them up three days a week in the late afternoon. At first I
would get to the school very early to get a parking spot and wait in the car,
listening to the news. As the year went on, I pushed my arrival at the school
later and later, but I was always there before “the bell rang.” Tomás was bored
with school, for the most part. He turned out to be slightly rebellious in his
approach to his “studies.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Having access to YouTube to learn anything he wished
to learn, he didn’t appreciate having to listen to things that weren’t
interesting to him. It turned out that English literature and history were two
of those things. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGj3gEaW1hlKzkyEf8yX_2OoEDRM2sl9wmCPHBuHEtNF-W0o7RPluO18oVCOKdzOIQTD2rE4sN3FS7EGYgQrXmsJy_W-aVUoGRyd3SK70qfv6CpKQjQHxOjlc0VULlEPK3GStXHgqGOm06/s1600/3F0331A9-B395-4AD0-A705-A83789183AC6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="901" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGj3gEaW1hlKzkyEf8yX_2OoEDRM2sl9wmCPHBuHEtNF-W0o7RPluO18oVCOKdzOIQTD2rE4sN3FS7EGYgQrXmsJy_W-aVUoGRyd3SK70qfv6CpKQjQHxOjlc0VULlEPK3GStXHgqGOm06/s200/3F0331A9-B395-4AD0-A705-A83789183AC6.jpg" width="112" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">
This was shocking to me at first; as a high-schooler, I had
initially respected the “authority” of my teachers, and even admired some of
them. I wasn’t sure if I should scold or push him or leave him alone about it.
It took me a while to remember that I, too, had rebelled, in a worse fashion. I
had skipped classes, wandered off, and finally dropped out. Tomás wound up with
A’s and B’s anyway, for final grades. He’s a smart kid, math-oriented, but not
a reader. This meant that the enthusiasms and recommendations I had to offer
were not needed. Instead, Tomás introduced us to newer, contemporary amusements via his cell
phone.
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHcQDpu7GJks7hWQMqv_O2jBKj6mVHqW6Q1qyQnsT2J2X2CG_Biknl3YUUUS7TEkmO56zlD1HnPdIOUd5t6VVHGJzfrRx54zDdGkDqmr5Mxv-E3zb_Sp0X16hakTd1OPigd5P4XrJU46gb/s1600/IMG_1470.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHcQDpu7GJks7hWQMqv_O2jBKj6mVHqW6Q1qyQnsT2J2X2CG_Biknl3YUUUS7TEkmO56zlD1HnPdIOUd5t6VVHGJzfrRx54zDdGkDqmr5Mxv-E3zb_Sp0X16hakTd1OPigd5P4XrJU46gb/s400/IMG_1470.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Most
evenings, I’d drive Tomás to the CrossFit “box,” a ten-minute drive. The class
was an hour long, which meant I had to drive back to pick him up an hour later.
Sometimes I’d grocery shop during this time; sometimes I’d take the dog to the
dog park. My life became a series of car trips. Grocery shopping had to be done
at least every two days. The kid ate a lot. I was making meals on the 1950s
plan: a meat, a vegetable, a “starch.” My sister had given me access to some
money in an account, which paid for his food. He’d eat twice as much meat as I did,
or even Russell did, and would often follow dinner with a huge bowl of cereal and milk.
Gallons of milk per week were also mixed with the protein powder he needed before and
after workouts. He started indulging in a self-created workout at 6 am in
addition to his evening WOD (CrossFit-approved Workout of the Day), doing
“double-unders” (jumping rope) on the deck, swinging a 50-pound kettlebell,
pumping 50-pound dumbbells. Of course, we’d hear his thumping as we lay in bed,
not quite ready to get up ourselves. Tomás’s body shape was spectacularly
muscular, and he was enamored of this aspect of himself. I (the contrarian)
tried to ignore that aspect and pay more attention to his mind. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPisSX9MlZsMscUN5FXwQFoYfSYpzDx9Rwo2Ks_Dee4GOZ4pdfyubce5zTjlfcAmNZ3Z1W3CG4awdmNpznONCM0EbDFsKH5Z1jr_ZNLLJ2xAX5AcI3kjfmY8yHKUsQTvqeQ6TuLdiFRP0z/s1600/Games.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1183" data-original-width="1600" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPisSX9MlZsMscUN5FXwQFoYfSYpzDx9Rwo2Ks_Dee4GOZ4pdfyubce5zTjlfcAmNZ3Z1W3CG4awdmNpznONCM0EbDFsKH5Z1jr_ZNLLJ2xAX5AcI3kjfmY8yHKUsQTvqeQ6TuLdiFRP0z/s320/Games.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">He was a funny
guy. He and Russell had a rapport, part of which involved speaking in Maggie
the dog’s voice, a rough, gangster-style persona that Russell invented before Tomás
came, but to which Tomás added an incredible backstory that kept growing and
growing. Maggie was more than a hundred years old, it seems, and had been
everywhere and done everything, and been responsible for almost every important
technological development of the last fifty years. She was a braggart and
sometimes a liar; not to mention a narcissist, violent enforcer of her likes
and dislikes, and a cattle baron (because she liked steak). Maggie, through Tomás,
would berate me for not giving her enough steak.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEg91i6TRBdc2qFnneXUcXvB51QTXFvdU9OKAiADOggITdYu7ZGRcSrfMgEYsGFCI5OY9QFaqxOJksRD41H16Q9NNMmXeYlTBmxCW_UGZGwNfTrzGDbCJv3A64MZ46vt__ad0JY-SBL36P/s1600/heavy+in+the+gym.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1534" data-original-width="1600" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEg91i6TRBdc2qFnneXUcXvB51QTXFvdU9OKAiADOggITdYu7ZGRcSrfMgEYsGFCI5OY9QFaqxOJksRD41H16Q9NNMmXeYlTBmxCW_UGZGwNfTrzGDbCJv3A64MZ46vt__ad0JY-SBL36P/s400/heavy+in+the+gym.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">In
March came the workouts for the CrossFit Open. Five consecutive weekends of
brief, but strenuous workouts that were scored by his coach, Nathaniel. Tomás
wanted to do each workout twice, once on Friday and again on Sunday, to see if
he could improve his score. He always did improve his score, and ended up
70-something in his age group in the world, out of nearly 2,000 contestants. A
few weeks later he was officially invited to do the Online Qualifier workouts,
which were to be filmed. I think he had hopes of jumping up to the top 20 with
these four workouts. This was unlikely, but he was very angry with me for
messing up one of the films (I was not used to using my phone for filming, and
ended up switching to my video camera). With these workouts, he rose to 62nd in
the world in his age group, a fantastic achievement, but only the top 20 would
go to the annual games in August. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1jSr07AIVFlX_TTidvXiYjJkycWC6EkNkx_mPzoFSCEP-tzaCTH07xHjXyW2HUZj_EOuUdKA08l4c27Jvv_0FQtlTavvShychydUg3tOsse9TCinsZbq_WBEwzZRGsKeNVoWAnXEwfEGb/s1600/handstand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="772" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1jSr07AIVFlX_TTidvXiYjJkycWC6EkNkx_mPzoFSCEP-tzaCTH07xHjXyW2HUZj_EOuUdKA08l4c27Jvv_0FQtlTavvShychydUg3tOsse9TCinsZbq_WBEwzZRGsKeNVoWAnXEwfEGb/s320/handstand.jpg" width="154" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Before I witnessed Tomás doing this
competition, I had no idea of his capacities. I was blown away, watching him.
He was a real athlete, possibly even “gifted.” The first hug he ever gave me
was after completing the very first competitive workout in March.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">I was as supportive as it was possible to be, and would become as
nervous as he was before one of these competitive workouts, the first series of
which were done in groups, with a judge for each contestant, and a big digital
clock ticking away on one end of the gym. The more “reps” and rounds of
activities that were completed within the allotted time, the better the score.
Usually the weight to be lifted was prescribed, but there were two workouts
that involved increasing the weight. The kid dead-lifted 235 pounds, if I
remember correctly. Some of the other activities were pull-ups,
ring-muscle-ups, “burpees,” and handstand pushups. He was impressive at all of
these. I was his CrossFit mom.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkn836JVutMliIihSZmIthtCJiYRtHD-iBtze0uiwWK6yOrV9mHr4-OLP5DOrrvYrFshI_2gkhBlj_FFbrYIdGJ4Xe5JSfHJexhBR50v3AyFKNUY66fhFuEKMmD5OrltVGzfCmTmLk8Mb/s1600/Karla.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1078" data-original-width="557" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkn836JVutMliIihSZmIthtCJiYRtHD-iBtze0uiwWK6yOrV9mHr4-OLP5DOrrvYrFshI_2gkhBlj_FFbrYIdGJ4Xe5JSfHJexhBR50v3AyFKNUY66fhFuEKMmD5OrltVGzfCmTmLk8Mb/s320/Karla.jpg" width="165" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">I
don’t think Tomás and I started to become “close” until later in the spring,
after the competition was over and he had resigned himself to not being in the
top 20 this year. His achievement was amazing, but he had had an unrealistic,
ideal goal. It took him a while to accept that, and to move his hopes toward
next year’s games (2019). We would talk (or argue/discuss) while I drove him
here and there. We would talk at breakfast and at the dinner table. For a while
he was learning the guitar at school, and I shared some musical knowledge with
him; I feel I could have done more of that, but I didn’t. It was difficult to
get him to watch an entire movie unless it was an action picture. We did manage
to expose him to “2001” and “The Wizard of Oz.” I took him to a shooting range
because he wanted to try that. And, while he was here he found a girlfriend,
Karla. She was 15, a bit older. They saw each other at school, but would
occasionally meet other friends at the movies (more driving for me). After
school ended, Tomás had ten days before his scheduled return to Spain. During
this time he wanted to get together with Karla frequently (even more driving for
me). By the time it came to say goodbye, the scene was a bit heartbreaking. Tomás
had attended Karla’s sister’s wedding all afternoon at a house in Decatur. I
went to pick him up at 6 pm, and waited for more than half an hour while they
said goodbye, trying to give them privacy in the carport (I don't think they saw me take that picture). Karla
cried. Tomás wanted to cry, but didn’t until later. The next morning, we all
got up at 5 am to leave for the Nashville airport at 6:15 am.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">So, this
was my year to attempt to be a mother, since I don’t have kids myself. What I
discovered was that it’s mostly a lot of hard work, none of which I minded, because it
kept me busy and kept me from thinking about things I hadn’t done for myself,
or in my own life. I felt a vicarious thrill when Tomás did so well in the
competition; I was very proud of him. I adjusted to his not being an
“intellectual” in the style of his mother and my father. He has a very healthy
ego. He is not “troubled,” as I was at his age. I am sure he will endure some
more disappointments in the next few years that may be even worse than not
making the top 20 CrossFit kids’ list (in the damn world). He will grow and
learn. He may or may not keep in touch with Karla, although at this point, he
wants to come back to visit at Christmas. We don’t know yet if that will
happen; flights are expensive. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujkrWxWVXixYOSAniiLfxsJ1rzHpGHZE-sGgB0aDiTK2wznXRRX67mNEPO7OO03tLT9RJAztsi21qhr_ViDEoBA0JO5BW0bGUbV-TED5a04ttSYzPWLXvgz0kCEcMc9ZmiynjrDaRSHY-/s1600/dressed+up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="921" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujkrWxWVXixYOSAniiLfxsJ1rzHpGHZE-sGgB0aDiTK2wznXRRX67mNEPO7OO03tLT9RJAztsi21qhr_ViDEoBA0JO5BW0bGUbV-TED5a04ttSYzPWLXvgz0kCEcMc9ZmiynjrDaRSHY-/s320/dressed+up.jpg" width="184" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">What else I discovered was that it’s not
possible to see into a teenager’s mind or soul; I could only surmise, suspect,
project, and express caring, and laugh at his jokes (not difficult). When here,
he did not have a problem with confidence; he indulged in over-confidence (it
seemed to me) a lot of the time, but that is part of being a 14-year-old,
good-looking male with physical energy and a future ahead. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfusiQf2qPTB2w7XtM8kS0orksVKtCZ8HZ8zmarEtPtjt4dVgpf0__CwyGA4hEtPRt_ZAWPCK7GJ_KueeoVbpXh_LZKuUQGL2Z4EIznSAcCD4JkoQslbCTk50Yjx_uJFnYEg0OiqDLeDrs/s1600/33400753_10215288335577751_2285432426974937088_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfusiQf2qPTB2w7XtM8kS0orksVKtCZ8HZ8zmarEtPtjt4dVgpf0__CwyGA4hEtPRt_ZAWPCK7GJ_KueeoVbpXh_LZKuUQGL2Z4EIznSAcCD4JkoQslbCTk50Yjx_uJFnYEg0OiqDLeDrs/s320/33400753_10215288335577751_2285432426974937088_o.jpg" width="236" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">
As many young men
do, Tomás fantasizes about being an “entrepreneur,” and not having to go to
college or pay workplace dues or be under the thumb of a boss. He thinks he
will invent, implement a thing or a process, and become rich and powerful. Some
other ideas that he toyed with were becoming a CrossFit trainer, a policeman,
or joining the U.S. Army (he has dual citizenship).</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 5.0in 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">But now Tomás is back
home with his mother, my beloved sister Felicia, who has lived in Spain for
almost 30 years. She’s recently divorced from Tomás’s (and his older brother
Gabriel’s) father, so it’s a bit tough for her to do all that chauffeuring and
cooking, since she’s also working, teaching English at the University of
Seville. Gabriel (18) now works as a steward for Ryanair, based in Frankfurt,
Germany. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKYZuR1hOjg7VcX0kK_9-0ZQYn2ZdmjyAEoSUP7yxJ3S7QnE66h40lOEP9YXNIh9suhdwFmYXhZSYhKft2Aj4QK4pUkclHDfu3C0YiWeJ8r4emAwtcOAiZJT9oeSr4uICgPgai_Yx0rc2W/s1600/29894223_10214888059291094_1435675681_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKYZuR1hOjg7VcX0kK_9-0ZQYn2ZdmjyAEoSUP7yxJ3S7QnE66h40lOEP9YXNIh9suhdwFmYXhZSYhKft2Aj4QK4pUkclHDfu3C0YiWeJ8r4emAwtcOAiZJT9oeSr4uICgPgai_Yx0rc2W/s320/29894223_10214888059291094_1435675681_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">He comes home to Seville once a month. Tomás is having a summer of leisure at the
moment, except for CrossFit. I saw him on Skype the other day, wearing the gray
hairband I gave him to hold back his fashionable top-of-the-head long dark
hair. We miss him, but it’s not that yearning kind of missing a person. It’s
more like, “Wow! A teenager lived with us for a year, and it was pretty cool!”
Should it be a yearning? Did I grow to love Tomás? I already loved him by
default; he is family. I acquired more intimate knowledge of him, and that is
part of love, I think. I care about Gabriel, too. We chat sometimes on
WhatsApp, during which short moments I try to persuade Gabriel to give up being
a fan of Donald Trump. Tomás does not share Gabriel’s political taste,
fortunately, and I think Gabriel adopted his attitude partly to counter his
mother’s very liberal influence; to be different, to have his own identity.
They are so young, these nephews.</span></span></div>
<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-parent:"";
margin-top:0in;
margin-right:0in;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:0in;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";}
@page Section1
{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
mso-header-margin:.5in;
mso-footer-margin:.5in;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
</style><span style="font-size: small;">
--></span>Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-89670490771257975292016-12-26T19:31:00.001-06:002016-12-26T19:40:57.205-06:00Gilmore Swirls...Oh, how I’d like to watch another episode of “Gilmore Girls” on Netflix right now instead of write this. I never knew of the series until the recent resurrection of it that got lots of publicity. A friend of mine wanted to watch the new episodes, but felt compelled to catch up on the old ones (from 2006 to 2011, I believe) before she indulged in the new material. Against my better judgment (as my mother used to say), I followed my friend’s example. Now, at the beginning of Season 2, I can’t say I’m hooked on “Gilmore Girls,” but I do enjoy the experience of disdain I feel for the character of the mother, "Lorelei." The actress, Lauren Graham, is, of course, attractive in a chipmunk sort of way; and self-absorbed as the day is long. She possesses the gift of gabble, the clever repartee of a dozen television scriptwriters working overtime. They gave the character their severe caffeine habit, among other things. And what’s with all the handsome people of color in the background? That is not realistic for a quaint New England town without an Ivy League college located within it. Or maybe things have changed, I don’t know.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwrcXq9BwOmi9IDZYUawPvvUb5s7QoKQpu96VuCIIR3bnHOfTEtoCXiOYHCTjceGwh5rqpTlMkIJsNqacK-kcjBz3etxCt8mLOsw1QyxEtSEfBW_e5qavpcaeo87Tsvb3devienTKZKwUE/s1600/Stars+Hollow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwrcXq9BwOmi9IDZYUawPvvUb5s7QoKQpu96VuCIIR3bnHOfTEtoCXiOYHCTjceGwh5rqpTlMkIJsNqacK-kcjBz3etxCt8mLOsw1QyxEtSEfBW_e5qavpcaeo87Tsvb3devienTKZKwUE/s320/Stars+Hollow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Having come of age (12-18) in a quaint New England town WITH an Ivy League college in it, I suppose I’m nostalgic and jealous of the Gilmore Girls’ “Stars Hollow.” I could have stayed in Wellesley, right? I could have remained a town character (like I actually was for a year when I was 30, living in an apartment on the third floor of an historic house around the corner from my mother’s house, with a series of pathetic roommates). That apartment’s rent has probably quadrupled by now. I worked at the town newspaper (since swallowed by a generic publishing company) as a typesetter and artist, and had a crush on the one lowly photographer there. I had bad dates arranged by friends (the photographer was taken). I took to drinking apricot brandy with milk every night at bedtime. I didn’t stay in bed, though; I took night walks and ran into the another town character, Harry, who worked at the grocery store, was in his fifties, had a lisp, and apparently wanted to be spanked. I do not know if he ever found anyone to do it. I would wander by another historic house wherein lived another town character who smoked weed a lot, and I would partake, although it always made me paranoid. That feeling, pre-David Lynch, was not a good one. I saw “Eraserhead” in the fall of 1980, and thereafter I felt more comfortable with the paranoia that pot gave me. I applied for a position on the Wellesley Youth Council based on my experience with waywardness when I was a youth (and continuing), but didn’t get the acceptance letter until I’d already moved to Huntsville, Alabama. I wrote in my application that youth needed real adventure, and that was what had gone wrong. There was no longer any real adventure for the sheltered darlings, so they had to strike out.<br />
<br />
And now, after 35 years in Huntsville, Alabama, I’ve retired from a job I enjoyed for almost 18 years, as secretary for the Department of Art & Art History at an Alabama state university. There were struggles before that university perch welcomed me, other jobs. I suppose I, and probably my brother Michael (only a year younger than me) considered ourselves scrappers, fighters, outsiders. We would NOT succumb to a secure, full-time job. Michael was tempted several times (once by the Harvard Law Library) but resisted. I succumbed to the University of Alabama in Huntsville. Michael is now an expert organic farmer doing what is really “sharecropping,” and has no home-base, now that our parents’ house has sold. I’m getting a pension and Social Security and married to a self-employed magician (and fellow art major) who is not YET retired, and probably never will. The amount of stuff accumulated in our household is appalling, because while I was working full-time, I paid no attention to my house as a place. The computer screen removes one from one’s immediate circumstances, as we all know. The pile-up resembles somewhat the pile-up my mother once created, with her bags of saved junk-mail and holy relics. I swore I’d make a film (I’m an amateur filmmaker) about her collection and her personality, and actually BROUGHT bags of junk-mail back with me from my expensive ($450 flights from Huntsville to Boston and back) cleanup sessions in her bedroom in Wellesley. But, by golly, I’ve LOST INTEREST.<br />
<br />
Which is the main point of this blog post: LOSING INTEREST. What does that mean? How can I be consumed by one idea for about a year and then just LOSE INTEREST? I hate myself for this! The people I worked for bought me a very nice video camera for a retirement gift. How can I “betray” them by doing nothing with it? I have taken plenty of classes in the medium; I know what I could do. I just DON’T WANT TO. This is a betrayal of my mother’s life and of my department’s parting faith in me! I just don’t know what how I can go on with this charade. I have various “talents” and abilities. I have propensities, like the propensity to write. But gosh, unless I have someone demanding artistic products from me, I am NOT going to all that effort. And yet I go to simplistic physical effort three or four times a day to walk my newly-acquired little dog. Having taken plenty of (free-because-employed by same) UAH classes, I know that the idea of a “TEACHER” demanding things is something I’ve always responded to. But is that really “ME”? Why should I, Marylyn Coffey, make cheap little films when gods like Mike Leigh are making expensive, fantastic films using hundreds of people to help? I never was a team player. What am I supposed to do now? That is my question. And I have only beer, no apricot brandy at this time.<br />
Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-41752532838007978562016-07-18T13:48:00.001-05:002016-07-26T14:32:03.531-05:00On second thought...<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
blog post of the other day was, essentially, an attempt to be positive.
Stretchy, shiny, cheap plastic thoughts with no air filling them; not even as
lively as balloons. Limp assertions.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
truth is, I am bitter about my life, a lot of the time. At least work
distracted me from this bitterness and threatening depression. Now, having
retired, I have to distract myself, and I’m not up for it. Nor am I up for all
the “creative projects” I thought I’d be rarin’ to be doing.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This
morning I was pondering what it “means” to be an older person who doesn’t have
children. Since my husband is spending a lot of time dealing with his elderly
father who is in “rehab” after a stroke, I can be glad that at least I won’t
be inflicting that kind of obligation on a son or daughter (only on said
husband or a couple of caring friends, or more likely, strangers).</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-9PUiz7rxavFg5kU4MWj9YNYDgn4tlrYJpjpV4bmHw0UhUPtGeELp9zW-lOyWa5IBgP6JvKmZvsvYCefTO3u0A3db0kgr3NywRyytenm4-Pkf0c8ekom1pxPwDt7pdKkz4oO1M5ZLzwAe/s1600/920x920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-9PUiz7rxavFg5kU4MWj9YNYDgn4tlrYJpjpV4bmHw0UhUPtGeELp9zW-lOyWa5IBgP6JvKmZvsvYCefTO3u0A3db0kgr3NywRyytenm4-Pkf0c8ekom1pxPwDt7pdKkz4oO1M5ZLzwAe/s320/920x920.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #ffe599;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It
also means that my family’s genes won’t have as much of a chance, or at least
my particular combination won’t. A total of five male offspring have been
produced by two of my five siblings, but no female offspring. It would have
been nice to provide my family with one female descendant. I had the
opportunity, back in 1979, but I wasn’t brave enough or stupidly optimistic
enough. And I didn’t think about my family’s “legacy” at the time. I was
selfish, scared, and heartbroken because my boyfriend didn’t want to proceed
with the project and had moved to another state. He was going through a
divorce, and I had just been through one. Sometimes life is not a fairytale.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #ffe599;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My overall
estimation of myself has improved somewhat since then, because I have made
better choices. But still, what have I really done? Nothing very brave or
unusual at all! As a white woman from the suburbs of Massachusetts, I was, yes,
privileged, and even though I felt the effects of the “second-class citizenship”
that feminism fought against, I still got away with a lot. I worked hard, but
only when I felt like it. I took responsibility, but only for things that
seemed interesting to me. I looked on “love” as something I could “get” when I
needed it, with very little effort, simply because I was female and attractive.
It took me YEARS to learn that sex and love were not the same thing. I was a
naive idiot with intellectual and artistic pretensions. I didn’t know how to
really LOVE anyone. I knew who pleased me and gave me attention, and I
experienced what I thought was “suffering” when those people left. And of
course I tried to make everyone “like” me, if not “admire” me. I fooled a lot
of people into thinking I was a “good” person. I really wasn’t even a person. I
still don’t know if I am.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #ffe599;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve
been re-reading some letters from the 1960s, sent to me by friends. All of us
were doing a lot of soul-searching in those days, yet it was so solipsistic. We
were exploring our own moods, our own feelings. We were constantly disappointed
in other people because they didn’t share our values, opinions, or energy
level. We were prematurely disillusioned without even experiencing much of the
world outside ourselves or our “crowd.” Sure, some of us traveled, but the
efforts were superficial, considering all the drug-assisted writing and
poetry-making and music-listening that seemed to fill each day. We were having
an effect only on ourselves as individuals. We often thought the world owed us
a living for being sensitive and creative and easily wounded. I admit it!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #ffe599;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
could have read more books. I could have NOT dropped out of history class in
high school and somehow gotten away with it. After my year of being away from
high school, I returned to a groovy, “special” school that overlooked the gaps
in my previous curriculum and eased me on to graduation with courses like
“Journal Writing,” and “Photography.” I deserve to be the subject of a parody,
only it’s a bit late. Maybe I can do it myself, if I can sum up the motivation
(which I probably can’t).</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #ffe599;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Yes,
I indulge in a vicious assessment of myself sometimes, having practiced
attitudes taught me by my mother, the stern Catholic authority figure of my
childhood. But since I “lost” my religion when I was 15, I can’t seek help from
the saints. Often, I don’t even recognize that I’m down, or might need some
fun, or might need to talk to a friend. I just stay at home. I make clever
remarks on Facebook. I try to remain kind, or at least civil, toward my
husband. He’s very important to me. I would say that I love him as much as I
can love anyone, and also that I need him. I have needed him ever since we met
and I saw what a genuinely kind person he is. I benefit from that kindness. I
have survived because of it, I suppose. We have been together more than 30
years. My own father used to claim that marriage was simply an economic
arrangement; I don’t know what philosopher he’d been reading at the time. But
it’s more like a psychological arrangement for me!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: #ffe599;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So,
in these days of racist violence and religious wars and poisoned politics, I am
trying to become more aware, and to see if there is anything I can do to
“help.” But usually, on any given day, I have only enough psychological energy
to do something like give a ride to a friend whose car is in the shop. I’ve
become more introverted; I’m not into neighborhood watches or peace rallies. I
suppose I should be—I keep beating myself over the head for not doing things
like that, because I no longer have the excuse of having to go to work. I exercise, but only because I don’t want to die before my time. I
have always treasured “the life of the mind,” but I am distracted by the
constant guilt of not doing enough for others. It is hard to find peace. So
there, previous blog post!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #f4cccc;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Photo credit: Edith and Little Bear play with a toy camera and their teddy bears.
Photo by Dare Wright: Photo from "The Secret Life of The Lonely Doll:
The Search for Dare Wright" by Jean Nathan.</span></i></span></div>
Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-33293031283405875432016-07-15T22:48:00.001-05:002016-07-15T23:03:49.672-05:00Parakeet in a new cage<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.1" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">Cambria</span>;
<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.2" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">panose</span>-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.3" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">mso</span>-font-<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.4" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">charset</span>:0;
<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.5" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">mso</span>-generic-font-family:auto;
<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.6" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">mso</span>-font-pitch:variable;
<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.7" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">mso</span>-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.8" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">MsoNormal</span>, <span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.9" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">li</span>.<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.10" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">MsoNormal</span>, div.<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.11" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">MsoNormal</span>
{<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.12" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">mso</span>-style-parent:"";
margin-top:0in;
margin-right:0in;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:0in;
<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.13" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">mso</span>-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.14" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">mso</span>-<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.15" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">ascii</span>-font-family:<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.16" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">Cambria</span>;
<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.17" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">mso</span>-<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.18" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">fareast</span>-font-family:<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.19" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">Cambria</span>;
<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.20" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">mso</span>-<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.21" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">hansi</span>-font-family:<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.22" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">Cambria</span>;
<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.23" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">mso</span>-<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.24" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">bidi</span>-font-family:"Times New Roman";}
@page Section1
{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.25" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">mso</span>-header-margin:.5in;
<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.26" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">mso</span>-footer-margin:.5in;
<span aria-haspopup="true" role="menuitem" tabindex="-1" id=":10.27" style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 0%;" class="goog-spellcheck-word">mso</span>-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
</style> <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Many years ago, I had the chore of placing a pink cloth cover on our family parakeet's birdcage each night. On the fabric, which was sewn into a box-like shape, was a picture of a bird, with “Time to retire!” in large, cursive letters above it.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitvQDMwXVLI3TXiq4ylArNE1JdFPEpxvRqpIj2r48yVOTY5_vSkI8ypUsajTAqtkBYh8zzvns449fmo2R0yjPI2DVkafmmsu8lWRk82LCgaYVK178vMJBVzmeEbsSxOWsimoBU5fZBrV-n/s1600/171671-325x216-Parakeet-cage-with-proper-spacing.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitvQDMwXVLI3TXiq4ylArNE1JdFPEpxvRqpIj2r48yVOTY5_vSkI8ypUsajTAqtkBYh8zzvns449fmo2R0yjPI2DVkafmmsu8lWRk82LCgaYVK178vMJBVzmeEbsSxOWsimoBU5fZBrV-n/s320/171671-325x216-Parakeet-cage-with-proper-spacing.jpg" /></a><br /> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now I have retired, not just for the evening but from my most recent full-time involvement in the work force at the University of Alabama in Huntsville. It was a decision made in February 2016, and as the date of release, May 1, came closer there was a feeling of impatience: soon I could stop doing all these by-now boring things for other people! But there was also a feeling of dread: would I feel like a useful human being? Was that important?</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My 66th birthday occurred just before retirement, so I was eligible for close-to-maximum Social Security benefits. I also have a pension. Of course, as an hourly, not salaried, staff assistant in the art department, I wasn't making big bucks, and I'm not making them now. I have to watch my spending. There won't be any trips to Europe or even Alabama beach weekends, unless I diligently save for months. But there's enough for occasional fancy olives or local craft beer.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My job was the best (and longest) I'd ever had during my varied career. I carried a lot of keys. I was “in charge” of many things. People came to me for help and advice. My ego benefited from this. I was the “go-to” person for everything from getting an I.D.card activated for lab access, to contacting people outside the university for exhibit space or publicity. I had developed habits of responding and feeling that seemed to be “who I was.” But now I know that they were just habits, and possibly, coping mechanisms.<br />I always knew, deep down, that being super-responsible and available to everyone for more hours than I was paid was not always healthy. I threw myself into it. And I was able to do that because it was not my enterprise. In other words, I have been the kind of person who finds it easier to believe in the causes of others than in my own causes, whatever they might be. And although I'm capable of great selfishness, the expression of it has often been accidental or desperate rather than intentional and rational.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The first thing I discovered, not having to be at work every day, was that I could slow down. Activities that seemed a nuisance when done in haste became pleasurable when done slowly. Doing the dishes. Changing the sheets. Cooking a meal. Completing my morning exercise routine. These ordinary tasks took on a charm they hadn't had before. Perhaps it will wear off, but now I know it's a possibility.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The occasional bout of insomnia, once alarming because of how it interfered with my effectiveness the next day, is now an exploration of my own thoughts: I travel through time and visit many places, review memories and emotions, even chase a creative idea or two, knowing I can sleep late if necessary. This sometimes hours-long mental meandering is not always a source of pleasure, but at least it no longer causes panic.<br /> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am more available to friends. I am happier when they call. There had been so many times when I experienced their invitations or communications as interference with “work.” Now I can pay more attention, be kinder, agree to meet for coffee or lunch or a drink, appreciate knowing them, and experience their unique qualities. This new openness of mine reminds me of when I was a hippie, before work slowly took over my life. Being a “people person” for work was not as sweet or sincere or rewarding as the years went by. I had no choice of which people, and the role was necessary all day long, which was exhausting. Now I can choose.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Finally, after some subtle sparring (my husband is self-employed and is at home a lot) with both of us feeling observed and perhaps assessed by the other, we realized that neither of us is always going to do what's silently expected or even out-loud asked. Rooms aren't going to get organized immediately, the way I pictured they would. Home improvements will be incremental, and maybe never happen. And it's not the end of the world. Instead of worrying about all that, I've agreed to rent half a room in the house of a friend, and will go there in the afternoons with some materials and my video camera to start working on a short Ken Burns-style film about my mother. There's an October deadline for a festival. I know what I'm doing from having taken a couple of courses, and I'm looking forward to the mind-trip that the process will afford me.</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I now suspect that I might be old enough and mature enough, and possibly flexible enough, and perhaps capable of supporting my own causes enough, that it was truly “Time to retire!”</span></span></span>
Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-48553190067105874102015-12-28T10:28:00.001-06:002016-07-26T14:35:05.309-05:00The tortuous route to not-being...<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-parent:"";
margin-top:0in;
margin-right:0in;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:0in;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";}
@page Section1
{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
mso-header-margin:.5in;
mso-footer-margin:.5in;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
</style> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
father’s gone now, too. According to recent family lore, he was aiming for All
Saints Day, and almost made it. He died late on Halloween night. When I saw him
at the hospital, his eyes were rolled back and his mouth was open, and he was
breathing irregularly. I don’t know if he could hear me telling him I loved
him, or if he could feel my hand on his, or feel my hand stroking his head with
its sparse white hairs. My gestures were sincere, and I vaguely hoped he would
pick up the feeling and take it with him into wherever, but then I remembered
that I don’t believe in any wherever, and neither did he. If he wasn’t even
conscious at that moment, what would be the difference a few hours later when
he was dead?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
sister had driven me back to the cluttered homestead around 8 pm, and I was on
my second or third beer when my brother called with the news of my father’s
passing. I immediately called my high-school friend in Maine, Janet. I was
still under the decades-long illusion that she cared about me and my family,
and she seemed suitably sympathetic. I had called her a year-and-a-half
earlier, when my mother died. She said she felt “privileged” that she was the
one I called, but I couldn’t tell if she said it with irony or not. She hasn’t
written to me in the last few years except for one postcard. I know she’s
retired, and spends a lot of time with her brother and sister and their
families. Her parents are both gone; that happened some years ago. She had said
then that she felt like an orphan. I was so sorry for her at the time; I didn’t
know that was something everyone says. My overseas sister later told me not to
say that about myself, though. My overseas sister feels she contains the best
of what both our parents taught (or inadvertantly gave) her, and therefore, she
will never be an orphan. I am urged to feel the same way. But all I feel is a
bit angry.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My bedridden
father had only gone to the hospital for oxygen. He knew he needed oxygen
because he was hallucinating, he’d said. While there, they discovered he
had pneumonia in one lung and his heart was failing. After oxygen, antibiotics and a few other things, they put something in
his mouth, maybe nitroglycerine. It caused a bad reaction, and things got
worse. I wish I knew more about this incident, which occurred the day before I
got there. My brother had been by his side most of the time, but had been away
when this thing happened. After this thing happened my father was unconscious,
and that’s the condition he was in when I saw him. I am angry that this
happened, and angry that death hasn’t been “peaceful” for either of my parents.
My mother died as she was being cleaned by the hospice nurse. She yelled in
pain, my sister said, as she was rolled onto her recently operated-on hip to
facilitate the nurse’s actions. Then suddenly, she, uh, ceased to exist.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOgvtcYExA-V2x_O1j3Vufvc9F6GdiYD6IoeKZ8HAcuaBDc2P-PGO6hPg_cL0vB1fzH52R5EwBeTj5pWPpchVpvHjxb9Zmw6SIp8Q7h79Hauf18BzioMA6iuxTIKRldOZ2CuUhChklDwbx/s1600/016a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOgvtcYExA-V2x_O1j3Vufvc9F6GdiYD6IoeKZ8HAcuaBDc2P-PGO6hPg_cL0vB1fzH52R5EwBeTj5pWPpchVpvHjxb9Zmw6SIp8Q7h79Hauf18BzioMA6iuxTIKRldOZ2CuUhChklDwbx/s200/016a.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Why
couldn’t my parents have died peacefully and painlessly in their sleep? The
whole process, so long-drawn-out and pain-filled, is not a good conclusion to a
life, however that life was lived. It isn’t fair. I am angry. I am not looking
forward to my own demise. I used to think that being dead would be fine, since
it would be the end of obligations and responsibilities. No more worries!
However, if the last part of life is just a horrible mess, regardless of how
long or how well you lived, then it’s just a destructive sensory weight
crushing any pleasant memories or thoughts that might be drifting through one’s
mind. In fact, it seems “designed” to cancel out everything good about life. I
am angry. And I suppose I have been naive.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">About
two months after my father's death, a good friend died of ovarian cancer that she’d
“battled” for two years. She was in her fifties. I saw her two weeks before it
happened, on Thanksgiving weekend (a time I’d already planned to visit my
family, thinking my father would still be alive). I drove to upstate New York
from Massachusetts to see her for half an hour. She was skeletal, weary, unable
to swallow, teary. And yet she was putting on a brave (British; she grew up in
the UK) face, trying to be sociable. We stared at each other. I almost cried,
but the tears remained behind my eyes. I haven’t cried for years. Something is
wrong with me, I guess.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This
is all very depressing. I strongly feel I need to concoct a new approach to
life, a new attitude to take me through my remaining 20 (maybe) years. But I
don’t know what notions to pursue, or what resources to gather from within
myself. Spirituality is not working for me. But neither is materialism (that
is, science). I think I need some good experiences, but right now I’m just
trudging through the same old daily experiences. Where could I possibly find
the energy (let alone funds) for any new experiences when I can’t even cope
with the usual ones?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Happy
New Year!</span></span></div>
Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-21629958323885879402015-05-25T16:19:00.002-05:002015-05-25T16:19:46.407-05:00Bridge over the river whatever...<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-parent:"";
margin-top:0in;
margin-right:0in;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:0in;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";}
@page Section1
{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
mso-header-margin:.5in;
mso-footer-margin:.5in;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
</style>
-->
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s difficult these days for me to feel comfortable writing
anything that’s not part of a welter of comments and posts; to write something
that’s not tied by however slender a thread to some fuzzily defined consensus
of my friends on Facebook. Well, that’s not exactly true—I do write
contradictory or curmudgeonly posts, but only when I know I might have secret
support. I might, for instance, gently mock some absurd “New Age” idea,
especially if it’s just a “meme,” and not actually composed by a Facebook friend
to express her deep convictions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ5gbE470I8sQxtQtQsWA_bwKfKjnOvt85SLD1mqePAu20BrGZQbPvn2Z6_SgXB5N2Sp2gj2XVAsU9caKONHM7ZdqT_td5Aw42sg4xS7unGN_yfOgeq6swFg3HIFNHLBGyFBbwoC0svtR9/s1600/Hagwilget_First_Bridge.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ5gbE470I8sQxtQtQsWA_bwKfKjnOvt85SLD1mqePAu20BrGZQbPvn2Z6_SgXB5N2Sp2gj2XVAsU9caKONHM7ZdqT_td5Aw42sg4xS7unGN_yfOgeq6swFg3HIFNHLBGyFBbwoC0svtR9/s1600/Hagwilget_First_Bridge.png" /></a>Facebook aside, there’s this huge VOID. Yes, the void. The
abyss. But it’s a very foggy one. For all I know, the drop could be about five
feet into some mud. Or, it could be infinite and cold and full of meaningless stars.
There’s not much within me these days to get me motivated; and I can tell that
what is there is merely intellectual—a few thoughts to keep me clinging to
future possibilities of interest. But there is no real emotional need,
yearning, repulsion, or discernment between one or another activity, or even
between one or another person. Well, that’s not exactly true—I do have my
preferences. Even when I’m just “hanging out,” I rarely do it with more than
one person, or for more than two consecutive hours. That I can be with my
husband for days is a given; it’s a condition, not a challenge. Yes, I take him
for granted, and I am grateful to be able to do that. I do try to occasionally
show him I care.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With retirement envisioned to happen in less than a year now,
I’m no longer invested feelingly in work. I have neither the bursts of
compassion nor muffled fits of fury that I used to have. I just want to get
through the day. This is not really “me” anymore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And my body is slow and achy; it’s no longer eager. It wants
to lie down all the time. It wants to eat, drink, and be slothful. My mind
wants to avoid stress or focusing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a hazy sense of “unfairness” regarding my mother
being gone, just when she was beginning to mellow, and to offer loving that
wasn’t conditional (nevertheless with religious admonitions attached). It took
long enough! I supposed I’d become a little more receptive, too. One of the
last things she said to me was, “You guys were an interesting bunch.” Faint,
but welcome praise, at long last.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a lot I can do. I can watch pretty-good new series on
the computer. I can take up Scene Study classes again, and am trying to do so
without paying by just being involved in the one scene from “I Love You, I Love
You Not” with 14-year-old Sue. I can think about my collaged-artifacts art
project that I hope to do for next spring. I can consider starting that book
about my mother that I so wanted to write immediately after her death. But
these days I don’t have any strong feeling of wanting to do anything. And that
makes me worry. I hope it will come back—some kind of wanting—however ludicrous
or inappropriate it might be. Better some crazy, rickety bridges across the
abyss than just standing on its edge, staring and wondering, and ultimately
being utterly bored by the fog with which it’s apparently filled.</div>
Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-27408548411518902632014-11-23T14:22:00.000-06:002014-11-23T14:45:26.982-06:00My mother and her sort-of legacy...<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-parent:"";
margin-top:0in;
margin-right:0in;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:0in;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";}
@page Section1
{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
mso-header-margin:.5in;
mso-footer-margin:.5in;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
</style> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
been about nine months since my mother died. The tides that have turned in my
mind since then aren’t significant in themselves. At first I felt she was
watching me from above, but that lasted one afternoon. I don’t really “believe”
in an afterlife, so the sense of being spied upon faded quickly. Now I must
figure out why she DID believe, and I don’t— despite her best efforts and
prayers. Is it something I lack? Or did she lack something? Was there a void she had to fill?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV14xx0aO5G_v_ON9KnA_RmeeigoNjFnO97aULwQMCicOfVPwGdvsJYaAlCmTPucUrMjcflvJnkONmUJrncW_2CprYqqrX_NCmgshPgHw3VZkqvyB5Rr9DeWvOCzEtUINDN8TgVlTCSW7C/s1600/Maryglo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV14xx0aO5G_v_ON9KnA_RmeeigoNjFnO97aULwQMCicOfVPwGdvsJYaAlCmTPucUrMjcflvJnkONmUJrncW_2CprYqqrX_NCmgshPgHw3VZkqvyB5Rr9DeWvOCzEtUINDN8TgVlTCSW7C/s1600/Maryglo.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After
the first purging of junk mail and papers from the boxes in her room (my task upon my first visit to the old house after her death) I had second thoughts. Wouldn’t
it be amazing to compile a list of all the Catholic charities that had
solicited her contributions (sometimes successfully)? The list would read like
a found poem. I could still throw out the envelopes and papers, but I could write down the names of the organizations— “The Society of Saint
Gertrude the Great,” for instance. But I didn’t. My task would have
taken too long, and I was in a hurry, although I’m not sure why. I guess I
wanted to make my visit fruitful by at least eliminating all the cardboard
boxes from the room, leaving just the dresser drawers and file cabinet (also
filled with papers and junk mail).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
my brother Michael came in (the one closest to me in age, who was my
pal when we were young). I gestured to papers, correspondence,
hand-written diatribes in half-filled journals about changes in the Catholic
Church. “It was her life’s work,” he said. That statement horrified me, as if I
had been throwing out my mother’s personhood. I ended up stuffing my backpack
full of the more interesting correspondence and journal entries, and bringing
it back to Alabama with me. I am thinking about writing a book.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">What
I can’t get a grip on is the distance, the discrepancy, between my non-belief
and her belief. She was a person who lived every moment (apparently) wishing
and hoping that Christ and/or God (the Trinity is a puzzling doctrine) would
punish all transgressors ASAP. And transgressors included not only the usual
violators of all Ten Commandments, but priests and popes who had changed Catholic rituals she’d grown up with. In one of her writings, she is aghast
that wooden pews have been replaced with cushioned pews, and bowing substituted
for one-knee genuflection. She called it “anathema.” She abhorred change.
The 1960s was not a good time for a person like this to be raising children.
All of us must have, at various times, terrified, tortured, and deeply
disappointed her simply by being who we were, and by falling under the influence of "modernism," aka "Satan."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
apologized to her on her deathbed (she couldn’t talk back intelligibly,
probably because of a stroke) for putting her through all that. And I thanked
her for helping me out of a few bad situations. But just as it had been at my Aunt
Josephine’s deathbed when my aunt turned to me and asked, “So, what about
religion?” I was unable to reassure either of them that I believed in God or Jesus or Mother Mary (although Mary is a pretty cool figure to
contemplate). To my aunt I could only repeat, “We really can’t know, can we?” I
don’t remember what I said to my mother, who was unable to ask. Probably nothing. But I couldn’t lie. I'd told her my views in letters. I couldn’t pretend.
Why couldn’t I at least pretend? And, digging slightly deeper, why couldn’t I actually BELIEVE?
I don’t even know whether I’m GLAD that I cannot believe, or profoundly sad
about myself in that respect.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So
many people believe, or say they do. However, I've not met anyone who believed like my mother did.
My mother refused to attend my brother’s wedding--even though it took place in
a church--because it wasn’t Catholic (neither was his bride). My
mother refused to allow the father of my sister’s children to stay in her
house, even though they’d traveled all the way from Spain to introduce her
grandchildren to her (they weren’t married at the time).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
mother walked a multi-strand tightrope of religious principles all her life.
She welcomed suffering of all kinds (refusing to have a gallbladder operation
that would have alleviated months of ensuing pain (the gradual cessation of
which she called a “miracle” although it might have been her gallbladder simply
ceasing to function).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
mother, the good Catholic woman, refused to use birth control, and thus had
many children, some of whom I'm sure neither she nor my father were ready for,
emotionally or financially. My father did not share her beliefs, although he
went through the motions, something for which she never forgave him; he was a deceiver.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">No one but a saint could have believed as firmly and deeply
as my mother did. I think she WAS aiming for sainthood of a sort. But she left me a
puzzle. And I need to solve it. I’ve
already thought of a title for my book: “Momya: The Story of a Believer and Her
Wayward Daughter.” What do you think? Catchy?</span></div>
Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-30286366937591016292014-03-18T21:19:00.002-05:002014-03-18T21:19:37.507-05:00She's gone...the most influential person in my life...
<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-parent:"";
margin-top:0in;
margin-right:0in;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:0in;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";}
@page Section1
{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
mso-header-margin:.5in;
mso-footer-margin:.5in;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
-->
</style>
<br />
<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-parent:"";
margin-top:0in;
margin-right:0in;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:0in;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";}
@page Section1
{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
mso-header-margin:.5in;
mso-footer-margin:.5in;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
-->
</style>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother just died. Yes, she up and died. Why did she do
such a thing? Well, her body was exhausted, after 90 years of living. She’d had
six children, a few of them quite challenging to raise. She’d been associated
with a husband (my father) who perhaps did not satisfy her needs (and I don’t
mean sexual, but simply a strong, involved, male presence capable of relating
emotionally). Not that there is anything wrong with my father. He was a great
provider with very interesting ideas and interests. My sister quite likes him.
I found him wanting. I needed his attention when I was a teen and did not get
it. So I paid him back, I guess. He spent money he did not have on my
counseling and etc. But, back to my mother.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was fortunate to see a lot of her in the last five or six
years. When she started inviting me to her funeral, I guess I started visiting
a lot. Twice a year at least. Since I live 900 miles away, that was an effort.
Not a huge effort, but an effort. And there was more affection than usual.
Quite odd for our family. Maybe she actually loved me! Maybe I actually loved her!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a wonderful thing that all six of her children could
be with her about two weeks before she died. She was on hospice care at home. I
arrived about two hours after she’d been brought home from the hospital, having
gone into hip surgery able to speak, and having come out not able to
speak. I do not know why this was; perhaps another mini-stroke. She’d already
had two. AND breast cancer. AND a heart attack. She was a trouper. She was
strong. But no one is infinitely strong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The strange thing is, I’d broken my own pelvis after a
fall...just six weeks before that. My mother was worried about me. But I
recovered. She did not. I was at her side when she was pretty conscious for a
few days after returning from the hospital. I told her I was sorry for the
trouble I’d given her as a teenager. I told her lots of things. I am not sure
they were the things she wanted to hear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The love between us seemed to suddenly come into view in the
last few years. It wasn’t always visible. There was so much anger, especially
on my part. She was always a lot stronger than I was, and always worried and
giving advice. I remember when I came home from a car trip to Maine and back to
visit friends. I had driven it straight; it wasn’t THAT long a drive. She
remarked that I should have taken a rest stop. I responded with fury. That was
in 1980, so long ago. Since then I’ve felt more and more tenderness for
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’ve realized she felt
that for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, what do I do now? I think the only thing I have learned,
which I suspected all along, was that everyone has a reason, and everyone is
struggling. In some ways, my mother (partly because of her religion) seemed
sure of herself, psychologically. When she became physically weaker I was able
to give her something, perhaps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have realized that she cared about me in a primal way; it has nothing to do
with competing philosophies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
what level do I want to live and experience things? If I stick to the basic
level, I was loved by her. Yes, I was. And that is good to know.</div>
Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-29170706134788219812013-07-13T15:01:00.000-05:002013-07-13T15:14:01.272-05:00Weak sisters...?<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-parent:"";
margin-top:0in;
margin-right:0in;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:0in;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";}
@page Section1
{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
mso-header-margin:.5in;
mso-footer-margin:.5in;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
</style><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“You can’t do this to me! I love you!” Ellen’s voice carried
through the apartment to my bedroom down the hall. Chip was breaking up with
her. She had been foolish to think it would last. He had just divorced, and I
had needed a roommate. He had picked her up on the Wellesley College campus by
sitting on a bench looking forlorn in his dark trenchcoat, his black hair
hanging in his face bad-boy style, his mouth humorous, expressive. Ten years older than
Ellen, probably, and in need of some solace, I’m sure. He hadn’t talked to me
much about his divorce from his French wife. They had a child, a girl, two
years old. It must have been difficult for him to pull himself away from his daughter.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Ellen was plump, juicy, and innocent. Her greetings to me
at the apartment were always cursory; she was there to have sex with Chip. I felt no sympathy now as she cried out in the throes of realizing that was all he’d wanted,
although perhaps I should have. The whole thing had lasted three weeks, and they’d been
very noisy. I supposed he was a good lover, but I didn’t need to be kept awake
every other night. My “medicinal” apricot brandy and milk helped, but I didn’t
like being reminded that I myself had been similarly innocent, vulnerable, and
infected with romantic expectations.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Perhaps things are different in the 21<sup>st</sup> century,
and women don’t automatically feel they are in “a relationship” that has facets
other than sexual (when those facets aren’t actually manifested). “I know he
loves me. I can see it in his eyes,” says one stereotypical young woman in
love. “He hasn’t said anything
about it, but I have this feeling we will be together; I have this feeling I
will have children with him someday,” thinks another. Perhaps these (hypothetical and historical) young women
know that if they'd said anything explicit about these notions to the lover,
they’d be confronting him with the prospect of lying to continue pleasant sexual activities. So the women keep silent, hoping, expecting. "If I
feel so strongly about what’s happening, he must, too!" And the delusion
continues until it's shattered.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It’s happened to me. True, it was long ago, but I get
reminders every now and then, sometimes from female students I deal with at my
job, sometimes from women friends who should know better. I also get reminders
that it’s not as easy for some males as it was for Chip, whose slender good
looks and naturally sardonic delivery of self-deprecating jokery touched by sadness from big, brown, half-closed eyes made him self-aware bait. Yes, there are young men, too, who have
problems merely getting started. Their heartbreak is non-specific. Loss
seeps into their lives from an imagined lonely future. But that’s not what I’m
talking about right now.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pC3WJ184_4u3FrTX6NYp-WyLQ8l2Jk7v_OiWeyVu9AznJI21rFyLeIOC1Xcg2eJKDPTErURyfHo9UsQTPUUoDFVzO-TcZbDIPB97GFV41ZjYC2VrZJiZcx0etAruRJeiD5dKdm3sJw0E/s1600/wide-eyed+crying+girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pC3WJ184_4u3FrTX6NYp-WyLQ8l2Jk7v_OiWeyVu9AznJI21rFyLeIOC1Xcg2eJKDPTErURyfHo9UsQTPUUoDFVzO-TcZbDIPB97GFV41ZjYC2VrZJiZcx0etAruRJeiD5dKdm3sJw0E/s200/wide-eyed+crying+girl.jpg" width="184" /></a>I cried Ellen's way too once, to someone over the phone with whom
I’d lived. I imagined that we were still together (despite our separation while
he recovered from a minor motorcycle accident). When he told me he was now with
someone else, I felt helpless, abandoned. “But what am I gonna doooooo?” I
wailed, even though I had a roof over my head, competent roommates, a job, and
some comforting pets. The person with sexual
“responsibility” for me was relinquishing that responsibility. I was lost. I
had suddenly lost my sexuality and my romantic role. Why did that mean more to
me than anything else at that time? </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My subsequent involvement with a man had an even more
painful demise, since I again delegated sexual responsibility to the guy,
eventually ascribing some very bad behavior on my part to his influence. When he left, I
had to take a unrosy look at myself.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Maybe it was the way girls were raised in the 1950s and
1960s that made us vulnerable to putting all our “eggs” in one basket, I don’t
know. I wish I’d known that I was fine as I was, whether or not I was in a
“relationship.” I wish I had been taught that sexual feelings were OK, and
didn’t need to “belong” to one man, necessarily, at least in youth and young
adulthood. I couldn’t even feel that I had any sexuality at all when I was
alone, and we now know that’s not right!</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Do girls these days have it easier? Of course heartbreak still
exists, for women and men. But I don’t know if there’s that feeling of the
bottom dropping out of life itself when a lover leaves; that cry to which I
eventually became unsympathetic and cold, even toward myself and my long-ago
weaknesses: “You can’t do this to me! I love you! What am I gonna dooooo?”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Shape up, woman! Shouldn’t a loving relationship be a want rather than a need? The
whipped cream on the top of an already delicious life? Why were
we—are we—so friggin’ WEAK?</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-13347097899270277382012-05-20T20:55:00.000-05:002012-05-20T20:55:02.286-05:00I have not much to say. My inner life has been damped down, compared to, well, when I was in my twenties, when that was all there was. OKAY, I’ve accepted the importance of the outside world, including society and particular other people. Fine. My last remembered dream consisted of my trying to arrange some kind of “tour” for a bus driver; people had signed up but not everyone was boarding the bus. I don’t even think I was making any money from this deal, only trying to get a task completed. Sounds familiar.
Will visiting a “hippie” friend in Tennessee cure this? I doubt it. But it’s a start. Some much-touted psychic will do “reiki” upon me (although I’ve not felt the need for this). I will meet alternative-type folks. But how can I respect them? Do they have any involvement in the dominant economical processes? How is “New Age” and “Catholic” different? Don’t both posit another (unseen) world that can be dealt with and investigated and profited from?
The thing is, I used to be a “hippie.” It was only a refuge, though. And I met its challeneges. I got an “A” in Urban Hippie Life 101. I should have continued my course of study, but for some reason I desired to make a living the usual way. My bad.Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-16148911388054714342012-01-22T17:32:00.001-06:002012-01-22T17:34:40.212-06:00The end times...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUtA6LsS0vRZUFVteDKkeBKCSMaw_9jlwSlxKx31ZUrBHItLwv_dyiS-DfjJFKcgYaemvb9lAXQ6PcDGqBdLCqINy4eHwtiM_qQczqedUDcMnm52Hp9-CJluW4gxyqa2pGdVbo_4vuju-0/s1600/Dying-Lioness.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUtA6LsS0vRZUFVteDKkeBKCSMaw_9jlwSlxKx31ZUrBHItLwv_dyiS-DfjJFKcgYaemvb9lAXQ6PcDGqBdLCqINy4eHwtiM_qQczqedUDcMnm52Hp9-CJluW4gxyqa2pGdVbo_4vuju-0/s200/Dying-Lioness.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700603888237178274" /></a><br />A friend of mine pretended to be horrified when I mentioned that I didn’t have the time or the money to visit my dying aunt. My youngest brother is taking care of this aunt at her home, which is 600 miles away from where I live, and 300 miles away from where he actually lives. He can do this because he’s not employed full-time right now. In fact, his “job” is now taking care of this dying person. He is learning a lot; he is learning things I don’t want to learn. I am mature enough to hear him talk about it, though. In years past, I might have avoided such topics. Death makes me uncomfortable.<br />Death was one of the reasons I became depressed when I was a teenager. When I discovered that it actually happened to people, I was confounded. A counselor I’d had at summer camp had been killed by a motorist as she walked on the tree-lined road near my school. I remember obsessing about her death: “But she had plans! She had hopes and dreams! It doesn’t make sense!” Which segued into: “So, what’s the point? Why bother?”<br />There were other reasons (discrimination against women, for one) that I was assuring myself it was not worth bothering to have “dreams and plans,” but right now I’m talking about death. The best people are doing it. People who have aged enough to know better. Why are they leaving us? Do they not care? As my brother says (sometimes with tears) “a whole generation will be lost.” He has loved this generation—his parents, his aunts. He feels they were harder workers, had more integrity, more courage. He’s probably right. My aunt (who is 91) worked in a home for the retarded and mentally disabled. She put up with low pay, little social regard, physical danger from the people for whom she was caring, and finally, an attempt to oust her before she’d qualified for her pension. She put my mother through nursing school. She never married because she thought she was “ugly.” She loved art and tried her hand at watercolors. She had friends, most of whom are dead. She is modifying and improving my brother’s cooking skills via her specific demands of the moment. She is a toughie. But cancer is eating her insides. She won’t go to a hospital, but hospice people visit. There’s oxygen (my brother rigged up a tube to go up the stairs, because her upstairs power outlets are out of date). My brother also cleans up after she’s had an “accident.” This is becoming more frequent.<br />She’s not the only one. Relatives of co-workers are going through these final days, and people have to take time off from work to hold vigils. My parents are approaching this journey, perhaps, being only a few years younger than my aunt. I don’t know what I will be called upon to do. And it may be that I won’t do it. I’m still working, I tell myself. I have no time. I have no travel money. It’s not something I want to face yet. And it will happen to me.<br />Baby boomers—who are probably one of the first American generations to be sheltered from death (except for those who went to Vietnam)—must now minister to their dying loved ones. No one escapes. First, the introduction to the process. Then, the invitation. Twenty or so years apart, but one follows the other.Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-42143814596659693012011-10-22T15:35:00.007-05:002011-10-22T16:25:57.069-05:00My big mouth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg26W_nAbZAoQcIMuf4DVmVYcdZHjcQ7QxbqHxkYbDTi-GVBtISLhyOtBgSY3w0RyVmTSYq7NLpaewLx6MjtbdkGJC9vQpoavhD3-Q_B3BHX3rxawO8jFTloSoc4u5umRMN_6u97Ywvpob4/s1600/bigmouth2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg26W_nAbZAoQcIMuf4DVmVYcdZHjcQ7QxbqHxkYbDTi-GVBtISLhyOtBgSY3w0RyVmTSYq7NLpaewLx6MjtbdkGJC9vQpoavhD3-Q_B3BHX3rxawO8jFTloSoc4u5umRMN_6u97Ywvpob4/s200/bigmouth2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666421021941643410" /></a><br />When I quit smoking back in the late seventies, the weeks that followed contained the first moments I opened my mouth and spoke as an adult. A smoker since age 15, I’d been shy, a writer, an observer. Tranquilized by nicotine, I had no urge to verbally express aggressive emotions (which I barely felt), and no experience in doing so. Instead I wrote doleful poetry that I showed to no one. As the cigarette-induced calm ebbed, I suddenly began to feel my own angers and dissatisfactions, but I was crude and spontaneous in voicing them. I'd picked up swear words from roommates, and used them, sputtering my first complaints about human (and working) conditions without considering the effect I was having on people around me. It seemed so important to release these burning thoughts and feelings, I couldn’t contain them. I was having tantrums like a two-year-old, and I paid the price. People were afraid of me, and I eventually got fired. More than once.<br />I also started to write my feelings (now that I was feeling them). This was probably not always a good idea either. I once sent a letter to my mother-in-law chiding her about some of her conservative advice. The next time I saw her, she said quietly, “I’m going to forget you ever wrote that, and I think you should, too.” I felt that my true self had been denied; I hadn’t been seen by her. But I was humbled, and I did henceforth keep mum about some things.<br />Despite practicing various methods for minimizing reactions and modulating expressions, I was always surprise-attacked by my own outbursts of rage, followed by weeping and guilt. I learned, as an animal learns, to maintain composure in front of those most important to my survival, but I often took it out on lesser persons or complete strangers.<br />Developing a more civilized language for my anger helped, I suppose. But nothing can disguise a tone of voice. My impatience with callers on the phone was well-known. When the job I have now evolved to include phone work, I struggled to build a "nice" and "helpful" persona. I didn’t want to be false, but what else could I do? I couldn’t afford to get fired again. Honesty is never the best policy, I was learning.<br />Fortunately, as I became older and more anxious about all of these matters, I got an invite to try antidepressants. After demurring for a few years, I accepted. The situation improved. I rarely opened my big mouth in the way I’d done before. I was tranquilized again. This damping-down was experienced in such a way that I’d recognize what was bothering me, but I could hold it in, or express it differently, or even engage in an exercise of empathy, building those inner muscles until I could almost always put myself in the other person’s shoes, boots, or sandals. My "feeling" responses were considered, if they happened at all. I started to prefer pure information.<br />I am still learning that even considered responses may not be received well, as with my recent response to a piece of writing by a friend, a tour de force that was supposed to be a joke, a parody, and which I took seriously. I complained about this friend’s "mean" attitude as evidenced in the piece, only to discover that it was a persona; that I had been meant to laugh and not take offense. In this case, my friend had struggled to develop this persona for art’s sake, and was proud of it. I am left wondering why I was so clueless. Is there something in me that seeks opportunities to criticize and find fault with my new-found ability to consider as I respond?<br />In a literature class I’m taking just for fun, we were discussing Gertrude Stein’s writing, in particular, the poem “Lifting Belly.” Apropos of nothing but my inner churnings, I burst out, “That phrase gives me the creeps!” The professor gave me the same look my mother-in-law had given me, as if commanding me to pretend I never said it. I'm qualified to be an adjunct professor myself, and have taught in the evenings now and then, but when I TAKE a class, I turn into a student, which, for me, means regression. It’s as if I had never been introduced to “political correctness” or even “taking turns.” I become the outspoken, spontaneous, complaining teenager I never allowed myself to be.<br />Becoming adequately socialized and modified so that no one will EVER be angry with me again seems impossible, at this point. And besides, why aren’t the people who complain about ME (or even burst out at me occasionally) worried about their own self-control and tolerance?<br />I’m finished with this self-modification project. My big mouth has undergone all the modifications it can take. I will say and write what I think and feel. I will edit myself for style, grammar and typos only, not for possible offenses. It’s took late for that.Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-17977305284825925852011-09-15T20:00:00.001-05:002011-09-15T20:05:16.316-05:00Of an evening...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIKuhfedmX7IX87cbYaBQ0qeEg4h1KjyLu_PogGuwvhcFYv_yoMmSlSQVWzyTRClc8q6dCuPo2-PKKALzHmSi3r3ecKuIf1iF5FDbxrBnYnjetKlx7I5KccVIeiE8YXfk_r55BSR935tn8/s1600/butterfly+net+and+sewing+bag+022+copy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIKuhfedmX7IX87cbYaBQ0qeEg4h1KjyLu_PogGuwvhcFYv_yoMmSlSQVWzyTRClc8q6dCuPo2-PKKALzHmSi3r3ecKuIf1iF5FDbxrBnYnjetKlx7I5KccVIeiE8YXfk_r55BSR935tn8/s200/butterfly+net+and+sewing+bag+022+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652757232737623090" /></a><br />I can stay pretty balanced during the day. There’s lots to do at work, and I’m with people some of the time, so I get feedback. Then I can go to the gym, listen to my favorite podcasts (Dan Savage, Slate Culture Gabfest, Mark Kermode’s Film Review (BBC), Howard Kunstler, Podcastle). But when I get home, I’m at a loss. Hence the beer and wine. Hence the obsessive Fairyland game activity. I used to be more self-sufficient. I also used to smoke cigarettes and write poetry, often at the same time. The same hope still lingers; one more NoDoz tab, and I’ll write the best poem ever! One more half-a-beer, and I’ll figure out how to quit Firefox, open up the word processor, and express myself freely again. I may be addicted to the internet in some undocumented, insidious way. Sometimes we do indulge in television here at the homeplace, but when doing so, I always have the feeling of being “kept” on the couch by my spouse so that we can “enjoy” the show together (albeit it’s always Netflix, since we don’t have cable). My remaining calm involves more beer or wine, and corn chips. Since I don’t really eat dinner, this isn’t making me fat, but I do wonder what exactly it IS doing. Enabling me to work the next day, I guess. Why doesn’t watching a really good episode of an HBO TV show give me the same internal “cred” as reading literary criticism does? Or better, writing some literary criticism! I just don’t approve of myself these days. I don’t know what it will take for me to approve of myself. Probably doing something totally horrendous about which I shall be FORCED to feel righteous. Don’t know what that might be. All I know is that I want to go back to being the author of my own life rather than a spectator, even if it’s being a spectator of others’ pretty-good productions.Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-84996841076127065502011-06-30T18:21:00.003-05:002011-07-01T16:22:32.880-05:00What’s art & what’s not...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy22EucdXD7N21ulw6jgKl5HRtX5WQd7bu8JympcfTV7tFtOKX-qCOq9XfSDW94vTzP2HkNNyz6AoNDJ08hBzs4tIkqYfczn6SzycGjvpBgE8uY7d-xosfHgVXWFSRyTFaKDKA6w3P5QrT/s1600/pencil3.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy22EucdXD7N21ulw6jgKl5HRtX5WQd7bu8JympcfTV7tFtOKX-qCOq9XfSDW94vTzP2HkNNyz6AoNDJ08hBzs4tIkqYfczn6SzycGjvpBgE8uY7d-xosfHgVXWFSRyTFaKDKA6w3P5QrT/s200/pencil3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624497378500896930" /></a><br />The last show in our most beautiful gallery (we have three at this university art department) was a very skillful collection of paintings, prints, and handmade books by a student who has found her solace in religion. Her experience of religion is connected with the idea of Family. In all fairness, I have to say she loves children, and is capable of relating to them, catering to them, and portraying them. Some of her artworks are adequate portraits of children, done from photographs.<br />Many of her handmade books are full of photographs of herself and extended family. Some of these are cleverly made to be contained in small, ready-made tins.<br />At one end of the gallery, she’d arranged two tables, covered with a tablecloth, and arrayed with containers of candies. She provided plastic bags for collecting the candies and taking them away. I admit I availed myself of chocolate kisses until they were gone. There was also a small table with paper and crayons for any children who visited. This student artist also liked decorating cakes. So there were some styrofoam cakes covered with elaborate fondant on the candy table, and three large posters of cake designs on one wall.<br />This is an integration of Life and Art. So much so, that the critical thinker wants to say, it’s NOT art. I cannot stop the critical thinker, and I am one. This student’s artist’s statement waxed rhapsodic (not RAPsodic) about the influence of her church, God, Jesus, and (yes) the art instructors in her life. It was decidedly NOT post-modern. It was as if the ART was a by-product of her life. Is that so terrible?<br />Because of her great skill, her consummate craftswomanship, she will graduate and proceed with her life. I am reminded now of many students whose senior shows were very abstract expressionist; everything that they should have been. And yet, some of them are still struggling in life. I don’t think this gal will be struggling. She has integrated. Her skills are in the service of her particular social subset, and she is adored and praised by her immediate associates. What could be better than that? <br />And yet, in relation to our department, she has gone astray. It is as if we were unable to reach her. Will she end up doing posters for her church events forever? Or portraits of the children of fellow church members? Has she no critical bone in her body? OK, she NEEDED her community. And they came through. And she then came through for them. So her work is essentially collaborative. So many things are good about this, and yet I am writing her off, intellectually and artistically. This is my fault, my bias. And the thing is, she seems so happy. And I’m not, really.Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-84885959277901066652011-04-25T20:36:00.003-05:002011-04-25T20:58:34.728-05:00What is sex these days?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4aWegUj0eeQo3Z7xwuLsnSPzCmHaGfau5uilla0LxnuZqMvOlg35ETeEgr3cgLJo74i4HN-Ogpyi28Ud3GfeqgygePx2aDmQRO0l7idNUhm-unKSxVdvwjwnpGUwVLfTIRLhoR-TQUVxz/s1600/holdinghands.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 144px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4aWegUj0eeQo3Z7xwuLsnSPzCmHaGfau5uilla0LxnuZqMvOlg35ETeEgr3cgLJo74i4HN-Ogpyi28Ud3GfeqgygePx2aDmQRO0l7idNUhm-unKSxVdvwjwnpGUwVLfTIRLhoR-TQUVxz/s200/holdinghands.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599705662791238610" /></a><br />Just had another birthday. I’m rather accomplished chronologically. But not in other ways. I’ve never figured out what sex is. Has anyone? In the last few years there’s been a proliferation not only of “porn,” but of approaches to it; an expansion of “permissiveness” and appeals to its normalcy and desirability. There’s a whole new “normal.” And I thought I was a rebel, losing my virginity at 16.<br />That loss of virginity had nothing to do with love, and even less to do with a “relationship.” It was simply the thing to do at the time. I sensed that, given the tide of difficulties in my family of origin, I might be leaving home soon. And I would need some currency. I wasn’t capable of loving anyone then. I would occasionally develop intense feelings of dependency, but that wasn’t love.<br />So, now I’m to understand that I should have known not only how to achieve my own “pleasure,” but how to demand it of my various partners! I was a silent, shy girl at that time. I was lucky people took pity on me and gave me a place to stay. I wouldn’t have known an opportunity if it chucked me under the chin. I once stopped some hippie guy from “going down” on me because I didn’t understand what he was doing, and thought it was wrong and peculiar. I said, “Let’s take a walk instead.”<br />Although I’ve advanced quite a bit from that attitude, I’m still not comfortable with “kink.” For one thing, my spouse has no inclination at all toward that kind of thing (that I know of). For another, it seems like something that emotionally distances one’s sex partner rather than bringing them closer. But how would I know?<br />I tremble at the brink of realizing that I’m OF ANOTHER GENERATION! The world of so-called “intimate relations” is changing, and I am not changing with it. Perhaps I should stop listening to Dan Savage’s “Lovecast” on my iPod, and face the facts. I’m friggin’ OLD. Even the sex advice columnists and podcasters rarely deal with those in their 60th decade! I google “older women,” and get things for women in their 40s. Physically, I feel like I’m still in my early 50s, and I look good. But my mind is all a-whirl. Once I got over my runaway stage of life, sex, for me, was proof of love. Now it’s just another art form or recreational activity. I would like to think there is something mystical or cosmic about sex. But no, those options aren’t appearing on the horizon. All I can say is, thank goodness I’m married. Things in the sex department may be old-fashioned, but at least they exist.Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1594535246752786722.post-8869760122781427232010-12-28T21:37:00.002-06:002010-12-28T21:46:22.858-06:00Expanding/Contracting New Year<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjKKZZDQHgVyqIKLK9678MhxYdaY-snusqBpaYZxw7rEHg8Nny66gh8CEQVHSHHDAIwrGLX2m0bBkmfPdch3Wk9dPveWYuG-5Qv_Ffz-7L6x1aZmD1xD5X1DKQGVmHLH3nFExp1ZpRJd4n/s1600/Jack-in-the-Pulpit.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 149px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjKKZZDQHgVyqIKLK9678MhxYdaY-snusqBpaYZxw7rEHg8Nny66gh8CEQVHSHHDAIwrGLX2m0bBkmfPdch3Wk9dPveWYuG-5Qv_Ffz-7L6x1aZmD1xD5X1DKQGVmHLH3nFExp1ZpRJd4n/s200/Jack-in-the-Pulpit.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555945533724911778" /></a><br />My spouse and I are exchanging home offices. This means all the crap that we have each collected has to be transported several yards to another location. I already knew about my crap. I didn’t know about his. But that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I have to DECIDE what matters. All this memorabilia; it’s kind of pointless, now that I realize no one but myself is interested. All the newspaper clippings, notes jotted in notebooks, brochures I worked on, printouts of photographs, it’s all ephemeral. It represents a person I no longer am. Sometimes I wish I was that person. That person had a lot more energy. That person was capable of following an illusion to the very end (and the end is never a dramatic cliff, but a foggy expanse of nothing). So where is it that we embark from when we embark on a new venture? It’s not exactly the same mindset that we had last year, or last week. Every night, as we sleep, we change. It may not be to our liking. Things are shuffled off and allowed to fall into some abyss. I don’t even know if I am a “writer” anymore, even though that’s what I always thought I was. I can type pretty fast, that’s all I know. I like Christmas, because it means I get some time off; but the synchronicity of expectation of goodwill with my mood is not ideal. I no longer understand any of it. It’s as if, given my age, I have no reason to get all worked up about either Solstice or Savior. What I’m worked up about is much bigger. And because it’s so big, I feel small. I will be happy to have a door I can close. At least in my new room, I’ll be in control, and therefore, cosmically larger. I am introvert; hear me roar!Marylynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08966867577107101494noreply@blogger.com1