My mother died on Sunday, March 12, at 3:40 a.m. I haven't really felt like writing about it until now. It has taken some time to digest my thoughts and feelings. Mother had entered the nursing home on Wednesday, March 8, and I arrived Thursday, having only planned for a long weekend visit. As it turned out, I drove into my home town that Thursday afternoon, went straight to the nursing home and didn't leave for more than a short time until she died. What occurred there was an intensely personal experience I will never forget.
When I arrived, Mom knew me, knew I was there, and from the moment I kissed her hello, I felt she was in the very last stages of her life. My sister from Michigan arrived the next day, as she had also planned a visit, and of course my sister Ronda, my mother's rock and best friend, was there all the while. I can never repay Ronda for the loving care she provided for my mother in the last months of her life. She also provided a model that enabled me to be with my mom in a way that I can be sure she knew, in those last hours of her life, that I loved her.
Driving home after the days that followed, I distinctly remember having the thought that with my mom gone, I now represent the oldest generation in the family, the group that's "in charge." I married very young, had my daughter at 20, and spent the years following her birth working my butt off to keep body and soul together and trying my best to be a good mother. I didn't attend college until I was 41, and have only recently started a real career. Having all that other stuff to do earlier, sometimes I feel I've just barely begun to figure out who I am and how I'm supposed to "turn out."
Good grief. I don't feel half wise or experienced enough to be in charge of much of anything, but time doesn't wait for us to be ready, it just moves forward and the chips fall.
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
artiste ersatz
If I could paint, I would make this picture:
the figure of a woman, slightly bent over,
having recovered (found? discovered?) something,
an unrecognizable piece.. of what? a lump, (clump?).
the sky is gray, only a hint of light.
she's holding this whatever carefully, in both hands, close to her
and looks as if she's breathing shallow, tentative breaths,
(or holding her breath).
her face is still, her eyes slightly focused, or blank, Sphinx-like;
and out of this thing she is holding, there is a barely recognizable....
shoot? sprout? tendril? root?
of the palest
green
possible.
the figure of a woman, slightly bent over,
having recovered (found? discovered?) something,
an unrecognizable piece.. of what? a lump, (clump?).
the sky is gray, only a hint of light.
she's holding this whatever carefully, in both hands, close to her
and looks as if she's breathing shallow, tentative breaths,
(or holding her breath).
her face is still, her eyes slightly focused, or blank, Sphinx-like;
and out of this thing she is holding, there is a barely recognizable....
shoot? sprout? tendril? root?
of the palest
green
possible.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Reading Reading Lolita
Recently, I finished the book Reading Lolita in Tehran. In this book Azar Nafisi, a literature professor, tells the story of her life in Iran during the Islamic revolution of the late 70's. She uses her experience teaching the works of Nabokov, Fitzgerald, James, Austen, Bellow and others to help explain her reactions to the changes occurring in the country. The book makes clear that in the modern era a religious ideology supported by reactionary people can gain mass and insidiously erode the civil rights of a troubled, though relatively progressive monarchy, to the point where it becomes an unrecognizable shadow of itself. In fits and starts, sometimes in bold leaps, at other times in barely recognizable increments, the disgruntled people of Iran allowed a revolution to occur which failed them, as it stripped the country of its former secular identity.
No matter what one thinks of the Western literary canon as a standard for great literature, or one's feelings about the U.S. meddling in the affairs of a vulnerable state in order to further its own end, this book is an important record of the way freedoms can be diminished and then obliterated when religious ideology is allowed to insert itself into government.
Scary, and a little too much foreshadowing for my comfort.
No matter what one thinks of the Western literary canon as a standard for great literature, or one's feelings about the U.S. meddling in the affairs of a vulnerable state in order to further its own end, this book is an important record of the way freedoms can be diminished and then obliterated when religious ideology is allowed to insert itself into government.
Scary, and a little too much foreshadowing for my comfort.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Being There- virtually
I have been reading blogs on another site, and they are very different from mine in that the bloggers' topics tend to be more personal; problems are presented, advice traded, this sort of thing. Though the postings are read by hundreds (number of views are tracked and presented on the blog), there is a core group who actually initiated friendships by reading and responding to each others blogs, and this group seems to have created a nice little community of people who care about and support one another and have a good time in each other's company on a mostly virtual level. These people live all over the country, all over the world, actually. From what I have read there, they are a thoughtful, interesting, diverse and broad-minded group of people. This is probably the point at which I should say that I only read the posts and responses; I don't post there or respond to their postings. I'm a lurker, not an active participant, not because they have excluded me, but because I haven't taken the initiative to join the conversation.
It's interesting that though many of us think of maintaining friendships through face-to-face contact, these bloggers seem quite content to befriend each in the "virtual" realm. Although I've seen a few of them make reference to talking on the phone, and some have even met in person, it seems they mostly communicate by writing and responding to each other through their blogs. At first glance, it might seem a bit unnatural, especially to those of us who haven't lived our entire lives with the internet as an ever-present medium. But I can assure you, being a high school teacher, young people don't find the idea of doing a great deal of their communicating through new technologies strange or unnatural at all. What may seem less authentic, and perhaps inferior, to some of us because it is "virtual," is in fact complete reality to hoards of teenagers. And I think it's important to remember that for a very long time, before the telephone and convenient travel that's a given to nearly everyone now, people maintained longstanding friendships through snail mail and very infrequent face-to-face contact.
Remember pen pals? Round robin letters?
Another thing I've noticed among this blogging bunch is that there is a certain ambivalence about it all. From time to time they discuss whether blogging is or is not beneficial, whether the amount of time they spend blogging is inordinate, whether it's healthy, addictive, has improved their quality of life, that sort of thing. Responses to these posts vary from those who enthusiastically state that their blogging is an important and valuable part of their lives, to those who seem less convinced, to those who say they have simply got to "cut down" because the time they spend blogging keeps them from participating in the real world, pursuing other interests and hobbies, and has an isolating effect, although they all seem to have interesting jobs, rich intellectual lives, and friends outside of their blog buddies.
So, what do you think? Are friendships formed and maintained through blogging simply a new way of meeting people and being together? Then there's me, who only participates by reading their posts and responses- the virtual version of a wallflower :)
It's interesting that though many of us think of maintaining friendships through face-to-face contact, these bloggers seem quite content to befriend each in the "virtual" realm. Although I've seen a few of them make reference to talking on the phone, and some have even met in person, it seems they mostly communicate by writing and responding to each other through their blogs. At first glance, it might seem a bit unnatural, especially to those of us who haven't lived our entire lives with the internet as an ever-present medium. But I can assure you, being a high school teacher, young people don't find the idea of doing a great deal of their communicating through new technologies strange or unnatural at all. What may seem less authentic, and perhaps inferior, to some of us because it is "virtual," is in fact complete reality to hoards of teenagers. And I think it's important to remember that for a very long time, before the telephone and convenient travel that's a given to nearly everyone now, people maintained longstanding friendships through snail mail and very infrequent face-to-face contact.
Remember pen pals? Round robin letters?
Another thing I've noticed among this blogging bunch is that there is a certain ambivalence about it all. From time to time they discuss whether blogging is or is not beneficial, whether the amount of time they spend blogging is inordinate, whether it's healthy, addictive, has improved their quality of life, that sort of thing. Responses to these posts vary from those who enthusiastically state that their blogging is an important and valuable part of their lives, to those who seem less convinced, to those who say they have simply got to "cut down" because the time they spend blogging keeps them from participating in the real world, pursuing other interests and hobbies, and has an isolating effect, although they all seem to have interesting jobs, rich intellectual lives, and friends outside of their blog buddies.
So, what do you think? Are friendships formed and maintained through blogging simply a new way of meeting people and being together? Then there's me, who only participates by reading their posts and responses- the virtual version of a wallflower :)
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Kristina Borjesson
In between correcting student essays, I watched tv today. There were two programs that particularly impressed me, both of them on Cspan. Right now I can't remember if they were on "regular" Cspan, or Cspan 2, Book tv. I'm not good at keeping track of that sort of stuff.
The first was a program on the media with Kristina Borjesson. She's a journalist who's fed up with the bs mainstream media is feeding us and the lack of responsibility to journalism present in the "news" today. She was once a producer at CBS, but either left under pressure or was shown the door (give me a break, those essays can be distracting) for being, um, honest. Now she works independently.
She said so much that I agreed with and was so engaging; you really had to be there. For all her knowledge and experience, she seemed so approachable. She laughed, right out loud, about Robin, the dolled-up beauty that does the boring, tow-the-line morning show on CNN. I can't tell you how many times I've thought about how the package for a newsperson in mainstream media, the women in particular, seems to be a lot more about presenting a sexy chick with slick sound bites than real news. I loved her for laughing at CNN's Robin and her frivolous presentation of the news. But then I'm evil.
There was something Borjesson mentioned, a minor thing really, but it was so important to me. She was talking about activism and the small things everyone can do to voice their opposition to this mess. I was astonished to hear that the first time she had ever called her congressperson was just two years ago! She talked about feeling nervous and a little silly making the call. Her. A big shot journalist with tons of knowledge and lots of experience expressing her ideas and challenging the man. Then it hit me. She is me, and you, and all of us. Because (and I hate to admit this) the first time I ever called my congressperson was only a few years ago. And I was nervous, really nervous. I'm not big on the self-confidence thing, and I was sure I would sound inarticulate, ignorant, or be challenged in some way that I wouldn't be able to handle. But it didn't happen. The call went rather well, and the experience made it easier for me to call the next time, and more and more often in the ensuing years. It did the same for her. She said so. I loved her more for admitting all of that.
Point is, we are not so different from one another. Even big shot journalists have their moments of fear and trepidation when speaking truth to power. But the point really is we can all do this. We all have a telephone, the numbers are easy to locate, just check the website of whoever you wish to contact, and make that call. It's the least we can do. It's OUR government, these people are working for US and it's our responsiblity to voice our support or dissent. And there's nothing to it; it's easy. It really is.
Kristina Borjesson is a courageous journalist doing important work. Her book of collected essays is called Into the Buzzsaw. Check it out at www.paraview.com/borjesson/
The second program was an inspiring discussion between Walter Mosely and Harry Belefonte. But long blog entries are boring, so they say. I'll stop now and blog about that later.
The first was a program on the media with Kristina Borjesson. She's a journalist who's fed up with the bs mainstream media is feeding us and the lack of responsibility to journalism present in the "news" today. She was once a producer at CBS, but either left under pressure or was shown the door (give me a break, those essays can be distracting) for being, um, honest. Now she works independently.
She said so much that I agreed with and was so engaging; you really had to be there. For all her knowledge and experience, she seemed so approachable. She laughed, right out loud, about Robin, the dolled-up beauty that does the boring, tow-the-line morning show on CNN. I can't tell you how many times I've thought about how the package for a newsperson in mainstream media, the women in particular, seems to be a lot more about presenting a sexy chick with slick sound bites than real news. I loved her for laughing at CNN's Robin and her frivolous presentation of the news. But then I'm evil.
There was something Borjesson mentioned, a minor thing really, but it was so important to me. She was talking about activism and the small things everyone can do to voice their opposition to this mess. I was astonished to hear that the first time she had ever called her congressperson was just two years ago! She talked about feeling nervous and a little silly making the call. Her. A big shot journalist with tons of knowledge and lots of experience expressing her ideas and challenging the man. Then it hit me. She is me, and you, and all of us. Because (and I hate to admit this) the first time I ever called my congressperson was only a few years ago. And I was nervous, really nervous. I'm not big on the self-confidence thing, and I was sure I would sound inarticulate, ignorant, or be challenged in some way that I wouldn't be able to handle. But it didn't happen. The call went rather well, and the experience made it easier for me to call the next time, and more and more often in the ensuing years. It did the same for her. She said so. I loved her more for admitting all of that.
Point is, we are not so different from one another. Even big shot journalists have their moments of fear and trepidation when speaking truth to power. But the point really is we can all do this. We all have a telephone, the numbers are easy to locate, just check the website of whoever you wish to contact, and make that call. It's the least we can do. It's OUR government, these people are working for US and it's our responsiblity to voice our support or dissent. And there's nothing to it; it's easy. It really is.
Kristina Borjesson is a courageous journalist doing important work. Her book of collected essays is called Into the Buzzsaw. Check it out at www.paraview.com/borjesson/
The second program was an inspiring discussion between Walter Mosely and Harry Belefonte. But long blog entries are boring, so they say. I'll stop now and blog about that later.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
The Arabs are Coming, The Arabs are Coming!
The ports will be managed by a company in the UAE, and everyone's got their pants in a knot. First, W said he would veto any legislation attempting to block this transaction. Now, he says he didn't know. These days, they don't even bother to spin a rationale, they just spew and let the chips fall. It's all in a day's hard work for Dubyah and his pals. After five years of fearmongering, no one can tell me they're at all surprised by the reaction, but it no longer matters.
How's that for arrogance and absolute power?
How's that for arrogance and absolute power?
Thursday, February 16, 2006
All is Vanity
Yesterday, we had a farewell gathering at school for a member of our staff who is being sent to Afghanistan. He would have had reached his 20 year mark in the national guard in May, retiring with full benefits, and they snatched him up for an 18 month deployment.
I team-taught with this guy my first year, and we were as different as night and day. He taught civics, and I often cringed when he'd speak about his ideas of democracy. His subtle promotion of the military didn't sit well with me either. But at this gathering, he cried when he introduced his wife and three children, and I saw fear in all of their faces. I cried too, at the futility of it all. I thought of the countless little gatherings like ours, happening all over the country, and of the innocents everywhere who would never have the opportunity to say their last farewells.
I cried again, when I walked out of school. There was a van from a television station outside. I thought that was odd until someone in the parking lot told me a young man from our little town, 23-yr-old Andrew Kemple, had been killed in Iraq. The media was looking for a story.
I'm so sick of all of this. I hope George Bush, Donald Rumsfeld, and all of their neocon cowboy buddies spend eternity facing the anguish they have caused with their senseless warmongering. So stick that in your surveillance files, boys. An angry American? You bet I am.
I team-taught with this guy my first year, and we were as different as night and day. He taught civics, and I often cringed when he'd speak about his ideas of democracy. His subtle promotion of the military didn't sit well with me either. But at this gathering, he cried when he introduced his wife and three children, and I saw fear in all of their faces. I cried too, at the futility of it all. I thought of the countless little gatherings like ours, happening all over the country, and of the innocents everywhere who would never have the opportunity to say their last farewells.
I cried again, when I walked out of school. There was a van from a television station outside. I thought that was odd until someone in the parking lot told me a young man from our little town, 23-yr-old Andrew Kemple, had been killed in Iraq. The media was looking for a story.
I'm so sick of all of this. I hope George Bush, Donald Rumsfeld, and all of their neocon cowboy buddies spend eternity facing the anguish they have caused with their senseless warmongering. So stick that in your surveillance files, boys. An angry American? You bet I am.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Freyed
That James Frey lied in his book, A Million Little Pieces, is old news. People are tired of debating whether Oprah is the b**** we always knew she was, or a hero for admitting she was wrong in her initial defense of this guy. After all, admitting fault is something we rarely see these days, even if it did come in the form of a sanctimonious dressing down of that poor, cornered sap. I wonder if he thought Oprah invited him on her show for a second appearance to further defend him, and instead he found himself in the Court of Queen Oprah. I have to admit, part of me was secretly tickled pink to think this guy had to answer to the diva of all divas for his silly lies.
I didn't watch Oprah relieve herself on national tv, but I was watching Larry King when she called to defend Frey originally. Am I naive to believe it was spontaneous? Was I sucked in, imagining some screener pooping his pants, arms waving a frantic signal to a producer, mouthing, "It's HER!!!", while the reg'lar folks whose calls to the show were cued rotted in telephonic purgatory? Oprah waits in line for no one, and if you don't understand that, Bub, you aren't alive in America. And surely if the call was planned, she would have come off just a teensy bit more thoughtful as she pronounced Mr. Frey innocent on the grounds of adding value to the lives of readers in her book club. If I hear Oprah offer up "redemption" by way of her book selections one more time, I think I'm gonna hurl.
My daughter and I were discussing Frey's situation, and I was merciless regarding a writer's obligation to refrain from making things up when selling a work as nonfiction. We agreed, but Kara was generous in her evaluation of him as a human being (our little Court of Queens had now been called to order). We agreed that sometimes real life just isn't good enough, and we all have our means of making it better, or at least different; some go to obviously damaging lengths in their efforts to do so. Duh. She joked that Frey may have recovered from his need to enhance life chemically, but hadn't completely recovered from his need to make life more than it is, or was, that exaggerating the reality of his struggle in a sphere so public as a bestselling book was a sure sign that he still had some "work to do."
Don't we all have "work to do"? And yes, we should be generous to all of humankind, if for no other reason than we may, some day, find ourselves in the Court of Queens. Still, I'll be damned if I'll spend 5 minutes searching for truth in James Frey's work of nonfiction that's fiction. That's too "real life" for me.
I didn't watch Oprah relieve herself on national tv, but I was watching Larry King when she called to defend Frey originally. Am I naive to believe it was spontaneous? Was I sucked in, imagining some screener pooping his pants, arms waving a frantic signal to a producer, mouthing, "It's HER!!!", while the reg'lar folks whose calls to the show were cued rotted in telephonic purgatory? Oprah waits in line for no one, and if you don't understand that, Bub, you aren't alive in America. And surely if the call was planned, she would have come off just a teensy bit more thoughtful as she pronounced Mr. Frey innocent on the grounds of adding value to the lives of readers in her book club. If I hear Oprah offer up "redemption" by way of her book selections one more time, I think I'm gonna hurl.
My daughter and I were discussing Frey's situation, and I was merciless regarding a writer's obligation to refrain from making things up when selling a work as nonfiction. We agreed, but Kara was generous in her evaluation of him as a human being (our little Court of Queens had now been called to order). We agreed that sometimes real life just isn't good enough, and we all have our means of making it better, or at least different; some go to obviously damaging lengths in their efforts to do so. Duh. She joked that Frey may have recovered from his need to enhance life chemically, but hadn't completely recovered from his need to make life more than it is, or was, that exaggerating the reality of his struggle in a sphere so public as a bestselling book was a sure sign that he still had some "work to do."
Don't we all have "work to do"? And yes, we should be generous to all of humankind, if for no other reason than we may, some day, find ourselves in the Court of Queens. Still, I'll be damned if I'll spend 5 minutes searching for truth in James Frey's work of nonfiction that's fiction. That's too "real life" for me.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Garden State
I watched Garden State again recently. Wonderful movie. There's a song in it, by Colin Hay, that just freaking tears me up. You have to hear him sing it to really get it, but the lyrics alone are enough to throw me into a fit of sorrow:
I drink good coffee every morning
Comes from a place that's far away
And when I'm done I feel like talking
Without you here there is less to say.
I don't want you thinking I'm unhappy
What is closer to the truth
That if I lived till I was 102
I just don't think I'll ever get over you.
I'm no longer moved to drink strong whisky
'Cause I shook the hand of time and I knew
That if I lived till I could no longer climb my stairs
I just don't think I'll ever get over you.
Your face it dances and it haunts me
Your laughter's still ringing in my ears
I still find pieces of your presence here
Even after all these years.
But I don't want you thinking I don't get asked to dinner
'Cause I'm here to say that I sometimes do
Even though I may soon feel the touch of love
I just don't think I'll ever get over you.
If I lived till I was 102
I just don't think I'll ever get over you.
I drink good coffee every morning
Comes from a place that's far away
And when I'm done I feel like talking
Without you here there is less to say.
I don't want you thinking I'm unhappy
What is closer to the truth
That if I lived till I was 102
I just don't think I'll ever get over you.
I'm no longer moved to drink strong whisky
'Cause I shook the hand of time and I knew
That if I lived till I could no longer climb my stairs
I just don't think I'll ever get over you.
Your face it dances and it haunts me
Your laughter's still ringing in my ears
I still find pieces of your presence here
Even after all these years.
But I don't want you thinking I don't get asked to dinner
'Cause I'm here to say that I sometimes do
Even though I may soon feel the touch of love
I just don't think I'll ever get over you.
If I lived till I was 102
I just don't think I'll ever get over you.
Circle of Life
My 86-year-old mom is very ill as I write this. Her heart is failing, but she hangs on to life. She told me yesterday she's not afraid to die. It's complicated to have a conversation with someone who knows the end of life is near, and when it's your mother, it becomes even more complicated. I think of myself as a person who's quite straightforward emotionally, yet I catch myself wanting to contradict her when she talks about her death. I come so close to saying things like, "You're a strong woman, Mom, you will be around for quite awhile." But I don't, because we both know that would be dishonest. And I wonder how it feels to be her, to be in the place where people no longer say those things.
I'm a great aunt again too, and my brother Steve is a grandpa! My little brother Steve! Anna Ruth was born today. She's named after my mother. I wonder if, when my mom sees a picture of her, she will think this baby Anna was born to take her place on Earth.
Little Anna's got some big shoes to fill.
I'm a great aunt again too, and my brother Steve is a grandpa! My little brother Steve! Anna Ruth was born today. She's named after my mother. I wonder if, when my mom sees a picture of her, she will think this baby Anna was born to take her place on Earth.
Little Anna's got some big shoes to fill.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
I'm That Guy
I just finished watching "Sideways," (She's just now seeing Sideways? Yup.) and guess what? I'm Miles! Yes, everyone seeing a movie tends to identify with a character, that's what we're supposed to do if the writing's any good, but boy, did I get this guy. He's kind of pathetic, in a much-cuter-than-I-am sort of way, but I get him.
Okay, so I'm not a wine geek, I don't vacillate between tasting and guzzling, I don't steal money from my mother on her birthday. But I forgot, yes, FORGOT my mother's 86th birthday today. She's been on my mind so much lately, I've been talking to her on the phone a lot because her health is failing, and I call often to check in. Don't ask me how I forgot the birthday, just did. Freud would have a field day.
I also haven't had a novel rejected three times. Only because I haven't written one.
I teach English, though, and I can definitely relate to feeling that sometimes, no matter how hard I try to walk a reasonably straight line, mind myself so as not to get into trouble, treat people with decency and respect, and do the right damn thing, life just goes.......Sideways.
Okay, so I'm not a wine geek, I don't vacillate between tasting and guzzling, I don't steal money from my mother on her birthday. But I forgot, yes, FORGOT my mother's 86th birthday today. She's been on my mind so much lately, I've been talking to her on the phone a lot because her health is failing, and I call often to check in. Don't ask me how I forgot the birthday, just did. Freud would have a field day.
I also haven't had a novel rejected three times. Only because I haven't written one.
I teach English, though, and I can definitely relate to feeling that sometimes, no matter how hard I try to walk a reasonably straight line, mind myself so as not to get into trouble, treat people with decency and respect, and do the right damn thing, life just goes.......Sideways.
Monday, January 16, 2006
What a world
Remember when it was cool to be "wired"?
There is an interesting article in today's Washington Post about the ways we control the demands that communication technology places on our lives. Interviewing several people, most them far more "connected" than I am, the writer discovered the various, quirky rules people impose to control the demands this technology places on their lives. One man said he takes no communication devices onto the golf course; another woman said she stopped taking her Blackberry to bed after it caused a relationship with a boyfriend to break apart. I thought, "Good grief!" A researcher calls the seemingly irrational rules we make for using these gadgets a "neo-Amish pattern. " In the same way that the Amish have very specific and, in the view of many outsiders, very inconsistent rules for using modern conveniences, the rest of us have developed rules for using digital media.
Then, I realized I have some similar rules of my own:
I don't do personal email from work.
I have voice messaging and caller id on my line at home, and I use it. I don't pick up when it isn't convenient, or when I don't feel like talking. Even calls from friends. And it makes me feel a little selfish, at times.
I had call waiting 15 years ago, when my daughter was a teenager. Being a vigilant mom, I never wanted to miss a call from her for any reason, but after she left the house I got rid of it. The last thing I want to do is juggle two calls when the service will take a message.
I have a cell phone, but it's one of those pay-as-you-go jobs. I rarely use it when I'm not traveling, and mostly as an emergency phone.
I don't have a laptop, a Blackberry, an i-pod, or a Treo. I've never sent a text message or taken a picture with a cell phone. I don't walk around with any kind of plugs in my ears. I have to admit, my budget has kept me from buying and using any of those gadgets, but I think that may be a good thing.
I do spend my fair share of time at home on the internet, and within the past year I switched to DSL because I got tired of receiving phone messages that said, "You must be on the internet again..." even when I was out living a real, rather than virtual life. So I'm not claiming any high ground here.
We all mitigate the demands of these technologies in various ways. I am fortunate I don't have a job that asks me to be on call at all times. I do my share of work at home, but it's a solitary endeavor that doesn't ask me to be in touch with anyone but myself when I do it. I live alone, no spouse, no kids, no need to negotiate the ins and outs of their technology wants or needs. I only deal with my own standards when it comes to this stuff. I'm lucky.
Have you imposed any rules on yourself regarding your use of technology? Do tell!
There is an interesting article in today's Washington Post about the ways we control the demands that communication technology places on our lives. Interviewing several people, most them far more "connected" than I am, the writer discovered the various, quirky rules people impose to control the demands this technology places on their lives. One man said he takes no communication devices onto the golf course; another woman said she stopped taking her Blackberry to bed after it caused a relationship with a boyfriend to break apart. I thought, "Good grief!" A researcher calls the seemingly irrational rules we make for using these gadgets a "neo-Amish pattern. " In the same way that the Amish have very specific and, in the view of many outsiders, very inconsistent rules for using modern conveniences, the rest of us have developed rules for using digital media.
Then, I realized I have some similar rules of my own:
I don't do personal email from work.
I have voice messaging and caller id on my line at home, and I use it. I don't pick up when it isn't convenient, or when I don't feel like talking. Even calls from friends. And it makes me feel a little selfish, at times.
I had call waiting 15 years ago, when my daughter was a teenager. Being a vigilant mom, I never wanted to miss a call from her for any reason, but after she left the house I got rid of it. The last thing I want to do is juggle two calls when the service will take a message.
I have a cell phone, but it's one of those pay-as-you-go jobs. I rarely use it when I'm not traveling, and mostly as an emergency phone.
I don't have a laptop, a Blackberry, an i-pod, or a Treo. I've never sent a text message or taken a picture with a cell phone. I don't walk around with any kind of plugs in my ears. I have to admit, my budget has kept me from buying and using any of those gadgets, but I think that may be a good thing.
I do spend my fair share of time at home on the internet, and within the past year I switched to DSL because I got tired of receiving phone messages that said, "You must be on the internet again..." even when I was out living a real, rather than virtual life. So I'm not claiming any high ground here.
We all mitigate the demands of these technologies in various ways. I am fortunate I don't have a job that asks me to be on call at all times. I do my share of work at home, but it's a solitary endeavor that doesn't ask me to be in touch with anyone but myself when I do it. I live alone, no spouse, no kids, no need to negotiate the ins and outs of their technology wants or needs. I only deal with my own standards when it comes to this stuff. I'm lucky.
Have you imposed any rules on yourself regarding your use of technology? Do tell!
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Stare Decisis
I was watching the Alito hearings on C-span and the repetition of this term with regard to precedent in law suddenly had me singing the following ( in my head anyway), to the tune of Don McLean's "Vincent."
Stare, stare decisis
Paint your questions blue and grey
Alito's never gonna say
He longs to get his hands on Roe v. Wade...
It must be the cold medicine.
Stare, stare decisis
Paint your questions blue and grey
Alito's never gonna say
He longs to get his hands on Roe v. Wade...
It must be the cold medicine.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Blawked
I haven't died or crawled under a rock (yet), I've just stopped blogging for awhile. I think I'm blocked.
I'm coming down with a cold. The second one this season. This almost never happens, as I usually have one per school year. And I had it. Last month.
My students are behaving nicely. They are discussing, responding, listening, reading, writing, working, and learning (I hope!).
My mom's health is failing, and that's bumming me out.
The sun has actually shown its sweet face for two entire days in a row!
My love life is completely down the tubes. Unless we count my crush on Cesar Chavez. Which doesn't seem to be working out, as he's deceased.
My daughter is a healthy, happy, productive member of society.
My hair is stupid.
I have funny, warm, smart, loving, and tolerant friends.
That's the long and the short of it. The good and the bad. Upside downside. Pleasure and pain.
I, like the Democrats, will be back. Stronger and wiser.
With any luck at all.
I'm coming down with a cold. The second one this season. This almost never happens, as I usually have one per school year. And I had it. Last month.
My students are behaving nicely. They are discussing, responding, listening, reading, writing, working, and learning (I hope!).
My mom's health is failing, and that's bumming me out.
The sun has actually shown its sweet face for two entire days in a row!
My love life is completely down the tubes. Unless we count my crush on Cesar Chavez. Which doesn't seem to be working out, as he's deceased.
My daughter is a healthy, happy, productive member of society.
My hair is stupid.
I have funny, warm, smart, loving, and tolerant friends.
That's the long and the short of it. The good and the bad. Upside downside. Pleasure and pain.
I, like the Democrats, will be back. Stronger and wiser.
With any luck at all.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
The Test
There's a religion test on the web. After answering a series of questions, the test taker is matched with the religion most closely aligned with his or her answer set. When I took the test, my answers most closely matched those of a secular humanist. I was thinking about this in relation to prayer. Secular humanists get screwed on this front, we don't have the luxury of sending a prayer up (or out, whatever) and waiting for fulfillment. Our faith rests in ourselves, and a prayer of petition is little more than the summoning of strength and will. World peace or good health, it's up to us and our fellow human beings to accomplish the task. Yikes.
Sometimes, it would really be nice to have some supernatural assistance, but a secular humanist knows this kind of assistance isn't available. In our world, the strong must carry the weak; the wise must be thoughtful and find a way to excuse the dipshits wihout divine intervention. Our collective power must move the mountain when necessary, and individual concern and understanding must prevail on a personal level. Hearts, minds, and muscle are what we have to carry us through a crisis. We save ourselves and clean up our own messes. Hope is the closest thing we have to faith.
Secular humanism is not for wimps.
Sometimes, it would really be nice to have some supernatural assistance, but a secular humanist knows this kind of assistance isn't available. In our world, the strong must carry the weak; the wise must be thoughtful and find a way to excuse the dipshits wihout divine intervention. Our collective power must move the mountain when necessary, and individual concern and understanding must prevail on a personal level. Hearts, minds, and muscle are what we have to carry us through a crisis. We save ourselves and clean up our own messes. Hope is the closest thing we have to faith.
Secular humanism is not for wimps.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Promises to Ourselves
When I decided to start a blog, I did it because it looked like fun and I wanted a format in which to produce writing outside of emails and the stuff I do for school. I promised myself I would keep it up until the end of the year, and that time is fast approaching. There have been times I have been quite inspired to post, and others (is this one of them?) when I've posted mostly because I thought it was time. From what I understand from others who do this, regular posts are essential, some even say that it becomes addictive. At any rate, it seems important to post in order to keep the conversation going. The trouble is, there hasn't been much conversation! This isn't intended to produce a "guilt trip." I hear from friends that there are readers who aren't inclined to respond, and that's fine. I must admit I had visions of provoking lively discussion and conversation via the web, but reality has since set in, and I don't fault anyone for not finding the time or inspiration to respond. That may say more about the blogger than the readers!
Keeping promises to ourselves is often more difficult than keeping those me make to others. I can withstand the internal pressure of disappointing myself far more easily than I can face the idea that I've messed up with a friend or colleague. A therapist could have a field day with that one. Regardless, I decided today that I'll try to continue blogging through the winter. Midwestern winters can be desolate times, even for the optimists among us; I certainly am tempted to fall victim to demons that lurk in the the dark and the cold. In my Creative Writing class, we talk about the restorative, cathartic, and transformative effects of writing, so I'll keep at it for now. Bring on the restoring, the catharsis, and the transformation! At least until spring, when I'll consider letting nature take its course and do that work for me.
I guess I should say something about Christmas! I'll be leaving tomorrow to visit my family in northwest Iowa. I'm pouting a bit, as I had visions of spending the holiday with my daughter in Austin, Tx this year. I miss her terribly, but alas, it wasn't in the cards for me this season. So, I'll drive west over the flat geography of Minnesota, conjuring up some Christmas spirit as I dip down into Iowa. I'll find myself back in my hometown and the bosom of my family of origin. There's a soothing familiarity in that place where I'm always welcome and nothing ever changes much. I'm sure that after the holidays, friends and colleagues will ask about my time off. Garrison Keillor, in his wisdom about the somewhat droll personalities of those of us raised on the Midwestern prairie, provides an apt response for this half-Norwegian woman who now calls herself a Minnesotan: "Can't complain."
My wish this season is that you may say the same, and Peace, to all.
Keeping promises to ourselves is often more difficult than keeping those me make to others. I can withstand the internal pressure of disappointing myself far more easily than I can face the idea that I've messed up with a friend or colleague. A therapist could have a field day with that one. Regardless, I decided today that I'll try to continue blogging through the winter. Midwestern winters can be desolate times, even for the optimists among us; I certainly am tempted to fall victim to demons that lurk in the the dark and the cold. In my Creative Writing class, we talk about the restorative, cathartic, and transformative effects of writing, so I'll keep at it for now. Bring on the restoring, the catharsis, and the transformation! At least until spring, when I'll consider letting nature take its course and do that work for me.
I guess I should say something about Christmas! I'll be leaving tomorrow to visit my family in northwest Iowa. I'm pouting a bit, as I had visions of spending the holiday with my daughter in Austin, Tx this year. I miss her terribly, but alas, it wasn't in the cards for me this season. So, I'll drive west over the flat geography of Minnesota, conjuring up some Christmas spirit as I dip down into Iowa. I'll find myself back in my hometown and the bosom of my family of origin. There's a soothing familiarity in that place where I'm always welcome and nothing ever changes much. I'm sure that after the holidays, friends and colleagues will ask about my time off. Garrison Keillor, in his wisdom about the somewhat droll personalities of those of us raised on the Midwestern prairie, provides an apt response for this half-Norwegian woman who now calls herself a Minnesotan: "Can't complain."
My wish this season is that you may say the same, and Peace, to all.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Freshmen and Frost
It's snowing in Minnesota, so I read "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" to my English 9 class. It's a lovely poem, perfect for freshmen in this weather. They were restless, complaining about the superintendent having the nerve to require our attendance when there was such blowing and drifting on the other side of the classroom window. They didn't seem patient enough, today, for my favorite Frost.
Here it is:
Birches
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the line of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches;
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate wilfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
Here it is:
Birches
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the line of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches;
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate wilfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
The Way I Remember Pinsky
I was thinking about the time I saw Robert Pinsky, poet laureate at the time, read at the U of I. My buddy, Chick, called and said he'd run by (literally) and pick me up; the reading started in fifteen minutes. I balked. The conversation went something like this: "We won't make it in time.. I have a paper due...I've been up late this week and I'm tired." I distinctly remember Chick saying, "He's the poet fucking laureate, for chrissake! Get off your lazy middle-aged ass, you old bag. Get outside right now; we're going."
It was useless to take a car. I learned, early on, there was no parking that made the trip faster than walking the eight blocks from my apartment to the most far-flung building I frequented on campus. Chick arrived in minutes, and we started off on a run. By the time we reached the Old Capital I was gasping for air. Luckily, the trip was all down hill from there.
"Have another cigarette, Rox," he said, as he pulled me along. It was spring, our shoes squished deep into soft grass and mud as we made our way down the west lawn of the Pentacrest. I wasn't happy.
"Good plan; these were decent shoes."
Chick and I met when we worked an overnight job keeping high school students, on campus for a summer program, in a dorm and away from the college night life most of them longed to sample. They usually gave up by about 3 a.m., and that allowed Chick and I to spend a few hours each night to getting to know each other. He seemed fascinated by the idea that a fortyish woman would leave her life behind to enter college. I had liked him instantly; I wasn't fascinating many of the 20-somethings who were my colleagues at the time. We laughed about the discomforts of being raised in the tiny Iowa towns we came from, but he was smart enough to understand the precious marks those places left on us. We cried when Jer, another of the beautiful, talented boys who worked for the program that summer, died in a freak motorcycle accident.
The door was closing when we arrived at the reading. Jori Graham, the revered, Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, pride of the University of Iowa's creative writing program, introduced Pinsky. She was bone thin with a fantastic mop of grey-streaked hair, wearing something hand-loomed and expensive-looking. Very poet. In a soft, distracted voice, making eye contact with no one, she read one of her poems. I thought it was affected, over-wrought, filled with obscure metaphors and vague references. I probably just didn't get it.
When Pinsky appeared, I was charmed. He spoke with muted pride about a project he was involved in that asked ordinary people to name their favorite poems. I understood everything he read, and particularly liked one with the central image of a green upright piano in his boyhood home. For him, it evoked memories of an injury his mother suffered that changed his family. It made me think about my dad's protracted illness and how it shaped my view of life. Not all of what he read touched me as personally, but an hour later I was thanking Chick for his invitation.
Chick acquired a hermit crab and named it Pinsky. I thought that was clever. When he went off to spend a semester in London, I babysat the crab. It spent its time scooting around its habitat, eating flakey crab food and sucking a sponge. About a week before Chick got back, I noticed no movement and realized the crab was dead. I felt terrible about it. I hope he doesn't think I murdered Pinsky in retaliation for the ruined shoes.
It was useless to take a car. I learned, early on, there was no parking that made the trip faster than walking the eight blocks from my apartment to the most far-flung building I frequented on campus. Chick arrived in minutes, and we started off on a run. By the time we reached the Old Capital I was gasping for air. Luckily, the trip was all down hill from there.
"Have another cigarette, Rox," he said, as he pulled me along. It was spring, our shoes squished deep into soft grass and mud as we made our way down the west lawn of the Pentacrest. I wasn't happy.
"Good plan; these were decent shoes."
Chick and I met when we worked an overnight job keeping high school students, on campus for a summer program, in a dorm and away from the college night life most of them longed to sample. They usually gave up by about 3 a.m., and that allowed Chick and I to spend a few hours each night to getting to know each other. He seemed fascinated by the idea that a fortyish woman would leave her life behind to enter college. I had liked him instantly; I wasn't fascinating many of the 20-somethings who were my colleagues at the time. We laughed about the discomforts of being raised in the tiny Iowa towns we came from, but he was smart enough to understand the precious marks those places left on us. We cried when Jer, another of the beautiful, talented boys who worked for the program that summer, died in a freak motorcycle accident.
The door was closing when we arrived at the reading. Jori Graham, the revered, Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, pride of the University of Iowa's creative writing program, introduced Pinsky. She was bone thin with a fantastic mop of grey-streaked hair, wearing something hand-loomed and expensive-looking. Very poet. In a soft, distracted voice, making eye contact with no one, she read one of her poems. I thought it was affected, over-wrought, filled with obscure metaphors and vague references. I probably just didn't get it.
When Pinsky appeared, I was charmed. He spoke with muted pride about a project he was involved in that asked ordinary people to name their favorite poems. I understood everything he read, and particularly liked one with the central image of a green upright piano in his boyhood home. For him, it evoked memories of an injury his mother suffered that changed his family. It made me think about my dad's protracted illness and how it shaped my view of life. Not all of what he read touched me as personally, but an hour later I was thanking Chick for his invitation.
Chick acquired a hermit crab and named it Pinsky. I thought that was clever. When he went off to spend a semester in London, I babysat the crab. It spent its time scooting around its habitat, eating flakey crab food and sucking a sponge. About a week before Chick got back, I noticed no movement and realized the crab was dead. I felt terrible about it. I hope he doesn't think I murdered Pinsky in retaliation for the ruined shoes.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)