"At least two thirds of our miseries spring from human stupidity, human malice and those great motivators and justifiers of malice and stupidity, idealism, dogmatism and proselytizing zeal on behalf of religious or political idols. ~ Aldous Huxley
Are there enough political blogs around without me having to throw my two cents worth in? Definitely, but today I make an exception. Donald Rumsfeld. Can you believe that asshole standing up at a press conference saying that people should be sure of their facts before they tell the public? Can you believe that he then commented that it could cost peoples' lives?
Who does he think he's talking to? Sheep? Someone should point out to him that it was him, Rove, Cheney and Bush who lied about what was or was not going on in Iraq. Do you suppose that he's unaware of how many lives that has cost so far? Not counting the innocent Iraqis here; I mean how many American lives have been lost.
I don't know. Maybe he is talking to sheep. We just seem to keep being herded around by right wing religious zealots who just wish everything would go back to being the way they like to believe it was in 1950. God forbid that they should think. Oh no. Better we should listen to a willfully ignorant, arrogant intellectual midget. Oh, and his friends, of course.
Of course, now I have my blood pressure up. I'd better go meditate or something. I will not be watching the news for a while so that I won't have to be hospitalized for major depression.
America held hostage day 1322
Bushism of the day:
"Maybe between the time I left Camp David and here I'll learn more."
—Bush, speaking to reporters after returning from Camp David
Source: Public Papers of the Presidents, "Remarks on Returning From Camp David, Maryland, and an Exchange with Reporters," March 23, 2003
Website of the day; Informed Comment
http://www.juancole.com/
18 May 2005
Uber
I've noted lately that the world "uber" is enjoying some popularity around the Web. What's up with that? I guess every five years or so Amricans light on a German word we really, really like. The last word that I recall generating this much interest was "schadenfreude." That made much more sense to me than uber. Schadenfreude describes something that we don't have a one-word version for in English.
16 May 2005
Koan of the Week: Jo Ju's Dog
In honor of my father's birthday.
First Gate: Jo Ju's Dog
A monk once asked Jo Ju, "Does a dog have Buddha-nature?"
Jo Ju answered, "Mu!" (No)
1. Buddha said everything has Buddha-nature. Jo Ju said a dog has no Buddha-nature. Which one is correct?
2. Jo Ju said, "Mu!" What does this mean?
3. I ask you, does a dog have Buddha-nature?
Commentary: Silence is better than holiness, so opening your mouth is a big mistake. But if you use this mistake to save all beings, this is Zen.12 May 2005
Memory is a Monster
"Your memory is a monster; you forget - it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you - and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!" ~ John Irving
I have to get a hair cut. A couple of years ago, I decided I wanted long-ish hair again. (long-ish: a little above shoulder length.) Every time I saw my stylist, though, I ended up with short hair. I guess I thought of it as fate. I've been willing to accept it.
A couple of months ago, I missed a hair appointment and neglected to call in advance to say I wouldn't be there. Generally speaking, that means I won't be going back to that stylist. Unfortunately, embarassment has ended a number of pretty successful stylist relationships.
The upshot is that my hair is now almost shoulder length. It's still layered, though, so I'm doing the Martha Stewart thing constantly. I brush my hair out of my face a hundred times a day. Every time I do, I remember being sexually abused.
For reasons unclear at this juncture, when I was a little girl, after an episode of sexual abuse, I always allowed my hair to just fall in my face. I made no effort to brush it away so that I could see a little better. I don't know what that was about; my therapist says I was probably dissociated. That's probably correct.
Of course, that "seeing a little better" might be the crux of the issue, after all. Maybe I didn't want to see how little anyone cared about me. About where I was. About who was with me. Maybe I just didn't want to see that I was profoundly superfluous to everyone else's lives.
Or maybe it was a way of hiding my shame. I was very ashamed. My abuser, like all abusers, laid the blame at my doorstep. Let me just say here that my earliest recollection of abuse was when I was five. It had occurred before then, though, because I also recall being terrified by the prospect of being left alone with him. I'm very intuitive, but a five year old is incapable of being afraid of something that has never occurred. I accepted the blame.
I'm dissociating even as I type...all feeling falls away. I'm left in that calm, observational state of mind that graciously robs my memories of any emotional impact. Nonetheless, as I type my hair falls across my face. It doesn't matter. Rage begets dissociation. It is an unacceptable emotion for me.
I've lived through some very harrowing times when rage lived in the same house with me. I do not wish to be like my father. I'm not like my father, but my brain shuts down nonetheless. It feels so much safer to just...not feel.
America held hostage day 1315
Bushism of the day:
"I really appreciate the hardworking staff—the docs, the nurses, the people who make this fantastic facility operate in a way that makes me pride, and in a way that will make every American proud when they learn your story. "
—Bush, speaking in Washington, D.C., Dec. 18, 2003
Website of the day: Deepplanet Magazine
http://deepplanet.com/
I have to get a hair cut. A couple of years ago, I decided I wanted long-ish hair again. (long-ish: a little above shoulder length.) Every time I saw my stylist, though, I ended up with short hair. I guess I thought of it as fate. I've been willing to accept it.
A couple of months ago, I missed a hair appointment and neglected to call in advance to say I wouldn't be there. Generally speaking, that means I won't be going back to that stylist. Unfortunately, embarassment has ended a number of pretty successful stylist relationships.
The upshot is that my hair is now almost shoulder length. It's still layered, though, so I'm doing the Martha Stewart thing constantly. I brush my hair out of my face a hundred times a day. Every time I do, I remember being sexually abused.
For reasons unclear at this juncture, when I was a little girl, after an episode of sexual abuse, I always allowed my hair to just fall in my face. I made no effort to brush it away so that I could see a little better. I don't know what that was about; my therapist says I was probably dissociated. That's probably correct.
Of course, that "seeing a little better" might be the crux of the issue, after all. Maybe I didn't want to see how little anyone cared about me. About where I was. About who was with me. Maybe I just didn't want to see that I was profoundly superfluous to everyone else's lives.
Or maybe it was a way of hiding my shame. I was very ashamed. My abuser, like all abusers, laid the blame at my doorstep. Let me just say here that my earliest recollection of abuse was when I was five. It had occurred before then, though, because I also recall being terrified by the prospect of being left alone with him. I'm very intuitive, but a five year old is incapable of being afraid of something that has never occurred. I accepted the blame.
I'm dissociating even as I type...all feeling falls away. I'm left in that calm, observational state of mind that graciously robs my memories of any emotional impact. Nonetheless, as I type my hair falls across my face. It doesn't matter. Rage begets dissociation. It is an unacceptable emotion for me.
I've lived through some very harrowing times when rage lived in the same house with me. I do not wish to be like my father. I'm not like my father, but my brain shuts down nonetheless. It feels so much safer to just...not feel.
America held hostage day 1315
Bushism of the day:
"I really appreciate the hardworking staff—the docs, the nurses, the people who make this fantastic facility operate in a way that makes me pride, and in a way that will make every American proud when they learn your story. "
—Bush, speaking in Washington, D.C., Dec. 18, 2003
Website of the day: Deepplanet Magazine
http://deepplanet.com/
This is My Horoscope For Today
Intellectual Mercury is in your 7th House of Partnerships until May 28th, reminding you that your complexity may need a makeover. No matter how deep your emotions run, others won't understand you unless you keep it simple. Even if you feel frustrated by having to say less, you'll be so much more effective if you stick to the basics. You can successfully add other layers at the end of the month.
My complexity may need a makeover?! Since when did it not need a makeover? No one has understood me since 1963. Why would I start expecting it now? It would be very difficult for me to say less than I currently do. Outside of my family and a couple of online friends, I always keep my communications as bland and unenlightening as possible. I really just don't need the hassle of having people try to understand me. Better to just let them think they do so I don't seem quite as threatening. I work amongst some version of regular, middle class uniformity. It's better they don't know just how not standard I am.
One of my work associates has a habit of constantly trying to finish my sentences with me. I don't mind that kind of participatory involvement in what I'm saying. As a matter of fact, I'm always gleeful when someone really can finish my sentences for me. It signifies a strong connection. However, if you consistently can't guess what is about to come out of my mouth, please stop trying. It just annoys me.
My complexity may need a makeover?! Since when did it not need a makeover? No one has understood me since 1963. Why would I start expecting it now? It would be very difficult for me to say less than I currently do. Outside of my family and a couple of online friends, I always keep my communications as bland and unenlightening as possible. I really just don't need the hassle of having people try to understand me. Better to just let them think they do so I don't seem quite as threatening. I work amongst some version of regular, middle class uniformity. It's better they don't know just how not standard I am.
One of my work associates has a habit of constantly trying to finish my sentences with me. I don't mind that kind of participatory involvement in what I'm saying. As a matter of fact, I'm always gleeful when someone really can finish my sentences for me. It signifies a strong connection. However, if you consistently can't guess what is about to come out of my mouth, please stop trying. It just annoys me.
11 May 2005
Two Little Girls
"Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame." -- Benjamin Franklin (1706-90)
I'm thinking today of the two little girls killed by one of the girls' father. I guess Laura Hobbs either forgot or didn't care about the level of violence her father was capable of. I can't imagine, even though he'd been in jail for several years, that she would have forgotten the sight of her father chasing people with a chainsaw. Perhaps she believed he had changed. Adults caught in those types of relationshps often cling to the belief that the victimizer has found his bearings and given up forever violence as a means of control. That belief can lead directly to death.
Sometimes children get so angry or so depressed (or both) that they no longer care about the consequences. Defiance is dangerous. So is defending one's self...verbally or otherwise. There are some parents who are so prone to rage that children must learn to disappear.
Even my own father never tried to stab me to death. I don't think he ever punched me. Yes, I was physically abused, but it wasn't extreme. As I type this, I lose my own bearings a bit. Define extreme. When I've mentioned this to my therapist, she points out that he didn't have to. I knew exactly what he was capable of. We didn't have any chain saws, but we had large knives and a high powered rifle.
Sometimes you just have to find a way to disappear. I was talking with my therapist about this just last week. When I was around 8 or 9, a major hurricane passed by the Gulf Coast and we were all stuck inside the house for a week or so. It seemed like months. My father was in one of his manic phases and everything enraged him. I was scared. Not that that was an unusual emotion. I was terrified most of my childhood. I dreaded the time when he would get up in the morning. I never knew who was going to be walking into the living room.
I learned to disappear. I found places where I wouldn't be conspicuous. I spent a lot of time practicing having no expression. Sometimes not having an expression was just as enraging to him as if I had one. I didn't wait to be told; I tried to anticipate his needs. I did not talk back. I did not argue. I tried very very hard to kiss his ass.
There did come a time when I became defiant, but it wasn't until I knew there were people who would notice if something serious occurred. Or if I didn't come to school for an extended period of time. I was still terrified, but as a teenager I figured there was a pretty good chance that I could get away before he could really hurt me. Calculated risks.
I managed to survive, but those two little girls weren't so lucky. Who knows what the catalyst was that resulted in their murders. Children die at the hands of their parents on a regular basis. I wish that it didn't have to be so and I'm thinking of those two little girls today.
America held hostage day 1314
Bushism of the day:
# "We hold dear what our Declaration of Independence says, that all have got uninalienable rights, endowed by a Creator."
Source: The New York Times, "Reporter's Notebook; Skipping Borders, Tripping Diction," David E. Sanger, May 28, 2002
Website of the day: National Clearinghouse on Child Abuse and Neglect Information
http://nccanch.acf.hhs.gov/
I'm thinking today of the two little girls killed by one of the girls' father. I guess Laura Hobbs either forgot or didn't care about the level of violence her father was capable of. I can't imagine, even though he'd been in jail for several years, that she would have forgotten the sight of her father chasing people with a chainsaw. Perhaps she believed he had changed. Adults caught in those types of relationshps often cling to the belief that the victimizer has found his bearings and given up forever violence as a means of control. That belief can lead directly to death.
Sometimes children get so angry or so depressed (or both) that they no longer care about the consequences. Defiance is dangerous. So is defending one's self...verbally or otherwise. There are some parents who are so prone to rage that children must learn to disappear.
Even my own father never tried to stab me to death. I don't think he ever punched me. Yes, I was physically abused, but it wasn't extreme. As I type this, I lose my own bearings a bit. Define extreme. When I've mentioned this to my therapist, she points out that he didn't have to. I knew exactly what he was capable of. We didn't have any chain saws, but we had large knives and a high powered rifle.
Sometimes you just have to find a way to disappear. I was talking with my therapist about this just last week. When I was around 8 or 9, a major hurricane passed by the Gulf Coast and we were all stuck inside the house for a week or so. It seemed like months. My father was in one of his manic phases and everything enraged him. I was scared. Not that that was an unusual emotion. I was terrified most of my childhood. I dreaded the time when he would get up in the morning. I never knew who was going to be walking into the living room.
I learned to disappear. I found places where I wouldn't be conspicuous. I spent a lot of time practicing having no expression. Sometimes not having an expression was just as enraging to him as if I had one. I didn't wait to be told; I tried to anticipate his needs. I did not talk back. I did not argue. I tried very very hard to kiss his ass.
There did come a time when I became defiant, but it wasn't until I knew there were people who would notice if something serious occurred. Or if I didn't come to school for an extended period of time. I was still terrified, but as a teenager I figured there was a pretty good chance that I could get away before he could really hurt me. Calculated risks.
I managed to survive, but those two little girls weren't so lucky. Who knows what the catalyst was that resulted in their murders. Children die at the hands of their parents on a regular basis. I wish that it didn't have to be so and I'm thinking of those two little girls today.
America held hostage day 1314
Bushism of the day:
# "We hold dear what our Declaration of Independence says, that all have got uninalienable rights, endowed by a Creator."
Source: The New York Times, "Reporter's Notebook; Skipping Borders, Tripping Diction," David E. Sanger, May 28, 2002
Website of the day: National Clearinghouse on Child Abuse and Neglect Information
http://nccanch.acf.hhs.gov/
10 May 2005
Things I'm Unable To Do
"Anybody can become angry, that is easy; but to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not within everybody's power, that is not easy." ~ Aristotle
After last week's fiasco with my beloved husky, I was in a quandary. I talked with my therapist about it. I have no doubt that I'll change vets...as soon as I pay the one I have now. The question is whether I plan to tell the vet I'm leaving. Therapist asks if I told the vet how angry I was. No. The therapist asks if I'm going to tell the vet how angry I was. Um, no. I don't know why. I have no idea. I'm really good at certain types of confrontation: employees I'm supervising; people who screw with people I love; well there are more, but I just can't think of them at the moment. I'm not mean in those situations, but I'm very clear about what I believe the problem(s) to be.
She asked me if I thought I could write a letter to the vet, expressing my outrage. That seemed like something I could do. Definitely. Three days later and my certainty has evaporated. Seems like a lot of trouble when I could just as easily pay the damn bill and walk away.
I was also unable to confront my psychiatrist a year ago when she was falling apart. She wasn't doing a very good job of ministering to my depression and anxiety. I avoided seeing her for a while and she got better. Who knows why.
I think my dentist owes me some contraption to wear when I'm sleeping to correct my bite. I paid for it. Why don't I have it? I'm been unable to force myself to call him up and ask just where the fuck this thing is that I paid $1700 for.
There are more people I find myself unable to confront. If I were to sit here for another hour, I could probably come up with five or six. But you get my point.
I know I used to be good at this stuff. There was a time when I could immediately and forcefully meet any situation head on. I mean, I dealt with my father, for god's sake. It doesn't get much scarier than that. I can't tell anymore whether it's just a lack of interest or a lack of courage.
I've always been really good at walking away, too. Lately, it's my preferred mode of dealing with unpleasantness. If someone at the office pisses me off, I leave the room and I don't interact with that person anymore. Except for the exchange of business information, of course. Any interaction between me and the offending party is handled professionally and cordially, with a demeanor so smooth that there's no place they can hang onto. I seem to be the same as I always was, but it's impossible to determine what my feelings are or if I even have any. Being an abused child has some advantages. I can dissociate at a moment's notice. I'm smiling at you and answering your questions, but on the inside I'm just all ice.
I can make people feel warm and fuzzy. They feel their egos being stroked ever so gently. I'm laughing at their jokes. I'm asking questions that seem to indicate an interest in the minutiae of their lives. I'm recalling small things they said six months ago. That never fails to make people feel cared for. I can also withdraw all of that. The sunshine is no longer shining in your office, asshole. I've packed it all up and moved it across the building to my office, where it will stay.
America held hostage day 1314
Bushism of the day:
"We've had a great weekend here in the land of the enchanted."
—Bush, referring to New Mexico, "The Land of Enchantment"
Source: Federal Document Clearinghouse, "George W. Bush Delivers Remarks on Jobs and Growth in Albuquerque," May 12, 2003
Website of the Day: A Study of Near Death Experiences
http://www.aleroy.com/
After last week's fiasco with my beloved husky, I was in a quandary. I talked with my therapist about it. I have no doubt that I'll change vets...as soon as I pay the one I have now. The question is whether I plan to tell the vet I'm leaving. Therapist asks if I told the vet how angry I was. No. The therapist asks if I'm going to tell the vet how angry I was. Um, no. I don't know why. I have no idea. I'm really good at certain types of confrontation: employees I'm supervising; people who screw with people I love; well there are more, but I just can't think of them at the moment. I'm not mean in those situations, but I'm very clear about what I believe the problem(s) to be.
She asked me if I thought I could write a letter to the vet, expressing my outrage. That seemed like something I could do. Definitely. Three days later and my certainty has evaporated. Seems like a lot of trouble when I could just as easily pay the damn bill and walk away.
I was also unable to confront my psychiatrist a year ago when she was falling apart. She wasn't doing a very good job of ministering to my depression and anxiety. I avoided seeing her for a while and she got better. Who knows why.
I think my dentist owes me some contraption to wear when I'm sleeping to correct my bite. I paid for it. Why don't I have it? I'm been unable to force myself to call him up and ask just where the fuck this thing is that I paid $1700 for.
There are more people I find myself unable to confront. If I were to sit here for another hour, I could probably come up with five or six. But you get my point.
I know I used to be good at this stuff. There was a time when I could immediately and forcefully meet any situation head on. I mean, I dealt with my father, for god's sake. It doesn't get much scarier than that. I can't tell anymore whether it's just a lack of interest or a lack of courage.
I've always been really good at walking away, too. Lately, it's my preferred mode of dealing with unpleasantness. If someone at the office pisses me off, I leave the room and I don't interact with that person anymore. Except for the exchange of business information, of course. Any interaction between me and the offending party is handled professionally and cordially, with a demeanor so smooth that there's no place they can hang onto. I seem to be the same as I always was, but it's impossible to determine what my feelings are or if I even have any. Being an abused child has some advantages. I can dissociate at a moment's notice. I'm smiling at you and answering your questions, but on the inside I'm just all ice.
I can make people feel warm and fuzzy. They feel their egos being stroked ever so gently. I'm laughing at their jokes. I'm asking questions that seem to indicate an interest in the minutiae of their lives. I'm recalling small things they said six months ago. That never fails to make people feel cared for. I can also withdraw all of that. The sunshine is no longer shining in your office, asshole. I've packed it all up and moved it across the building to my office, where it will stay.
America held hostage day 1314
Bushism of the day:
"We've had a great weekend here in the land of the enchanted."
—Bush, referring to New Mexico, "The Land of Enchantment"
Source: Federal Document Clearinghouse, "George W. Bush Delivers Remarks on Jobs and Growth in Albuquerque," May 12, 2003
Website of the Day: A Study of Near Death Experiences
http://www.aleroy.com/
Snipers in My Brain
It's another bleak Tuesday. Gray skies. I'm trying to subvert the sadness by wearing a dress. It isn't helping so far. Cute shoes, too. Big deal.
The problem is the harridans have moved back into my head and threaten to take up long term residence. I've been silencing them off and on all morning. The crisis with my dog last week clarified a couple of conditions which seem to wake up the snipers in my brain. Sleep deprivation is one of them; extreme stress the other. I got enough sleep last night and I don't feel particularly stressed. Not that that means anything, of course. I'm not very capable of recognizing stress until it renders me sick and incapable of getting out of bed for a week or so.
My dad's birthday is next Monday. Maybe I'm just getting the festivities started early. Last week I'm hanging on to my anger, though, and haven't gotten sidetracked into how he must have felt just before he pulled the trigger. Going in that direction will lead to certain self recrimination and sadness.
Maybe there will be more to say later.
The problem is the harridans have moved back into my head and threaten to take up long term residence. I've been silencing them off and on all morning. The crisis with my dog last week clarified a couple of conditions which seem to wake up the snipers in my brain. Sleep deprivation is one of them; extreme stress the other. I got enough sleep last night and I don't feel particularly stressed. Not that that means anything, of course. I'm not very capable of recognizing stress until it renders me sick and incapable of getting out of bed for a week or so.
My dad's birthday is next Monday. Maybe I'm just getting the festivities started early. Last week I'm hanging on to my anger, though, and haven't gotten sidetracked into how he must have felt just before he pulled the trigger. Going in that direction will lead to certain self recrimination and sadness.
Maybe there will be more to say later.
05 May 2005
I Need a Vet Who Knows How to Write
"If I have any beliefs about immortality, it is that certain dogs I have known will go to heaven, and very, very few persons." -- James Grover Thurber (1894-1961), American writer, cartoonist, illustrator, "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty"
My dog is still at the vet's office. I went by yesterday afternoon to deliver some dog food because, predictably, The Mighty Tusk won't eat the dog food. Well, he didn't eat what I brought him, either. The vet came in and told me she wasn't very hopeful about his chances of survival. Liver enzymes very, very high. Glucose level very high. She gives me a hard time about it. Every time I've ever talked with her about his diabetes, she's always said, "He can't have insulin if he's not eating." Well, he wasn't eating, bitch. I told you that on the phone, goddamn it.
I said he might not be eating because he's had painful diarrhea and vomiting. Would you feel like eating? No, I wouldn't either. She noted that when she examined his stomach, he cried out in pain. Maybe I'm right, she said. She then asks me for the FIFTH time how much insulin he should be taking. She asked if it was 20 cc's. No...31. If I weren't so distraught, I'd have had a meltdown. I told her I'd come by first thing in the morning with cooked chicken; maybe he'd like to eat that. I sat with him for about 20 minutes and he kept almost falling asleep as I rubbed his head. Then he'd rouse himself and focus, remembering I was there. I finally left and cried all the way home.
When I got there, I told hubby that Mr. T. might not be coming home. I cried; he held me. I bucked up, as usual. Then hubby cried. Off and on all evening. I was numbed out, one of the few advantages of being abused as a child. I can stop feeling automatically when it all gets too overwhelming. I pondered the seizures he's had, the arthritis, the possibility of pain from his liver. Maybe I should stop being selfish and get myself prepared for the end. No. Not yet. I was terrified that, when I went back in the morning, he'd already be dead.
I got up early, cooked some chicken breasts, woke up hubby and asked if he'd like to come with me. He was up for it. I was still so afraid I'd arrive and they'd say, "Oh. Didn't someone call you? He died in his sleep." But there he was, looking better than yesterday. He was immediately interested in the chicken. (Yay!) I started feeding it to him and noticed that he'd eaten the muffin I brought for him last night. (He loves muffins. I was very distressed when he wouldn't eat it yesterday.) He actually sat up and looked around, had some water. We stayed and gave lots of love for a while. He lay back down and we left, telling the receptionist I would bring more chicken over on my way to work.
Went home, called the office, bathed and washed hair. I blew dry my hair; no time today for curls. The only makeup I put on was mascara. I wore sneakers to work, a thing I've only done twice before. I dropped off the chicken. By the time I got to work, the cats were all waiting for me outside the gate, wondering where I was and when I was going to get here to feed them.
I got the kitties taken care of and commenced the day. Around one this afternoon, I called the vet's office and was told Dr. B. was off today. Would I like to talk with Dr. W. instead? Well yes, duh. She was too busy to talk just then, so the receptionist related that Dr. W. thought he should spend the night in the emergency hospital. He won't eat the food they've given him. No, he won't eat the food they give him even when he's feeling great. He doesn't like prescription dog food. She says, "Oh, I see you brought some chicken for him. We'll give that to him a little later."
I was furious. I'm thinking about how much better he seemed this morning and wondering why the hell they think he should be in the hospital. I called my mom and the more I talked about it, the angrier I became. Just as I hung up the phone, Dr. W. called.
She said that he's doing 100% better than yesterday and he finally ate (if they just would have given him his chicken in the first place....). She wanted to start his insulin again and thought he'd be better off with someone monitoring him, which is why she thought the hospital was a good idea. I told her that's a huge expense, on top of the meter currently running at her office. Unfortunately, I have to eat or I can't work to pay the bill, you know. She agreed that I could take him home and monitor him myself. Bring him back tomorrow morning.
I really like that solution. I start wondering where she works regularly, because I'm ready to ditch the woman who can't write his fucking medication level on his chart. The upshot is that I'm gong to get him and take him back tomorrow morning. I think he might do better at home, anyway. People generally do; that's one of the reasons they hustle your ass right out of the hospital as soon as you can pee by yourself.
America held hostage day 1510
Bushism of the day:
# "We hold dear what our Declaration of Independence says, that all have got uninalienable rights, endowed by a Creator."
Source: The New York Times, "Reporter's Notebook; Skipping Borders, Tripping Diction," David E. Sanger, May 28, 2002
Website of the day; The People's Paths in History
http://www.yvwiiusdinvnohii.net/lit/choc-bk.htm
My dog is still at the vet's office. I went by yesterday afternoon to deliver some dog food because, predictably, The Mighty Tusk won't eat the dog food. Well, he didn't eat what I brought him, either. The vet came in and told me she wasn't very hopeful about his chances of survival. Liver enzymes very, very high. Glucose level very high. She gives me a hard time about it. Every time I've ever talked with her about his diabetes, she's always said, "He can't have insulin if he's not eating." Well, he wasn't eating, bitch. I told you that on the phone, goddamn it.
I said he might not be eating because he's had painful diarrhea and vomiting. Would you feel like eating? No, I wouldn't either. She noted that when she examined his stomach, he cried out in pain. Maybe I'm right, she said. She then asks me for the FIFTH time how much insulin he should be taking. She asked if it was 20 cc's. No...31. If I weren't so distraught, I'd have had a meltdown. I told her I'd come by first thing in the morning with cooked chicken; maybe he'd like to eat that. I sat with him for about 20 minutes and he kept almost falling asleep as I rubbed his head. Then he'd rouse himself and focus, remembering I was there. I finally left and cried all the way home.
When I got there, I told hubby that Mr. T. might not be coming home. I cried; he held me. I bucked up, as usual. Then hubby cried. Off and on all evening. I was numbed out, one of the few advantages of being abused as a child. I can stop feeling automatically when it all gets too overwhelming. I pondered the seizures he's had, the arthritis, the possibility of pain from his liver. Maybe I should stop being selfish and get myself prepared for the end. No. Not yet. I was terrified that, when I went back in the morning, he'd already be dead.
I got up early, cooked some chicken breasts, woke up hubby and asked if he'd like to come with me. He was up for it. I was still so afraid I'd arrive and they'd say, "Oh. Didn't someone call you? He died in his sleep." But there he was, looking better than yesterday. He was immediately interested in the chicken. (Yay!) I started feeding it to him and noticed that he'd eaten the muffin I brought for him last night. (He loves muffins. I was very distressed when he wouldn't eat it yesterday.) He actually sat up and looked around, had some water. We stayed and gave lots of love for a while. He lay back down and we left, telling the receptionist I would bring more chicken over on my way to work.
Went home, called the office, bathed and washed hair. I blew dry my hair; no time today for curls. The only makeup I put on was mascara. I wore sneakers to work, a thing I've only done twice before. I dropped off the chicken. By the time I got to work, the cats were all waiting for me outside the gate, wondering where I was and when I was going to get here to feed them.
I got the kitties taken care of and commenced the day. Around one this afternoon, I called the vet's office and was told Dr. B. was off today. Would I like to talk with Dr. W. instead? Well yes, duh. She was too busy to talk just then, so the receptionist related that Dr. W. thought he should spend the night in the emergency hospital. He won't eat the food they've given him. No, he won't eat the food they give him even when he's feeling great. He doesn't like prescription dog food. She says, "Oh, I see you brought some chicken for him. We'll give that to him a little later."
I was furious. I'm thinking about how much better he seemed this morning and wondering why the hell they think he should be in the hospital. I called my mom and the more I talked about it, the angrier I became. Just as I hung up the phone, Dr. W. called.
She said that he's doing 100% better than yesterday and he finally ate (if they just would have given him his chicken in the first place....). She wanted to start his insulin again and thought he'd be better off with someone monitoring him, which is why she thought the hospital was a good idea. I told her that's a huge expense, on top of the meter currently running at her office. Unfortunately, I have to eat or I can't work to pay the bill, you know. She agreed that I could take him home and monitor him myself. Bring him back tomorrow morning.
I really like that solution. I start wondering where she works regularly, because I'm ready to ditch the woman who can't write his fucking medication level on his chart. The upshot is that I'm gong to get him and take him back tomorrow morning. I think he might do better at home, anyway. People generally do; that's one of the reasons they hustle your ass right out of the hospital as soon as you can pee by yourself.
America held hostage day 1510
Bushism of the day:
# "We hold dear what our Declaration of Independence says, that all have got uninalienable rights, endowed by a Creator."
Source: The New York Times, "Reporter's Notebook; Skipping Borders, Tripping Diction," David E. Sanger, May 28, 2002
Website of the day; The People's Paths in History
http://www.yvwiiusdinvnohii.net/lit/choc-bk.htm
Koan of the Day: A Philosopher Asks Buddha
A philosopher asked Buddha: `Without words, without the wordless, will you you tell me truth?'The Buddha kept silence.
The philosopher bowed and thanked the Buddha, saying: `With your loving kindness I have cleared away my delusions and entered the true path.'
After the philosopher had gone, Ananda asked the Buddha what he had attained.
The Buddha replied, `A good horse runs even at the shadow of the whip.'
Mumon's Comment: Ananda was the disciple of the Buddha. Even so, his opinion did not surpass that of outsiders. I want to ask you monks: How much difference is there between disciples and outsiders?
To tread the sharp edge of a sword
To run on smooth-frozen ice,
One needs no footsteps to follow.
Walk over the cliffs with hands free.
04 May 2005
Pesonal Resposibility
No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible. ~ Voltaire
My therapist and I talked about personal responsibility last week. I told her that the willingness to take responsibility for one's own actions is probably one of the greatest predictors of the type of relationship I have with someone.
Everything that ever happened in my dad's life was somebody else's fault. He beat up his first wife and got sent to the brig? That was her fault for giving their son a name he expressly forbade her to give him. He beat up my mom? Well, he was just trying to teach her. I could go on, but it would just make me angry.
The point is that, for me, being an adult requires accountability. I acknowledge that I may sometimes take that position too far. Whenever anything goes wrong, I take stock of my behavior in the situation and, if I can identify even a scintilla of responsibility, I own it. To everyone. Sometimes that gets me in some difficult situations because the people who are primarily responsible for some catastrophe are often quite willing to allow me to take the blame.
I worked with a woman several years ago who betrayed my trust and confidence. I was willing to continue to be her friend, but only if she apologized and accepted responsibility for her behavior. Unfortunately, she was unwilling to even consider that she might have behaved badly. Not only that, but she was too cowardly to talk to me about it directly. She sent me an email and then left for a two week vacation. We continued to work together and I continued to be cordial (in a professional, non-personal way) to her, but we could never be friends again.
Several people who worked with me at the same time knew that would be my position on the matter. Some of them acted like they thought I was Mussolini. I often encounter people who think it's an unreasonable position to take, despite the fact that they are more than willing to allow me to be accountable. I don't get it.
America held hostage day 1309
Bushism of the day:
"These people don't have tanks. They don't have ships. They hide in caves. They send suiciders out."
Source: Federal News Service, "Remarks by President George W. Bush At Welcome Rally," Nov. 1, 2002
Website of the day: Addicted to Hate
http://blank.org/addict/
My therapist and I talked about personal responsibility last week. I told her that the willingness to take responsibility for one's own actions is probably one of the greatest predictors of the type of relationship I have with someone.
Everything that ever happened in my dad's life was somebody else's fault. He beat up his first wife and got sent to the brig? That was her fault for giving their son a name he expressly forbade her to give him. He beat up my mom? Well, he was just trying to teach her. I could go on, but it would just make me angry.
The point is that, for me, being an adult requires accountability. I acknowledge that I may sometimes take that position too far. Whenever anything goes wrong, I take stock of my behavior in the situation and, if I can identify even a scintilla of responsibility, I own it. To everyone. Sometimes that gets me in some difficult situations because the people who are primarily responsible for some catastrophe are often quite willing to allow me to take the blame.
I worked with a woman several years ago who betrayed my trust and confidence. I was willing to continue to be her friend, but only if she apologized and accepted responsibility for her behavior. Unfortunately, she was unwilling to even consider that she might have behaved badly. Not only that, but she was too cowardly to talk to me about it directly. She sent me an email and then left for a two week vacation. We continued to work together and I continued to be cordial (in a professional, non-personal way) to her, but we could never be friends again.
Several people who worked with me at the same time knew that would be my position on the matter. Some of them acted like they thought I was Mussolini. I often encounter people who think it's an unreasonable position to take, despite the fact that they are more than willing to allow me to be accountable. I don't get it.
America held hostage day 1309
Bushism of the day:
"These people don't have tanks. They don't have ships. They hide in caves. They send suiciders out."
Source: Federal News Service, "Remarks by President George W. Bush At Welcome Rally," Nov. 1, 2002
Website of the day: Addicted to Hate
http://blank.org/addict/
03 May 2005
Athena
The past is malleable and flexible, changing as our recollection interprets and re-explains what has happened. ~ Peter Berger
My mom's family and early life are as much a mystery as my father's. There are 7 (I think) siblings, of which I have met only one. I liked him, though. When I was three, he took me for a ride on his motorcycle. That clinched it for me, apparently. Well, that and the fact that he never tried to sexually abuse me like the othe uncle I knew. I only met my maternal grandmother and grandfather once in my life and I don't even remember it because it was during one of those times in my life when holding onto sanity was pretty much the only thing I could focus on.
Neither my mom nor her older sister lived with their mom and dad for much of their lives. My mother was shipped off to live with her grandmother until she died when my mom was 14. I think she was around 5 when she stopped living with her family. Mother's sister lived with an aunt and I know even less about that than I do about my mom.
My great grandmother's name was Mamie. She required all of her grandchildren to call her by her name. I think that's just charming and so very southern. My mother was assigned chores to do, for which she earned a small allowance. None of her brothers and sisters had an allowance. Mamie made my mother attend church every Wednesday and Sunday. That included Sunday school. My mom has had very little inclination to show up at any churches since then. She really hates it when people get wrapped up in their religion or when they have a penchant for proselytizing. That caused some friction between my mother and one of my paternal aunts, who converted to Jehovah Witness-dom. It became apparent pretty quickly that my aunt's interest in the Witnesses was more opportunistic and self-serving than a spiritual calling. That's another story.
My mother took care of Mamie after she was diagnosed with cancer and, when she died, my mother was inconsolable. After that, she moved back in with mom and dad.
I know my maternal grandmother was a redhead with the proverbial fiery temper. She wasn't a very good cook. My grandfather was a butcher and an alcoholic. My mother has never used that word, but she said that her dad would come home from work and sit at the kitchen table, drinking all evening. Sounds like an alcoholic to me. She didn't get along with her dad. I have no details regarding why or when things went bad between them.
That's pretty much the sum total of all I know about my mother's history. I think I'm the least informed about family matters of anyone I know. I don't exactly know why that's so. With my dad's family, you could get stories, but it was anybody's guess as to whether the stories were true. They most definitely would be contradicted by other members of the family. I just always chalked it up to psychosis, but I think they were just a narcissistic and self-serving lot. I've asked my mom to tell me about her life numerous times, but these several paragraphs are the only information I've been able to cull.
I think my mother was probably sexually abused by someone. Why? Because she refused to let go of my dad when anyone in their right minds would have left him or killed him. There are other reasons why I think she was abused, but I'm not really comfortable with relating them.
Is it any wonder that I used to imagine myself to be like Athena, sprung from my parents thoughts instead of their loins. They made me up in their heads and it took more than twenty years for me to discern who I might be as an individual.
America held hostage day 1308
Bushism of the day:
"I used the expression 'ride herd.' I don't know if anybody understood the meaning. It's a little informal in diplomatic terms. I said, we're going to put a guy on the ground to ride herd on the process. See them all scratching their heads."
—Bush, realizing few people understand him when he speaks
Source: New York Times, "The President's Trip, In the President's Words: 'A Mutual Desire to Work Toward the Vision," June 5, 2003
Website of the day: Test Your Moral Intuitions
http://wjh1.wjh.harvard.edu/~moral/test.html
28 April 2005
Contempt
My therapist, Mary, cut me loose when I refused to allow her to get CPS involved. I guess she told my beloved teacher that I was going to continue to need someone to talk with. She must have thought that would somehow keep me alive. Beloved teacher said that she'd spoken with one of the school counselors who could get together with me for half an hour every day.
I already knew Mrs. B. from working in the office at my high school. I was lucky enough to work there during the 45 minutes I was supposed to be taking P.E.. It was a big relief for me and for the people who had to put up with my complete lack of motor skills. No one wanted me on their team and I was quite willing to oblige. I'd figured out a way to avoid ever participating in any team sports in P.E. But that's another story. I liked Mrs. B. and I thought that since Beloved Teacher recommended her, she must be okay. I couldn't have been more wrong.
Over the next several months, I spent some time telling Mrs. B. everything I thought she could handle. She couldn't handle much. I clearly remember that horrified, looking at a decapitated corpse in a car wreck look she'd get while I related events that barely even affected me at that point. A look of disgust crossed her face and set up residence. I started dissociating the minute I walked into her office. Her reaction to me was an assault that I had to vacate my body in order to tolerate. Her solution to my problems? Oh, come now! Surely you know? That's right, turn to Jesus.
The minute the Jesus thing came up, I knew our relationship was broken beyond repair. Jesus had nothing to do with my life. If Jesus couldn't fix things up for me in the past 17 years, I didn't have any faith he'd see fit to help me now. Furthermore, since Jesus was MIA in my life, I had decided to return the favor. The really sad thing is that I'm certain she didn't recognize how contemptible I found that suggestion. It was an indication of just how completely incapable she was of understanding me or my life circumstances. Did she think I hadn't already tried prayer for years and years? I had, but not a single fucking thing I pleaded for had been granted. Screw Jesus. And Mrs. B. Nonetheless, I dutifully showed up and stopped talking about the stuff that made me want to get up every day, find a gun and kill myself. She got to feel like she wasn't a complete moron and I didn't have to subject my feelings to her idiocy. As I might have guessed, it went downhill from there.
One day, as I went from class to class, I kept having these weird encounters with my teachers. My accelerated English teacher met me at the door to her room, smiling with tears in her eyes, and gently patted me on the back. I was baffled. Then I went to my Chemistry class, which went fine until the end of the class when she asked me to stay a moment after everyone else left. After everyone had vacated the room, she started telling me what a beautiful person I was. It went on like that all day for several days. Finally it dawned on me. Mrs. B. had been sitting her fat ass in the teachers' lounge, telling everyone about the things I worked so hard to keep secret. I was enraged.
It was a watershed moment. There wasn't a fucking thing I could do about any of it. I didn't want everyone in my world to know the humiliating details of my life. I had worked so hard for so long to figure out how to appear like my life was like everyone else's. I was like an alien from a foreign land. Everything had to be re-learned so I could fit in to the normal world. Mrs. B. had just obliterated all of my work. I just knew I didn't want any more pitying looks or, for that matter, those looks that communicated just how icky everyone found the life I was living. Now that they knew.
To this very day, when I think of her, I still want to kill her. I'm sure she had quite a time at her church, patting herself on the back for winning another soul for Jesus. What an idiot.
Somewhere in that time frame, I started to live a double life. I was angry at adults, angry with the "normal" world and I stopped being such a nice girl. Not that I did anything terrible...I didn't even drink. But I felt free to give shit to people I thought deserved it and that included adults. There were teachers whose lives were made a little more miserable by my presence in their class. I refused to hide my contempt. With people I thought were intelligent enough to understand the complexity of my situation, I was still the polite, overachieving, quiet person I had always been.
Beneath the contempt, of course, was just one more heartbreak to add to list of enormous losses I'd already endured. I had been betrayed and humiliated, but I refused to allow anyone to see that they'd touched me in any way. I was forced once again to confront my aloneness in the cosmos. Just like when I was a little girl and I'd try to imagine the vastness of the universe. I rememberd how small and insignificant I was. I woke up every day with the knowledge that no one gave a happy fuck about me. Even after all I'd done to be acceptable.
Here's the quote of the day;
"At least two thirds of our miseries spring from human stupidity, human malice and those great motivators and justifiers of malice and stupidity, idealism, dogmatism and proselytizing zeal on behalf of religious or political idols." ~ Aldous Huxley
America held hostage day 1303
Bushism of the day:
"We've had a great weekend here in the land of the enchanted."
—Bush, referring to New Mexico, "The Land of Enchantment"
Source: Federal Document Clearinghouse, "George W. Bush Delivers Remarks on Jobs and Growth in Albuquerque," May 12, 2003
Website of the day; John Eccles on Mind and Brain
http://www.theosophy-nw.org/theosnw/science/prat-bra.htm
I already knew Mrs. B. from working in the office at my high school. I was lucky enough to work there during the 45 minutes I was supposed to be taking P.E.. It was a big relief for me and for the people who had to put up with my complete lack of motor skills. No one wanted me on their team and I was quite willing to oblige. I'd figured out a way to avoid ever participating in any team sports in P.E. But that's another story. I liked Mrs. B. and I thought that since Beloved Teacher recommended her, she must be okay. I couldn't have been more wrong.
Over the next several months, I spent some time telling Mrs. B. everything I thought she could handle. She couldn't handle much. I clearly remember that horrified, looking at a decapitated corpse in a car wreck look she'd get while I related events that barely even affected me at that point. A look of disgust crossed her face and set up residence. I started dissociating the minute I walked into her office. Her reaction to me was an assault that I had to vacate my body in order to tolerate. Her solution to my problems? Oh, come now! Surely you know? That's right, turn to Jesus.
The minute the Jesus thing came up, I knew our relationship was broken beyond repair. Jesus had nothing to do with my life. If Jesus couldn't fix things up for me in the past 17 years, I didn't have any faith he'd see fit to help me now. Furthermore, since Jesus was MIA in my life, I had decided to return the favor. The really sad thing is that I'm certain she didn't recognize how contemptible I found that suggestion. It was an indication of just how completely incapable she was of understanding me or my life circumstances. Did she think I hadn't already tried prayer for years and years? I had, but not a single fucking thing I pleaded for had been granted. Screw Jesus. And Mrs. B. Nonetheless, I dutifully showed up and stopped talking about the stuff that made me want to get up every day, find a gun and kill myself. She got to feel like she wasn't a complete moron and I didn't have to subject my feelings to her idiocy. As I might have guessed, it went downhill from there.
One day, as I went from class to class, I kept having these weird encounters with my teachers. My accelerated English teacher met me at the door to her room, smiling with tears in her eyes, and gently patted me on the back. I was baffled. Then I went to my Chemistry class, which went fine until the end of the class when she asked me to stay a moment after everyone else left. After everyone had vacated the room, she started telling me what a beautiful person I was. It went on like that all day for several days. Finally it dawned on me. Mrs. B. had been sitting her fat ass in the teachers' lounge, telling everyone about the things I worked so hard to keep secret. I was enraged.
It was a watershed moment. There wasn't a fucking thing I could do about any of it. I didn't want everyone in my world to know the humiliating details of my life. I had worked so hard for so long to figure out how to appear like my life was like everyone else's. I was like an alien from a foreign land. Everything had to be re-learned so I could fit in to the normal world. Mrs. B. had just obliterated all of my work. I just knew I didn't want any more pitying looks or, for that matter, those looks that communicated just how icky everyone found the life I was living. Now that they knew.
To this very day, when I think of her, I still want to kill her. I'm sure she had quite a time at her church, patting herself on the back for winning another soul for Jesus. What an idiot.
Somewhere in that time frame, I started to live a double life. I was angry at adults, angry with the "normal" world and I stopped being such a nice girl. Not that I did anything terrible...I didn't even drink. But I felt free to give shit to people I thought deserved it and that included adults. There were teachers whose lives were made a little more miserable by my presence in their class. I refused to hide my contempt. With people I thought were intelligent enough to understand the complexity of my situation, I was still the polite, overachieving, quiet person I had always been.
Beneath the contempt, of course, was just one more heartbreak to add to list of enormous losses I'd already endured. I had been betrayed and humiliated, but I refused to allow anyone to see that they'd touched me in any way. I was forced once again to confront my aloneness in the cosmos. Just like when I was a little girl and I'd try to imagine the vastness of the universe. I rememberd how small and insignificant I was. I woke up every day with the knowledge that no one gave a happy fuck about me. Even after all I'd done to be acceptable.
Here's the quote of the day;
"At least two thirds of our miseries spring from human stupidity, human malice and those great motivators and justifiers of malice and stupidity, idealism, dogmatism and proselytizing zeal on behalf of religious or political idols." ~ Aldous Huxley
America held hostage day 1303
Bushism of the day:
"We've had a great weekend here in the land of the enchanted."
—Bush, referring to New Mexico, "The Land of Enchantment"
Source: Federal Document Clearinghouse, "George W. Bush Delivers Remarks on Jobs and Growth in Albuquerque," May 12, 2003
Website of the day; John Eccles on Mind and Brain
http://www.theosophy-nw.org/theosnw/science/prat-bra.htm
27 April 2005
The Trouble With Adults
My senior year in high school was tough. The older I got, the harder it was to continue to live in my father's house. The harder it was to live with the ways he had already fucked up my life. There were times--quite a few, actually--when I was seriously suicidal. In retrospect, it's interesting that the closer I got to leaving, the more I wanted to die. It was like I just couldn't stand another day or that deep inside, I knew just how far the damage would reach into the future.
My teacher, who had blessed me with her care, got very concerned. She was pretty much the only person who was concerned about me, as usual. I was writing suicidal poems and submitting them to the literary magazine. They all got published. She took it upon herself to take me over to a state social worker (I'm guessing here--she may have been a psychologist) to see if she could keep me alive.
The social worker was a young woman, probably not out of school for very long. I remember she had light brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. I'm sure she was completely unprepared for what I had to say. It wasn't so much that my story was necessarily the worst (although it was very, very bad), but I doubt that most people who've been that fucked over for so long even understand that there was anything wrong with living that way. For those people, it's very difficult to find someone to care for them because pain and terror and sexual corruption don't make for a very appealing kid.
I don't recall how I started the tale. For years, I'd been telling it in one way or another to any adult who'd listen. The results up until then didn't inspire much hope. I told her everything. It took several sessions to get through it all. I'm not sure whether I had completely mastered dissociating at will under all conditions. There were some situations in which I had no control--I dissociated immediately even if I didn't want to. I also don't know which emotion was most visible--my anger or my pain.
So week after week, we trudged through some of the worst stories I had to tell. I liked the young woman; she didn't seem to be immediately repelled or incredulous. Right off the bat, that put her in the top two percent of adults I liked. Understandably, I had a generally negative view of the adult world. Aside from my beloved teacher, I ended up wanting to kill the last adult I'd trusted with my secrets.
I went to talk to my counselor when I was 14. My best friend had talked me into going and was kind enough to go with me. I started out with the old "my friend has a problem blah blah, etc." I wish I could remember the moron counselor's name. Anyway, I went through this wrenching tale and waited for her response. She leaned back in her chair and started telling me that everyone has problems. She herself had problems, the biggest of which was that she was paralyzed on one side of her face. Wow. How could I possibly compete with that? She told me that when she cried, tears only came out of one of her eyes. There's a cross to bear, alright. I had supreme contempt for her. How could she possibly think that compared to the Auschwitz of the life I was living? If I hadn't hated adults before, she definitely gave me a hearty shove in that direction. I still haven't forgiven her.
My point here is that I never found adults to be particularly reliable. Oh my god, I just realized what an understatement that was--it's actually almost funny. Her name just game to me--my social worker's name was Mary. After I'd laid out as much of my life as I could for her examination, she asked me what I wanted to do. I honestly didn't know there was going to be something I'd have to do. The deal was that I had to allow Mary to tell Child Protective Services (or whatever it was called then) or we were through with the sessions. It was like I'd been hit in the face with a brick. I was terrified of telling anyone because I knew that, if I wasn't taken away, I'd have created an even more dangerous situation for myself. I knew exactly what would be waiting for me at home and, even though I might have wanted to die, I wanted it to be as painless as possible. That would most certainly not be my dad's way.
Quote of the day:
"If you see a whole thing - it seems that it's always beautiful. Planets, lives.... But close up a world's all dirt and rocks. And day to day, life's a hard job, you get tired, you lose the pattern." ~ Ursual K. Leguin
America held hostage day 1302
Bushism of the day:
"Speaking about barbaric regimes, we must deal with probably one of the most—not probably—one of the most real threats we face, and that is the idea of a barbaric regime teaming up with a terrorist network and providing weapons of mass destruction to hold the United States and our allies and our friends blackmail."
Source: FDCH Political Transcripts, "George W. Bush Participates in Alexander for Senate Luncheon," Sept. 17, 2002
Website of the Day: Dr. Andrew Weil's Self Healing
http://www.drweilselfhealing.com/default.asp
My teacher, who had blessed me with her care, got very concerned. She was pretty much the only person who was concerned about me, as usual. I was writing suicidal poems and submitting them to the literary magazine. They all got published. She took it upon herself to take me over to a state social worker (I'm guessing here--she may have been a psychologist) to see if she could keep me alive.
The social worker was a young woman, probably not out of school for very long. I remember she had light brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. I'm sure she was completely unprepared for what I had to say. It wasn't so much that my story was necessarily the worst (although it was very, very bad), but I doubt that most people who've been that fucked over for so long even understand that there was anything wrong with living that way. For those people, it's very difficult to find someone to care for them because pain and terror and sexual corruption don't make for a very appealing kid.
I don't recall how I started the tale. For years, I'd been telling it in one way or another to any adult who'd listen. The results up until then didn't inspire much hope. I told her everything. It took several sessions to get through it all. I'm not sure whether I had completely mastered dissociating at will under all conditions. There were some situations in which I had no control--I dissociated immediately even if I didn't want to. I also don't know which emotion was most visible--my anger or my pain.
So week after week, we trudged through some of the worst stories I had to tell. I liked the young woman; she didn't seem to be immediately repelled or incredulous. Right off the bat, that put her in the top two percent of adults I liked. Understandably, I had a generally negative view of the adult world. Aside from my beloved teacher, I ended up wanting to kill the last adult I'd trusted with my secrets.
I went to talk to my counselor when I was 14. My best friend had talked me into going and was kind enough to go with me. I started out with the old "my friend has a problem blah blah, etc." I wish I could remember the moron counselor's name. Anyway, I went through this wrenching tale and waited for her response. She leaned back in her chair and started telling me that everyone has problems. She herself had problems, the biggest of which was that she was paralyzed on one side of her face. Wow. How could I possibly compete with that? She told me that when she cried, tears only came out of one of her eyes. There's a cross to bear, alright. I had supreme contempt for her. How could she possibly think that compared to the Auschwitz of the life I was living? If I hadn't hated adults before, she definitely gave me a hearty shove in that direction. I still haven't forgiven her.
My point here is that I never found adults to be particularly reliable. Oh my god, I just realized what an understatement that was--it's actually almost funny. Her name just game to me--my social worker's name was Mary. After I'd laid out as much of my life as I could for her examination, she asked me what I wanted to do. I honestly didn't know there was going to be something I'd have to do. The deal was that I had to allow Mary to tell Child Protective Services (or whatever it was called then) or we were through with the sessions. It was like I'd been hit in the face with a brick. I was terrified of telling anyone because I knew that, if I wasn't taken away, I'd have created an even more dangerous situation for myself. I knew exactly what would be waiting for me at home and, even though I might have wanted to die, I wanted it to be as painless as possible. That would most certainly not be my dad's way.
Quote of the day:
"If you see a whole thing - it seems that it's always beautiful. Planets, lives.... But close up a world's all dirt and rocks. And day to day, life's a hard job, you get tired, you lose the pattern." ~ Ursual K. Leguin
America held hostage day 1302
Bushism of the day:
"Speaking about barbaric regimes, we must deal with probably one of the most—not probably—one of the most real threats we face, and that is the idea of a barbaric regime teaming up with a terrorist network and providing weapons of mass destruction to hold the United States and our allies and our friends blackmail."
Source: FDCH Political Transcripts, "George W. Bush Participates in Alexander for Senate Luncheon," Sept. 17, 2002
Website of the Day: Dr. Andrew Weil's Self Healing
http://www.drweilselfhealing.com/default.asp
Another Reason Why Work Makes Me Want to Beat My Head Against a Wall
I used to be the person at my office who was responsible for staff supervision, until I got sick of not getting support from anyone and stopped doing it. (Yes, I can do that.) So now, four years later, the two people who are supposed to be supervising have found that it's infinitely easier just to talk to each other (whine and complain and generally get worked up) about problems with the people they are supposed to be supervising. Or they talk to me. If there's a problem with one of the staff members, no one tells them so guess what? That's right! They keep on having the same problems over and over and over. Can you see how this could drive me crazy?
The current manifestation of this problem is with Karen. She sent an email several weeks ago to S (yes, one of the supervisors), asking her to talk with J. regarding a raise (who is S's supervisor). S. then forwarded that email to me, asking how I thought she should handle it, given the fact that when J. hears about this, his head is going to explode. I wrote her back with several options. I did that because S. is a friend I've worked with for a good decade or so. It doesn't really matter what the options were, but suffice it to say that I provided her with a couple of ways to sidestep the issue and a couple of ways to be honest. I was fairly certain that honesty would not be the chosen route, since it would involve a certain amount of confrontation and, hence, dealing with Karen when she started to cry. Karen's a big cryer and I can't think of anything more likely to cause her to cry than actual constructive criticism.
Yesterday, I was sitting in S's office when she brought up the dreaded raise problem. She had just decided to ignore the email. I don't know--maybe she thought Karen would take a hint. Well she thought wrong. Karen got tired of waiting and forwarded the original email to J and the owner of the company. As we discussed this turn of events, J. walks in and S. has to tell him what we were talking about. The first words out of his mouth were, "Well, she doesn't want to hear from me." Nothing that Karen does makes him happy. There's absolutely nothing positive he can say about her. So what's the solution? Well, he could actually think about it and find specific areas in which she should improve, but oh no, that would be too hard.
This morning when I'm talking to S., J. starts again. "She doesn't want to hear from me because she never does anything right." I suggested that since she doesn't do anything adequately, maybe now is a good time to give her oh i don't know some idea that they're unhappy with her work. Oh no. Heavens no. He tells S. to deal with it.
Doesn't he get it? S. doesn't want to deal with it. They'd much rather sit around a whine and complain about her (and several other people on staff) to me and to each other. Oh my God this drives me absolutely fucking insane!
Okay, that's it. I'm through complaining for the day (I think). We're having happy admin professional day today at lunch. Oh boy. That'll be fun.
The current manifestation of this problem is with Karen. She sent an email several weeks ago to S (yes, one of the supervisors), asking her to talk with J. regarding a raise (who is S's supervisor). S. then forwarded that email to me, asking how I thought she should handle it, given the fact that when J. hears about this, his head is going to explode. I wrote her back with several options. I did that because S. is a friend I've worked with for a good decade or so. It doesn't really matter what the options were, but suffice it to say that I provided her with a couple of ways to sidestep the issue and a couple of ways to be honest. I was fairly certain that honesty would not be the chosen route, since it would involve a certain amount of confrontation and, hence, dealing with Karen when she started to cry. Karen's a big cryer and I can't think of anything more likely to cause her to cry than actual constructive criticism.
Yesterday, I was sitting in S's office when she brought up the dreaded raise problem. She had just decided to ignore the email. I don't know--maybe she thought Karen would take a hint. Well she thought wrong. Karen got tired of waiting and forwarded the original email to J and the owner of the company. As we discussed this turn of events, J. walks in and S. has to tell him what we were talking about. The first words out of his mouth were, "Well, she doesn't want to hear from me." Nothing that Karen does makes him happy. There's absolutely nothing positive he can say about her. So what's the solution? Well, he could actually think about it and find specific areas in which she should improve, but oh no, that would be too hard.
This morning when I'm talking to S., J. starts again. "She doesn't want to hear from me because she never does anything right." I suggested that since she doesn't do anything adequately, maybe now is a good time to give her oh i don't know some idea that they're unhappy with her work. Oh no. Heavens no. He tells S. to deal with it.
Doesn't he get it? S. doesn't want to deal with it. They'd much rather sit around a whine and complain about her (and several other people on staff) to me and to each other. Oh my God this drives me absolutely fucking insane!
Okay, that's it. I'm through complaining for the day (I think). We're having happy admin professional day today at lunch. Oh boy. That'll be fun.
26 April 2005
Feral Kitties and a Movie Option
Just a little catching up to do. The guy that my boss was trying to impress by redoing the office and actually tidying up his own office (achieved by just cramming things willy nilly into cardboard boxes) arrived for a visit last week. Here's the real absurdity: After all of that effort, my boss decided not to hire him. God, I'm afraid to think about what will happen when they locate another candidate.
On the feral kitty front, one of our oldest kitties finally allowed me to pet him. He was born about five years ago and he's come and gone several times since then. He'll come by for a month or so and then leave for months at a time. Then he'll turn up again. He's been with us now for several months. He's absolutely beautiful--gold with a leonine head. He's a very big guy and, much like the other big guy (my dog) in my life, he's not that interested in moving around too much. For the longest time, if I didn't manage to toss his treats directly to him, he just was not going to get them. Even if my aim was only a couple of inches away from him. Today, I was handing out treats and he came within an arm's length of me. I gave him his treats and just reached over and petted him. After he finished his treats, he smelled my hand and decided he'd move a little farther away. As soon as I started handing out more treats, he came right over and let me pet him again. This is a major accomplishment and I'm very touched that he trusts me.
I've been immersed in basketball since Sunday. My old friends would never guess that I've got a major basketball jones. I used to be adamantly anti-sports of all kinds. I don't understand why I can't have a basketball playoff leave. Well, while we're at it, I think a March Madness leave would also be nice.
Hubby has had three queries regarding optioning one of his books for a movie. No one is getting too excited yet because these things may not necessarily pan out. The book has been optioned twice (I think, maybe three times) before. Obviously, they never made a movie. Hubby would like for that to hapen, but he's pretty happy with just getting option cash.
I've been getting a reprieve from eating at home this week. Man, once you have a taste of real food, it's hard to go back to jerky.
Here's the quote of the day;
"If man could be crossed with the cat, it would improve man but deteriorate the cat." ~ Mark Twain
America held hostage day 1301
Bushism of the day:
"Oftentimes, we live in a processed world—you know, people focus on the process and not results."
—Bush, speaking on the Middle East peace process
Source: Public Papers of the Presidents, "Interview With Print Journalists," June 2, 2003
Website of the day; Investigating New Imperialism
http://www.williambowles.info/
On the feral kitty front, one of our oldest kitties finally allowed me to pet him. He was born about five years ago and he's come and gone several times since then. He'll come by for a month or so and then leave for months at a time. Then he'll turn up again. He's been with us now for several months. He's absolutely beautiful--gold with a leonine head. He's a very big guy and, much like the other big guy (my dog) in my life, he's not that interested in moving around too much. For the longest time, if I didn't manage to toss his treats directly to him, he just was not going to get them. Even if my aim was only a couple of inches away from him. Today, I was handing out treats and he came within an arm's length of me. I gave him his treats and just reached over and petted him. After he finished his treats, he smelled my hand and decided he'd move a little farther away. As soon as I started handing out more treats, he came right over and let me pet him again. This is a major accomplishment and I'm very touched that he trusts me.
I've been immersed in basketball since Sunday. My old friends would never guess that I've got a major basketball jones. I used to be adamantly anti-sports of all kinds. I don't understand why I can't have a basketball playoff leave. Well, while we're at it, I think a March Madness leave would also be nice.
Hubby has had three queries regarding optioning one of his books for a movie. No one is getting too excited yet because these things may not necessarily pan out. The book has been optioned twice (I think, maybe three times) before. Obviously, they never made a movie. Hubby would like for that to hapen, but he's pretty happy with just getting option cash.
I've been getting a reprieve from eating at home this week. Man, once you have a taste of real food, it's hard to go back to jerky.
Here's the quote of the day;
"If man could be crossed with the cat, it would improve man but deteriorate the cat." ~ Mark Twain
America held hostage day 1301
Bushism of the day:
"Oftentimes, we live in a processed world—you know, people focus on the process and not results."
—Bush, speaking on the Middle East peace process
Source: Public Papers of the Presidents, "Interview With Print Journalists," June 2, 2003
Website of the day; Investigating New Imperialism
http://www.williambowles.info/
21 April 2005
Day Trip to hell
Darkness everywhere today. Driving back from dropping four babies and a fierce mom kitty at the vet, "Low Spark of High Heeled Boys," Traffic, 1973. The last time I heard that song I was standing on a balcony in college, having been unceremoniously dumped by my boyfriend. It was after I'd been raped and the rejection was somehow more than I could bear.
It was less about him than about my personal history. I was only 19 and I couldn't see it then. The ways my early years stole from me the possibility of uncontaminated love. Virtually every thing I did was infected with the past.
It's just been one of those weeks when darkness has overtaken me. I'm still taking antidepressants, but sometimes they don't help at all. I'm not sure why. Well, there are so many reasons. I miss my friend who died last year. Musculoskeletal spasm, always good for a little emotional day trip to hell. I don't know. It doesn't do me much good to speculate and examine.
It was less about him than about my personal history. I was only 19 and I couldn't see it then. The ways my early years stole from me the possibility of uncontaminated love. Virtually every thing I did was infected with the past.
It's just been one of those weeks when darkness has overtaken me. I'm still taking antidepressants, but sometimes they don't help at all. I'm not sure why. Well, there are so many reasons. I miss my friend who died last year. Musculoskeletal spasm, always good for a little emotional day trip to hell. I don't know. It doesn't do me much good to speculate and examine.
20 April 2005
Rushing into Darkness
In 1968 on an empty two-lane highway, I was riding in the backseat of my dad's Candy Apple Red Thunderbird. I had rolled the windows down in an attempt to pretend I was anywhere but there. As usual, I wasn't very effective at blocking out reality. As the cool, humid night air whipped my hair around my face, in between thinking up new reasons to hate my dad, i wrote a poem. I didn't need any new reasons to hate him. I had plenty already.
We were coming back from Kountze, Texas. A small, red-necked town located squarely in the anus of Texas. I even hated the way it sounded. My father had insisted I come with him, for reasons I can't figure out to this day. I could speculate, but I won't because speculation will only lead me to some conclusions I'd really rather not dwell on. Anyway, on the outskirts of this podunk town, we turned down a dirt road. We hadn't gone very far before I saw an abandoned house in a clearing up ahead. There weren't any other houses around, just trees and underbrush. The windows in the house were all gone and I don't think it even had a door left. My dad parked the car and then I got it.
He was meeting his 17-year old wife there. I was immediately enraged....that he had brought me along, that he was married to someone only three years older than I, enraged that I had probably believed she was out of my life for good. Right up until that moment. There she was, waiting for him.
They went off into the woods to fuck. Pretty romantic, right? So what was I supposed to do? There definitely wasn't any television or radio. I hadn't brought a book along for some reason, probably because he had lied to me about where we were going. He must have lied because otherwise I most assuredly wouldn't have agreed to come. I hated her. I hated him.
I explored the empty house and came upon some letters left in a closet. I can't imagine why they were still there; the house had obviously been abandoned for some time. They were love letters written by a married woman who was carrying on an affair. Okay, I could be mistaken about that. It just all seems a little too coincidental.
I hung around, thinking about how much I wanted to murder my father. That's not hyperbole. If I had known of a way to do it so that I wouldn't have gotten caught, if I'd had the means and the opportunity, I would have killed him. Have no doubt about that. Luckily, I didn't have any of those three things, so I spent a lot of time nursing my anger and hatred. To this day, when I think about these memories, I'm almost overwhelmed by the intensity of my anger. As I reach back into the heart of the nightmare I used to live every single fucking day of my life, I want to back away. The only way out of pain is to walk directly through it.
They wandered back after some time. More kissing and hugging. I hate you, hate you, hate you. I hope you die and burn in hell. I hope your dick falls off. It was time to go. I got in the back seat of the car, knowing that I could erase my present circumstances from consciousness only if he wasn't sitting there beside me, a gigantic piece of stinking shit. I think it pissed him off that I wouldn't sit in the front seat. Excellent. My father hadn't hit me for a couple of years and he'd already isolated me from my friends who knew about the situation, so I wasn't too concerned about his anger. At that point, if he'd killed me, it would have been a relief. I had nothing to lose, so I maintained my position in the back seat and proceeded to ignore him.
I composed a poem. All I remember now is the lines, "We are rushing into darkness, we are rushing into nowhere." Scant comfort at the time.
Menu recap from yesterday: Burgers and canned sweet potatoes.
Here's the quote of the day:
"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations." ~ Anais Nin
America held hostage day 1,925
Bushism of the day:
"I'm going to spend a lot of time on Social Security. I enjoy it. I enjoy taking on the issue. I guess, it's the Mother in me." —Washington D.C., April 14, 2005
Important note:For more defining Bush moments, please check here: http://slate.msn.com/id/76886/
Website of the day:
CALM Research Center
http://www.calm.com.au/
We were coming back from Kountze, Texas. A small, red-necked town located squarely in the anus of Texas. I even hated the way it sounded. My father had insisted I come with him, for reasons I can't figure out to this day. I could speculate, but I won't because speculation will only lead me to some conclusions I'd really rather not dwell on. Anyway, on the outskirts of this podunk town, we turned down a dirt road. We hadn't gone very far before I saw an abandoned house in a clearing up ahead. There weren't any other houses around, just trees and underbrush. The windows in the house were all gone and I don't think it even had a door left. My dad parked the car and then I got it.
He was meeting his 17-year old wife there. I was immediately enraged....that he had brought me along, that he was married to someone only three years older than I, enraged that I had probably believed she was out of my life for good. Right up until that moment. There she was, waiting for him.
They went off into the woods to fuck. Pretty romantic, right? So what was I supposed to do? There definitely wasn't any television or radio. I hadn't brought a book along for some reason, probably because he had lied to me about where we were going. He must have lied because otherwise I most assuredly wouldn't have agreed to come. I hated her. I hated him.
I explored the empty house and came upon some letters left in a closet. I can't imagine why they were still there; the house had obviously been abandoned for some time. They were love letters written by a married woman who was carrying on an affair. Okay, I could be mistaken about that. It just all seems a little too coincidental.
I hung around, thinking about how much I wanted to murder my father. That's not hyperbole. If I had known of a way to do it so that I wouldn't have gotten caught, if I'd had the means and the opportunity, I would have killed him. Have no doubt about that. Luckily, I didn't have any of those three things, so I spent a lot of time nursing my anger and hatred. To this day, when I think about these memories, I'm almost overwhelmed by the intensity of my anger. As I reach back into the heart of the nightmare I used to live every single fucking day of my life, I want to back away. The only way out of pain is to walk directly through it.
They wandered back after some time. More kissing and hugging. I hate you, hate you, hate you. I hope you die and burn in hell. I hope your dick falls off. It was time to go. I got in the back seat of the car, knowing that I could erase my present circumstances from consciousness only if he wasn't sitting there beside me, a gigantic piece of stinking shit. I think it pissed him off that I wouldn't sit in the front seat. Excellent. My father hadn't hit me for a couple of years and he'd already isolated me from my friends who knew about the situation, so I wasn't too concerned about his anger. At that point, if he'd killed me, it would have been a relief. I had nothing to lose, so I maintained my position in the back seat and proceeded to ignore him.
I composed a poem. All I remember now is the lines, "We are rushing into darkness, we are rushing into nowhere." Scant comfort at the time.
Menu recap from yesterday: Burgers and canned sweet potatoes.
Here's the quote of the day:
"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations." ~ Anais Nin
America held hostage day 1,925
Bushism of the day:
"I'm going to spend a lot of time on Social Security. I enjoy it. I enjoy taking on the issue. I guess, it's the Mother in me." —Washington D.C., April 14, 2005
Important note:For more defining Bush moments, please check here: http://slate.msn.com/id/76886/
Website of the day:
CALM Research Center
http://www.calm.com.au/
18 April 2005
It's Hard to Hurt Me Now
As of last Thursday morning, I've been having a musculoskeletal spasm. Yes, it hurts as bad as it sounds. Luckily, it's consideraly better than the ones I used to have when I'd be lying in bed for five to seven days with a crushing headache. In the bad old days, it felt like there was absolutely no padding around any of my skeleton. Everything hurt. The current manifestation includes pain whenever I move, but it's defintely bearable. Oddly enough, people keep asking me if my back hurts. I guess I'm moving a bit more gingerly than usual. The spasm has lasted through the weekend and I'm still in a moderate amount of pain. That might actually be a lot of pain for everyone else. I have a very high tolerance for pain. I guess you could say that's one of the up sides to having been abused. It's pretty hard to hurt me now. Woo-hoo.
Early Sunday morning (5:00 a.m.) I heard Ruski making some noise in the living room. It sounded like he just needed to have some help getting up. I went in to check on him, lifted him up and he started going into seizure. This one was probably a grand mal seizure because his limbs were moving violently, he lost control of his bladder and peed on me, made some weird vocal sounds and was frothing a bit at the mouth. The brilliant one here was afraid he was going to bite his tongue, so I just stuck my fingers in his mouth. He bit my finger instead. It was over very quickly and I brought him some food and water, thinking that might make him feel better. He seemed to be better then and I debated spending the rest of the night on the sofa, but ultimately I decided to go to bed since I could hear him if anything else occurred. He moved around just a little after I went to bed and, each time, I called out to him so that he would know I hadn't completely abandoned him. It was one of the worst things imaginable, feeling so helpless when he needed me. He's been fine since then and has been eating regularly. His doctor is not helpful at all. She thinks he has too many symptoms. (What???) I'm considering switching to another vet I've come to know because of the feral kitties.
Okay, speaking of dogs and cats, that new program called "Showdog Moms and Dads" is just the sickest thing I've seen lately. (fyi: calling something "sick" isn't necessarily bad to me) Having seen those people, who treat their dogs like children (or better than their children in one case), I'm a lot saner than that. It's funny really--I take enough psychiatric medication to kill a proverbial horse, but even without medication I'm more mentally healthy than they.
Running a little late today, so no more time to write. Tomorrow. Here's the quote of the day:
"The secret source of humour itself is not joy, but sorrow. There is no humour in heaven." ~ Mark Twain
America held hostage day 1923
Bushism of the day:
"If they pre-decease or die early, there's an asset base to be able to pass on to a loved one."—On Social Security money stored in private accounts, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, March 30, 2005
Website of the day: Contents @ the informal education homepage
http://www.infed.org/
Early Sunday morning (5:00 a.m.) I heard Ruski making some noise in the living room. It sounded like he just needed to have some help getting up. I went in to check on him, lifted him up and he started going into seizure. This one was probably a grand mal seizure because his limbs were moving violently, he lost control of his bladder and peed on me, made some weird vocal sounds and was frothing a bit at the mouth. The brilliant one here was afraid he was going to bite his tongue, so I just stuck my fingers in his mouth. He bit my finger instead. It was over very quickly and I brought him some food and water, thinking that might make him feel better. He seemed to be better then and I debated spending the rest of the night on the sofa, but ultimately I decided to go to bed since I could hear him if anything else occurred. He moved around just a little after I went to bed and, each time, I called out to him so that he would know I hadn't completely abandoned him. It was one of the worst things imaginable, feeling so helpless when he needed me. He's been fine since then and has been eating regularly. His doctor is not helpful at all. She thinks he has too many symptoms. (What???) I'm considering switching to another vet I've come to know because of the feral kitties.
Okay, speaking of dogs and cats, that new program called "Showdog Moms and Dads" is just the sickest thing I've seen lately. (fyi: calling something "sick" isn't necessarily bad to me) Having seen those people, who treat their dogs like children (or better than their children in one case), I'm a lot saner than that. It's funny really--I take enough psychiatric medication to kill a proverbial horse, but even without medication I'm more mentally healthy than they.
Running a little late today, so no more time to write. Tomorrow. Here's the quote of the day:
"The secret source of humour itself is not joy, but sorrow. There is no humour in heaven." ~ Mark Twain
America held hostage day 1923
Bushism of the day:
"If they pre-decease or die early, there's an asset base to be able to pass on to a loved one."—On Social Security money stored in private accounts, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, March 30, 2005
Website of the day: Contents @ the informal education homepage
http://www.infed.org/
15 April 2005
The Ultimate Way, Yuan-wu (1063-1135)
This quote is from DailyZen.com. It's a lovely site and includes commentary on the lengthy quote below. It's definitely worth a visit!
The ultimate Way is simple and easy, yet profoundly deep. From the beginning it does not set up steps. Penetrate directly through to freedom and make it so that there is not the slightest obstruction at any time, twenty-four hours a day, with the realization pervading in all directions.Then your heart will be clear, comprehending the present and the past. Picking up a blade of grass, you can use it for the body of Buddha; taking the body of the Buddha, you can use it as a blade of grass. From the first there is no superiority or inferiority, no grasping or rejection.
When your insight penetrates freely and its application is clear, then even in the middle of complexity and complication, you yourself can move freely without sticking or lingering anywhere. Thus, without setting up any rigid views or maintaining any state, respond freely: "when the wind blows, the grasses bend."
When you enter enlightenment in actual practice, you penetrate to the profound source, cultivating this until you realize freedom of mind, harboring nothing in your heart. Did the Zen founder actually "bring" this teaching when he came to China from India? He just pointed directly to the inherent nature in every one of us, clear and clean, to not be stained by so much false knowledge and false consciousness, delusory conceptions, and judgments.
Study must be true study. Open your heart, without the slightest sense of the ordinary or the holy and see for yourself. When you do not seek outside, real truth is always there, resting peacefully, immutable. No one can block this realization, not even a thousand sages or teachers; having attained a pure, clean and naked state, you pass through to the other side of the empty eon. Why even speak of seeking from others?
The Zen masters were all like this, ever since the founders. Take the example of the Sixth Patriarch: he was an illiterate woodcutter in south China, but when he came and met the Fifth Patriarch, at their first meeting he opened his heart and clearly passed through to freedom.
Once you merge your tracks in the stream of Zen, spend the days silencing your mind and studying with your whole being, knowing this great cause is not attained from anyone else. It is just a matter of bearing up bravely and strongly, day by day dropping away, like pure gold smelted and refined thousands of times.
This work lies in one's conduct: in everyday life's varied mix of myriad circumstances, in the dusty hubbub, amidst the ups and downs of situations. Be present and clear without being too distracted by any of it. Actively transmute confusion into clarity. Keep to the middle way, immune to outside influences; this is your
On reaching emptiness, there is no duality between noise and quiet. Even when it comes to extraordinary words, marvelous statements, unique acts, and absolute perspectives, you just level them with one measure. Ultimately they have no right or wrong, it's all in how you use them.
When you have continued grinding and polishing yourself like this for a long time, you will be free in the midst of birth and death and look upon society's useless honor and ruinous profit as like dust in the wind, phantoms in dreams, flowers in the sky. Passing unattached through the world, would you not then be a great saint who has left the dusts?
When Zen study reaches this point, one is flexible, compassionate, and empty, not susceptible to human deceptions.
Yuan-wu (1063-1135)
— Excerpted from "The Five Houses of Zen" Trans by Thomas Cleary
13 April 2005
What's for Dinner?
My husband has taken up cooking the past couple of weeks. When I wasn't working, I used to cook a lot, including making fresh bread (without using a breadmaker) every day. Since I've been working, I have absolutely no enthusiasm for coming home and working some more. My husband is home all day every day. We generally go out every night for food--nothing special nor very pricey, though. Because of a cash flow crunch of late, we've been eating at home for the past couple of weeks. The only problem? My husband doesn't really know how to cook. What an adventure it's been.
Last night we had hamburgers. By that, I mean hamburger meat stuck between two slices of bread. Mustard and mayo don't exist in hubby's diet, so he didn't get any when he went to the grocery store. We also had ranch style beans. That was it. Monday night we had pork chops, very thinly sliced, which my husband grilled and grilled and grilled. We ended up with what could only be defined as pork chop jerky. Hubby loves chewy meat. With out jerky we had canned fruit cocktail with fresh apples and bananas added in. Sunday night we had a turkey sandwich and vegetable soup. Did I mention that I wanted to lose some weight? Well, it looks like that won't be difficult. Unfortunately, I sometimes get hungry right around 9:00 in the evening. My friends have suggested that I consume massive quantities when I go out for breakfast with my mom on the weekends. Someone here brought an entire box of fresh chocolate chip cookies. Oh yum! Normally I have a rule about not eating at work, but this week I'm breaking it.
I thought there was a lull in the downstairs hammering, sawing and generally banging stuff around, but I hear they're back at it. Can you hear me screaming and beating my head against the wall?
When I was on vacation a couple of weeks ago, I planted seeds for California poppies, bachelor buttons, morning glories and four o'clocks. I noticed some of them have germinated. That's a surprise because I always plant directly into the garden as opposed to starting them in little containers then transplanting. I also planted some bulbs-- Asiatic lillies and Lillium. One of those is sticking its head out of the ground already. One of the other good things about not eating out is that I have plenty of time to water the new plants every day.
That's enough for today. Here's the quote of the day:
"Trust only movement. Life happens at the level of events, not of words. Trust movement." ~ Alfred Adler
America held hostage day 1918
Bushism of the day:
"We need to apply 21st-century information technology to the health care field. We need to have our medical records put on the I.T."—Collinsville, Ill., Jan. 5, 2005
Website of the day: Common Dreams
http://www.commondreams.org/index.htm
Last night we had hamburgers. By that, I mean hamburger meat stuck between two slices of bread. Mustard and mayo don't exist in hubby's diet, so he didn't get any when he went to the grocery store. We also had ranch style beans. That was it. Monday night we had pork chops, very thinly sliced, which my husband grilled and grilled and grilled. We ended up with what could only be defined as pork chop jerky. Hubby loves chewy meat. With out jerky we had canned fruit cocktail with fresh apples and bananas added in. Sunday night we had a turkey sandwich and vegetable soup. Did I mention that I wanted to lose some weight? Well, it looks like that won't be difficult. Unfortunately, I sometimes get hungry right around 9:00 in the evening. My friends have suggested that I consume massive quantities when I go out for breakfast with my mom on the weekends. Someone here brought an entire box of fresh chocolate chip cookies. Oh yum! Normally I have a rule about not eating at work, but this week I'm breaking it.
I thought there was a lull in the downstairs hammering, sawing and generally banging stuff around, but I hear they're back at it. Can you hear me screaming and beating my head against the wall?
When I was on vacation a couple of weeks ago, I planted seeds for California poppies, bachelor buttons, morning glories and four o'clocks. I noticed some of them have germinated. That's a surprise because I always plant directly into the garden as opposed to starting them in little containers then transplanting. I also planted some bulbs-- Asiatic lillies and Lillium. One of those is sticking its head out of the ground already. One of the other good things about not eating out is that I have plenty of time to water the new plants every day.
That's enough for today. Here's the quote of the day:
"Trust only movement. Life happens at the level of events, not of words. Trust movement." ~ Alfred Adler
America held hostage day 1918
Bushism of the day:
"We need to apply 21st-century information technology to the health care field. We need to have our medical records put on the I.T."—Collinsville, Ill., Jan. 5, 2005
Website of the day: Common Dreams
http://www.commondreams.org/index.htm
Through the Looking Glass
So the noise and nasty odors continue as the work crews tear up kitchen flooring and replace the decking, paint, refinish all of the woodwork on the stairs, paint upstairs and in the kitchen and plant new stuff in the patio area. I had to meditate for an hour last night to restore some semblance of equanimity in body and mind. I passed my boss on the stairs this morning and he told me they'll all be finished tomorrow. I just hope all of us can endure it. Actually, I just hope I can endure it. I'm feeling selfish today.
The other big drama on the work front has to do with one of our off-site employees. This person is a craftsperson who's worked for us for around a decade now. He recently worked at one of our branch sites in a different state. When he returned, his previous position had already been filled so we moved him to a different site. The employee, let's just call him The Ladies' Man, used to be a foreman but there weren't any similar positions available. Normally that would mean he would have to take a pay cut, but because he's been with the company for so long, the owner of the company decided to continue to pay him foreman wages. Ladies' Man has always done a great job for our clients and has grown considerably in leadership skills.
Ladies' Man's supervisor, T., told our one of our accounting people that J.A.'s wages should be at the journeyman level (less than a foreman). Information Superhighway, in the acounting office, said okay to that, even though the owner directed her to pay the other rate. The owner doesn't like to have confrontations with employees, so it's easier for him to just make an end run around the people who are apt to put up an argument.
For some reason, T. decided to open Ladies' Man's pay envelope when he delivered the paychecks this week. He noticed right away that the pay level was not what he expected. T. arrived this morning on the war path. He went to The Superhighway and told her that she had no right to pay Ladies' Man at the higher rate. He insinuated that The Superhighway had made a unilateral decision about the pay rate and accused her of always defending The Man. Superhighway pointed out that she defends lots of other employees, too. Finally, she told him to take it up with the owner of the company. The conversation ended there.
When the owner arrived, Superhighway informed him of the situation. The owner told her to take away the extra hourly pay and just start paying The Man a $200 car allowance for the use of his truck. That ended up being even more than he was being paid before. Superhighway said she'd do that, but insisted that Owner has to talk to T. himself.
My boss does not want to talk to T. That's likely to be unpleasant and my boss really doesn't like unpleasantness. That doesn't seem to be a problem right now because T. left the office and hasn't returned.
I have never, ever worked at a company in which the boss has gone to such great lengths to avoid saying what's on his mind. This isn't an across the board kind of thing. If an employee falls from grace for one reason or another, my boss will not only be confrontational, he'll manufacture ways to annoy or otherwise torment the person. Welcome to life through the looking-glass. More later...if I have the fortitude.
The other big drama on the work front has to do with one of our off-site employees. This person is a craftsperson who's worked for us for around a decade now. He recently worked at one of our branch sites in a different state. When he returned, his previous position had already been filled so we moved him to a different site. The employee, let's just call him The Ladies' Man, used to be a foreman but there weren't any similar positions available. Normally that would mean he would have to take a pay cut, but because he's been with the company for so long, the owner of the company decided to continue to pay him foreman wages. Ladies' Man has always done a great job for our clients and has grown considerably in leadership skills.
Ladies' Man's supervisor, T., told our one of our accounting people that J.A.'s wages should be at the journeyman level (less than a foreman). Information Superhighway, in the acounting office, said okay to that, even though the owner directed her to pay the other rate. The owner doesn't like to have confrontations with employees, so it's easier for him to just make an end run around the people who are apt to put up an argument.
For some reason, T. decided to open Ladies' Man's pay envelope when he delivered the paychecks this week. He noticed right away that the pay level was not what he expected. T. arrived this morning on the war path. He went to The Superhighway and told her that she had no right to pay Ladies' Man at the higher rate. He insinuated that The Superhighway had made a unilateral decision about the pay rate and accused her of always defending The Man. Superhighway pointed out that she defends lots of other employees, too. Finally, she told him to take it up with the owner of the company. The conversation ended there.
When the owner arrived, Superhighway informed him of the situation. The owner told her to take away the extra hourly pay and just start paying The Man a $200 car allowance for the use of his truck. That ended up being even more than he was being paid before. Superhighway said she'd do that, but insisted that Owner has to talk to T. himself.
My boss does not want to talk to T. That's likely to be unpleasant and my boss really doesn't like unpleasantness. That doesn't seem to be a problem right now because T. left the office and hasn't returned.
I have never, ever worked at a company in which the boss has gone to such great lengths to avoid saying what's on his mind. This isn't an across the board kind of thing. If an employee falls from grace for one reason or another, my boss will not only be confrontational, he'll manufacture ways to annoy or otherwise torment the person. Welcome to life through the looking-glass. More later...if I have the fortitude.
12 April 2005
Manifesting Genghis Khan
Someone once asked my teacher Maezumi Roshi, "If all beings are
Buddha, how about someone like Genghis Khan or Adolf Hitler? Are they
Buddhas, too?" What Maezumi Roshi answered was interesting and
challenging. He said, "When you start a painting, you have a blank
piece of paper, a brush, and ink. With that blank piece of paper,
everything is possible. The minute we start painting, we create one
of the countless possibilities. That is our life, moment to moment."
His point is that the whole spectrum of human existence exists in
every one of us. We have the potential to manifest Genghis Khan, and
we have the potential to manifest the Buddha, and everything in
between. And we do.
We are constantly painting. Life is constantly unfolding. Definitely,
my life of thirty years ago is not what my life is today. Everything
changes. Each one of us is in a constant state of becoming. Nothing
is fixed. That is the most exciting thing about this life. No matter
how bad it is, it is going to change. No matter how good it is, it is
going to change. And we never know which way it is going to unfold.
It keeps the hair on the back of your neck erect. You have to be
alert, ready, and open.
--The Heart of Being: Moral and Ethical Teachings of Zen Buddhism,
John Daido Loori
11 April 2005
As If the Fact That It's Monday Wasn't Enough
Just like virtually everyone else in America, I hate Mondays. When I woke up this morning, I considered calling in sick, something I think about every Monday. I dismissed the thought when I remembered that I might actually need that sick leave day at some point. I came to work this morning, a little dazed still from the weekend and already wishing I could schedule in some nap time later in the day.
The day started out fine. I chatted up some of my co-workers, did a little corporate bonding and settled into the day. Shortly after lunch, I noticed some tumult in the break room downstairs. My boss (and owner of the company) arrived in a manic mode today. I don't use that word lightly--he actually seems to be bipolar, though I'm not sure he's received that specific diagnosis. If he hasn't, it's just because bipolar people are often misdiagnosed. We all hate it when Owner arrives all wound up; it never fails that a tidal wave follows in his wake.
Today he decided to completely redesign the patio downstairs, disrupting the (somewhat) feral kitties who live there. He called me up and ran his plan by me. He wanted to know if it was okay with me. Well, no. It's not okay. It's bound to flip out the kitties, with whom I've worked long and hard to establish a sense of trust and safety. I told him the plan sounded good to me. He's going to do as he pleases, no matter what I say. It's just a complete waste of time and energy for me to disagree with it. Nonetheless, it did ruffle my feathers a bit, which is disturbing because for a minute there I lost the "I'm more mature and reasonable than you" contest which I always win. (I'm the only one who knows I'm even playing the game, so my perception of who wins is paramount.)
I discovered the cause of the brouhaha downstairs when I went to the patio to distribute kitty treats. Owner is also completely reconfiguring the kitchen and break room. They're two separate and popular rooms. Everyone makes their breakfast in the kitchen every day and the company maintains some snack-type foods (which absolutely no one here needs to be eating, including me) in the refrigerator. There's a television in the break room where people eat their lunch and watch the weather channel or CNN or something. I have a couple of cohorts who are major hoop heads and on occasion (like March Madness for instance), we set up camp down there and root for our fave teams. We're all a bit sensitive to the possibility of either of those rooms being tampered with.
I decided to check around and find out if any of my co-workers were in the know about the alterations. Crazy Employee didn't know what was going on, but she was concerned that the kitchen is being repainted. Both Crazy Employee and I suffer from migraines from time to time and she worried that the paint fumes might trigger one. I hadn't thought of that, but she has a point. Beginning on Friday, I had a migraine for two days.
Mr. Moneybags and The Information Superhighway were also in an uproar. Apparently, my boss has decided to move his office. No one knows where, but they're irritated about it, nonetheless. It's that habit he has of working himself up into high gear and then seeming to take other people's feelings into account while, in reality, he's just going to do as he damn well pleases. If I was playing the More Mature and Reasonable game with them, I'd be the winner hands down. I wasn't quite as worked up as they were.
If I were to do a survey of the other 3 people who work downstairs, I'm sure I'd find 3 more annoyed people. I'm fairly certain they won't know where Owner is moving his office, so I'm not even going to bother with checking their emotional temperature. One of our coworkers (Loathsome) has been in a branch in another state for several years and he's due to return relatively soon. I suggested to Mr. Moneybags and The Superhighway that maybe our boss is moving over to that office in my side of the building and having the returning guy office on their side of the building. No one found that amusing.
Mr. M. told me that our boss had looked in Loathsome's office and noted that all of his stuff is still boxed up from the time we had our upstairs offices recarpeted. We all had to box everything to make it easier for the guys to do the installation, so Crazy Employee put Loathsome's office crappola into boxes for him. No one has unpacked it. Owner wanted to know why and pointed out to Superhighway that our returning worker will be insulted that we left it that way. Oh my god! Did that ever get everyone's panties in a collective wad. No one here likes Loathsome (hence the name), so any suggestion that anyone should go out of their way for him is taken as an insult to the rest of us. Ah, office politics...how I love them.
Other than that, it's just your usual crappy Monday. Our only hope is that tomorrow the proverbial worm will have turned and our boss will be too depressed to even come in.
Here's the quote of the day:
"Always be smarter than the people who hire you." ~ Lena Horne
America held hostage day 1916
Bushism of the day:
"I want to appreciate those of you who wear our nation's uniform for your sacrifice."—Jacksonville, Fla., Jan. 14, 2005
Website of the day: American Constitution Society For Law and Policy
http://www.acslaw.org/
Current reading:
Original Dwelling Place, Robert Aiken
The day started out fine. I chatted up some of my co-workers, did a little corporate bonding and settled into the day. Shortly after lunch, I noticed some tumult in the break room downstairs. My boss (and owner of the company) arrived in a manic mode today. I don't use that word lightly--he actually seems to be bipolar, though I'm not sure he's received that specific diagnosis. If he hasn't, it's just because bipolar people are often misdiagnosed. We all hate it when Owner arrives all wound up; it never fails that a tidal wave follows in his wake.
Today he decided to completely redesign the patio downstairs, disrupting the (somewhat) feral kitties who live there. He called me up and ran his plan by me. He wanted to know if it was okay with me. Well, no. It's not okay. It's bound to flip out the kitties, with whom I've worked long and hard to establish a sense of trust and safety. I told him the plan sounded good to me. He's going to do as he pleases, no matter what I say. It's just a complete waste of time and energy for me to disagree with it. Nonetheless, it did ruffle my feathers a bit, which is disturbing because for a minute there I lost the "I'm more mature and reasonable than you" contest which I always win. (I'm the only one who knows I'm even playing the game, so my perception of who wins is paramount.)
I discovered the cause of the brouhaha downstairs when I went to the patio to distribute kitty treats. Owner is also completely reconfiguring the kitchen and break room. They're two separate and popular rooms. Everyone makes their breakfast in the kitchen every day and the company maintains some snack-type foods (which absolutely no one here needs to be eating, including me) in the refrigerator. There's a television in the break room where people eat their lunch and watch the weather channel or CNN or something. I have a couple of cohorts who are major hoop heads and on occasion (like March Madness for instance), we set up camp down there and root for our fave teams. We're all a bit sensitive to the possibility of either of those rooms being tampered with.
I decided to check around and find out if any of my co-workers were in the know about the alterations. Crazy Employee didn't know what was going on, but she was concerned that the kitchen is being repainted. Both Crazy Employee and I suffer from migraines from time to time and she worried that the paint fumes might trigger one. I hadn't thought of that, but she has a point. Beginning on Friday, I had a migraine for two days.
Mr. Moneybags and The Information Superhighway were also in an uproar. Apparently, my boss has decided to move his office. No one knows where, but they're irritated about it, nonetheless. It's that habit he has of working himself up into high gear and then seeming to take other people's feelings into account while, in reality, he's just going to do as he damn well pleases. If I was playing the More Mature and Reasonable game with them, I'd be the winner hands down. I wasn't quite as worked up as they were.
If I were to do a survey of the other 3 people who work downstairs, I'm sure I'd find 3 more annoyed people. I'm fairly certain they won't know where Owner is moving his office, so I'm not even going to bother with checking their emotional temperature. One of our coworkers (Loathsome) has been in a branch in another state for several years and he's due to return relatively soon. I suggested to Mr. Moneybags and The Superhighway that maybe our boss is moving over to that office in my side of the building and having the returning guy office on their side of the building. No one found that amusing.
Mr. M. told me that our boss had looked in Loathsome's office and noted that all of his stuff is still boxed up from the time we had our upstairs offices recarpeted. We all had to box everything to make it easier for the guys to do the installation, so Crazy Employee put Loathsome's office crappola into boxes for him. No one has unpacked it. Owner wanted to know why and pointed out to Superhighway that our returning worker will be insulted that we left it that way. Oh my god! Did that ever get everyone's panties in a collective wad. No one here likes Loathsome (hence the name), so any suggestion that anyone should go out of their way for him is taken as an insult to the rest of us. Ah, office politics...how I love them.
Other than that, it's just your usual crappy Monday. Our only hope is that tomorrow the proverbial worm will have turned and our boss will be too depressed to even come in.
Here's the quote of the day:
"Always be smarter than the people who hire you." ~ Lena Horne
America held hostage day 1916
Bushism of the day:
"I want to appreciate those of you who wear our nation's uniform for your sacrifice."—Jacksonville, Fla., Jan. 14, 2005
Website of the day: American Constitution Society For Law and Policy
http://www.acslaw.org/
Current reading:
Original Dwelling Place, Robert Aiken
08 April 2005
The Ground of all Being
They finally buried the Holy Father. Thank you, Lord. The relentless reverence with which the whole Papal death has been handled is the smarmiest attempt at political correctness I've seen lately. God forbid that we have a discussion regarding the direction the Church has taken in John Paul II's stewardship. Once again, it's emotion over intellect. I understand not wanting to offend. I understand not wanting to kick the Holy Father while he's waiting to be buried. I don't think any of that is necessary. Let's just have a dialog about important issues facing the Church and how we might best approach them, with God's help.
The Holy Father's death was politicized here by people who want to use his strongly held moral and ethical positions to pat themselves on the back. Maybe get a vote or two from people who are impressed with phrases such as "culture of life." This from people who have absolutely no qualms whatsoever about the death penalty. We support the culture of life when it suits us, thank you very much. We're politicians. Worse yet, we're Republican politicians.
The truly wonderful thing about the relentless television coverage of the Holy Father's death and funeral is that it reminds us that these rituals have been with us for centuries now. For me, one of the best things about the Church is that it is like joining hands with our ancestors. It's an opportunity for all of us to pause for a little while and think about the "ground of all being."
I'll be glad when we can get this all settled, get the new guy in and get on with things. I don't mean to be disrespectful...I'm just weary of all of the people who want to cash in on John Paul II's death.
Here's the quote of the day:
"...when we finally know we are dying, and all other sentient beings are dying with us, we start to have a burning, almost heartbreaking sense of the fragility and preciousness of each moment and each being, and from this can grow a deep, clear, limitless compassion for all beings." ~ Sogyal Rinpoche
America held hostage day 1913
Bushism of the day:
"If I'm the president, we're going to have emergency-room care, we're going to have gag orders."
Website of the day: Origami Plans and Instructions
http://www.freepapertoys.com/pt-origami.html
Bonus Website of the day: Vatican: The Holy See
http://www.vatican.va/
The Holy Father's death was politicized here by people who want to use his strongly held moral and ethical positions to pat themselves on the back. Maybe get a vote or two from people who are impressed with phrases such as "culture of life." This from people who have absolutely no qualms whatsoever about the death penalty. We support the culture of life when it suits us, thank you very much. We're politicians. Worse yet, we're Republican politicians.
The truly wonderful thing about the relentless television coverage of the Holy Father's death and funeral is that it reminds us that these rituals have been with us for centuries now. For me, one of the best things about the Church is that it is like joining hands with our ancestors. It's an opportunity for all of us to pause for a little while and think about the "ground of all being."
I'll be glad when we can get this all settled, get the new guy in and get on with things. I don't mean to be disrespectful...I'm just weary of all of the people who want to cash in on John Paul II's death.
Here's the quote of the day:
"...when we finally know we are dying, and all other sentient beings are dying with us, we start to have a burning, almost heartbreaking sense of the fragility and preciousness of each moment and each being, and from this can grow a deep, clear, limitless compassion for all beings." ~ Sogyal Rinpoche
America held hostage day 1913
Bushism of the day:
"If I'm the president, we're going to have emergency-room care, we're going to have gag orders."
Website of the day: Origami Plans and Instructions
http://www.freepapertoys.com/pt-origami.html
Bonus Website of the day: Vatican: The Holy See
http://www.vatican.va/
06 April 2005
Looking Back Again
My grandfather was conveniently missing for some period of time, but resurfaced just long enough to propagate another 3 or 4 kids. I think my dad had 11 kids in his family. But guess what my grandfather did then! He left! Good God, why would you possibly go back to having sex with this guy? Apparently my grandmother was overly optimistic.
Some time in there, though, my grandfather was busy sexually abusing his kids. I'm pretty sure he did something sexual to my father. I know for a fact that he had a sexual relationship with at least one of his daughters. My grandmother held that against her. Needless to say, her mental health was badly compromised. She made several visits to a psychiatric hospital when she became an adult. Much like most of the other siblings, she had a real fondness for alcohol and any drugs she could wheedle a doctor into providing to her. I was always surprised that she didn't attempt suicide. Maybe she did and I just never found out about it.
So that's kind of how it went for my dad. Is it any wonder he was such a complete mess? He was estranged from his father for about 20 years. I remember that he came for a visit when I was home from college one year. I'm sure my dad made me talk to him, but I know I didn't have much to say because I'd heard so many bad things about him. Plus, he just seemed like a complete asshole. I don't understand how anyone could meet him and not see that he was an asshole. Have kids with him? Oh my god, no!
My mom's childhood is shrouded in mystery to this day. She grew up in South Carolina in a little tiny town that had a post office and a general store. She had six siblings. She went to live with her grandmother when she was a young child and continued to live with her until her grandmother's death. My mom was 14 when she finally went to live with her parents. Her oldest sister lived with another relative for some period of time. I'm not sure if or when her sister moved back in with the family.
My mom's family didn't have any money. Both she and my dad were depression-era babies who endured additional shortages during World War II. My mom told me that when she was in junior high school, she was taking home economics (I'm sure that was the only thing girls were allowed to take) and they had a home decorating project. My mom didn't have a dresser or vanity table, so she ended up covering some crates with fabric. The class all came over to see the project and my mom was embarassed by her lack of real furniture. That story always makes me sad. But then I remember that, from the time I was 12 until I got some furniture when I was 18, we had no living room furniture. I think we had one of those dinette set things long before they became kitschy and cool.
She met my father when she was in high school and got pregnant. That's why I'm here. My dad had been in the army by then. I believe he was drafted, but I'm not certain. Anyway, he went AWOL at some point. Of course, they tracked his sorry butt down and took him directly back to the brig. My dad pitied himself about this his entire life. It's one of those things that used to drive me nuts. What else were they supposed to do? Say, "Oh poor baby, you don't like being in the military? Well that's okay. You just go ahead and go home." Duh, Dad. He had some other run in with the military guys when his first wife gave birth to his first child, a son. She gave the baby my father's name--Prentiss--which my dad thought was reasonable justification to beat the shit out of her. The military guys came right on over and took him to the military version of the psych ward. My dad also pitied himself over that and would tell me, as if it made complete sense, "I told her not to name him Prentiss."
Here's the quote of the day:
"Don't hold your parents up to contempt. After all, you are their son, and it is just possible that you may take after them." ~ Evelyn Waugh
America held hostage day 1911
Bushism of the day:
"A surplus means there'll be money left over. Otherwise, it wouldn't be called a surplus." -- Kalamazoo, MI 10/27/2000
Website of the day: Integral World: Exploring Theories of Everything
http://www.integralworld.net/
Some time in there, though, my grandfather was busy sexually abusing his kids. I'm pretty sure he did something sexual to my father. I know for a fact that he had a sexual relationship with at least one of his daughters. My grandmother held that against her. Needless to say, her mental health was badly compromised. She made several visits to a psychiatric hospital when she became an adult. Much like most of the other siblings, she had a real fondness for alcohol and any drugs she could wheedle a doctor into providing to her. I was always surprised that she didn't attempt suicide. Maybe she did and I just never found out about it.
So that's kind of how it went for my dad. Is it any wonder he was such a complete mess? He was estranged from his father for about 20 years. I remember that he came for a visit when I was home from college one year. I'm sure my dad made me talk to him, but I know I didn't have much to say because I'd heard so many bad things about him. Plus, he just seemed like a complete asshole. I don't understand how anyone could meet him and not see that he was an asshole. Have kids with him? Oh my god, no!
My mom's childhood is shrouded in mystery to this day. She grew up in South Carolina in a little tiny town that had a post office and a general store. She had six siblings. She went to live with her grandmother when she was a young child and continued to live with her until her grandmother's death. My mom was 14 when she finally went to live with her parents. Her oldest sister lived with another relative for some period of time. I'm not sure if or when her sister moved back in with the family.
My mom's family didn't have any money. Both she and my dad were depression-era babies who endured additional shortages during World War II. My mom told me that when she was in junior high school, she was taking home economics (I'm sure that was the only thing girls were allowed to take) and they had a home decorating project. My mom didn't have a dresser or vanity table, so she ended up covering some crates with fabric. The class all came over to see the project and my mom was embarassed by her lack of real furniture. That story always makes me sad. But then I remember that, from the time I was 12 until I got some furniture when I was 18, we had no living room furniture. I think we had one of those dinette set things long before they became kitschy and cool.
She met my father when she was in high school and got pregnant. That's why I'm here. My dad had been in the army by then. I believe he was drafted, but I'm not certain. Anyway, he went AWOL at some point. Of course, they tracked his sorry butt down and took him directly back to the brig. My dad pitied himself about this his entire life. It's one of those things that used to drive me nuts. What else were they supposed to do? Say, "Oh poor baby, you don't like being in the military? Well that's okay. You just go ahead and go home." Duh, Dad. He had some other run in with the military guys when his first wife gave birth to his first child, a son. She gave the baby my father's name--Prentiss--which my dad thought was reasonable justification to beat the shit out of her. The military guys came right on over and took him to the military version of the psych ward. My dad also pitied himself over that and would tell me, as if it made complete sense, "I told her not to name him Prentiss."
Here's the quote of the day:
"Don't hold your parents up to contempt. After all, you are their son, and it is just possible that you may take after them." ~ Evelyn Waugh
America held hostage day 1911
Bushism of the day:
"A surplus means there'll be money left over. Otherwise, it wouldn't be called a surplus." -- Kalamazoo, MI 10/27/2000
Website of the day: Integral World: Exploring Theories of Everything
http://www.integralworld.net/
05 April 2005
Looking Back to Find the Past
I was born in the early 1950's in a city in the deep south. Over the years I've tried to get at least a few facts about my parents' lives in the hope that their personal issues might be more understandable. I've always believed, to some extent, that if I could just understand how my parents got so crazy, my own history might be more bearable. It's been a difficult process. The answers are few and far between and, as time passes, those facts become mythic in nature. Stories get repeated, frequently by people who have a vested interest in how they're interpreted. I'm not always certain whether they're true...or if it even matters.
My paternal grandmother apparently grew up in Mississippi. When she was a young woman, her parents were killed in a fire. She may have lost one or more siblings, too. She did have one remaining brother, whose name was Ernest. People tell me they were very close, I don't know whether that's because everyone else was dead or there was just some natural affinity between them.
After the death of her parents, she and her brother were placed in an orphanage. I can only imagine what that must have been like. It must have been profoundly damaging. She and the other orphans were required to work--presumably to earn their keep--in conditions that were probably very harsh. She met my grandfather while she was working on the farm of a local, somewhat well-to-do couple. I gather she was very young when they married. There are also vague stories about my grandfather being disinherited. If I had to guess, I'd say that's where the trouble started within my family. Though I have absolutely no proof, experience leads me to believe that my grandfather probably selected her precisely because she was so young. Later on, he sexually abused several of his children. My grandmother must have just gotten too old to be of interest to him.
I asked my grandmother many times to tell me about her life. She was the most stoic person I've ever known, bar none. My own mother is the second most stoic person I know and, according to people who know me, I may be a close third. To say she wasn't forthcoming is an understatement. Whatever stories I came to hear about her all came from her children. Since a fair number of her children were just crazy as loons, I can't always count on their veracity.
My grandmother started having babies at a breathtaking pace. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth child, my grandfather struck out for greener pastures. He disappeared. It wasn't all that unusual in the Depression for men to go off in search of work. People in the family believe that he had a job or a series of jobs, but he never sent money back to his family. My grandmother and her children were forced to do whatever they could to survive. I think they were sharecroppers, but they may have only been employees of wealthy farmers. It was a hungry life and a life of great hardship. My father and his brothers and sisters picked cotton for a living. I heard many times about how the stickers on the cotton would just rip through flesh. Even though they worked, they frequently didn't have food.
None of this did much for my grandmother's disposition. According to my father, she was very abusive. His ears were deformed his entire life because of her habit of grabbing an ear and twisting hard when she wanted to make a point. She was also known to hit kids with whatever was readily available at any given moment...a cast iron frying pan, a stick of stove wood. From my own experience with her, her vocabulary of profanity was extensive. She was also known to drink. I believe vodka was the drug of choice, but I think any alcohol would do in a pinch.
My father told me he'd gone into his mom's house one day when he was young and overheard her plotting with her daughter to kill my grandfather. True? Beats me. He also said that he walked in on his mother having sex with someone other than her husband. He told my mom about that and she told me. Here again, I'm not sure it even matters whether those apocryphal tales have any truth to them. The important thing was that it colored everything my father did as an adult. I guess that's how it always is with parents; you spend your entire life trying to avoid living your parents' lives. Unfortunately, that generally means you're still having a crappy life, you're just having a different crappy life than your parents.
Here's the quote of the day:
"History is the present. That's why every generation writes it anew. But what most people think of as history is its end product, myth." ~ E. L. Doctorow
America Held Hostage Day 1910
Bushism of the day:
"Families is where our nation finds hope, where wings take dream." —LaCrosse, Wis., Oct. 18, 2000
Website of the day: Jain History
http://jainhistory.faithweb.com/
My paternal grandmother apparently grew up in Mississippi. When she was a young woman, her parents were killed in a fire. She may have lost one or more siblings, too. She did have one remaining brother, whose name was Ernest. People tell me they were very close, I don't know whether that's because everyone else was dead or there was just some natural affinity between them.
After the death of her parents, she and her brother were placed in an orphanage. I can only imagine what that must have been like. It must have been profoundly damaging. She and the other orphans were required to work--presumably to earn their keep--in conditions that were probably very harsh. She met my grandfather while she was working on the farm of a local, somewhat well-to-do couple. I gather she was very young when they married. There are also vague stories about my grandfather being disinherited. If I had to guess, I'd say that's where the trouble started within my family. Though I have absolutely no proof, experience leads me to believe that my grandfather probably selected her precisely because she was so young. Later on, he sexually abused several of his children. My grandmother must have just gotten too old to be of interest to him.
I asked my grandmother many times to tell me about her life. She was the most stoic person I've ever known, bar none. My own mother is the second most stoic person I know and, according to people who know me, I may be a close third. To say she wasn't forthcoming is an understatement. Whatever stories I came to hear about her all came from her children. Since a fair number of her children were just crazy as loons, I can't always count on their veracity.
My grandmother started having babies at a breathtaking pace. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth child, my grandfather struck out for greener pastures. He disappeared. It wasn't all that unusual in the Depression for men to go off in search of work. People in the family believe that he had a job or a series of jobs, but he never sent money back to his family. My grandmother and her children were forced to do whatever they could to survive. I think they were sharecroppers, but they may have only been employees of wealthy farmers. It was a hungry life and a life of great hardship. My father and his brothers and sisters picked cotton for a living. I heard many times about how the stickers on the cotton would just rip through flesh. Even though they worked, they frequently didn't have food.
None of this did much for my grandmother's disposition. According to my father, she was very abusive. His ears were deformed his entire life because of her habit of grabbing an ear and twisting hard when she wanted to make a point. She was also known to hit kids with whatever was readily available at any given moment...a cast iron frying pan, a stick of stove wood. From my own experience with her, her vocabulary of profanity was extensive. She was also known to drink. I believe vodka was the drug of choice, but I think any alcohol would do in a pinch.
My father told me he'd gone into his mom's house one day when he was young and overheard her plotting with her daughter to kill my grandfather. True? Beats me. He also said that he walked in on his mother having sex with someone other than her husband. He told my mom about that and she told me. Here again, I'm not sure it even matters whether those apocryphal tales have any truth to them. The important thing was that it colored everything my father did as an adult. I guess that's how it always is with parents; you spend your entire life trying to avoid living your parents' lives. Unfortunately, that generally means you're still having a crappy life, you're just having a different crappy life than your parents.
Here's the quote of the day:
"History is the present. That's why every generation writes it anew. But what most people think of as history is its end product, myth." ~ E. L. Doctorow
America Held Hostage Day 1910
Bushism of the day:
"Families is where our nation finds hope, where wings take dream." —LaCrosse, Wis., Oct. 18, 2000
Website of the day: Jain History
http://jainhistory.faithweb.com/
04 April 2005
My Summer with Sigmund Freud
It was the summer of 1966 and I had a cousin visiting from out of state. It had been just a bang-up great summer vacation to Jackson, Mississippi with my mom, my dad, and my dad's 15 year old wife. Prior to the visit, my dad had bought his wife a number of new outfits. Unfortunately for her, that would be the last windfall she'd ever see while they were together. Photos were taken along the way, his wife (in her new clothes) and me standing in front of various unidentifiable landmarks. Once we arrived, we must have visited several of his relatives. I never knew what story he offered up to explain the 15 year old wife. I was mainly concerned with being left alone. I was profoundly humiliated by the whole situation, so I just tried to escape into solitude whenever possible. We visited one of my aunts who had four children, but I maintained my distance from them unless compelled to interact. Though all but one of them was younger than I, I firmly believed that they knew how fucked up my family was and laughed at me when I wasn't around. The other aunt that I remember visiting was the mother of my summer guest.
I'm not sure why I decided to hang out with my cousin Theresa. On the face of it, it seems a highly uncharacteristic congeniality on my part. Nonetheless, we must have had a good time and my dad issued the invitation for her to come for the summer. I wonder now why it was that her parents thought sending any female child home with my dad was a good idea. I was 12 and his wife was 15. I don't know...I just don't think I would have felt comfortable sending my daughter home with him.
Theresa, in addition to being my age, was about my size. She had a better complexion than I, which my father used as a cudgel to beat me with. As usual, whenever my dad was around other female kids my age, he always liked to point out the many ways those kids were more appealing than I. My dad also pointed out that Theresa seemed smarter than I. That fact was probably at the heart of my eventual change of heart towards her. I have no idea why Theresa didn't like me, but I'm sure it wasn't without cause.
Sometime that summer I discovered Sigmund Freud. I have no idea how I found out about him, but reading was my escape of choice and trips to the library were frequent. At that point in my life, I was searching for challenging intellectual books. I had abandoned any literature that seemed to be directed at people my age. I read adult books and began thinking about weighty and complex ideas. I lived in a frighteningly adult world and I knew books directed at 12 year olds wasn't going to help me one tiny bit.
I'm not sure which of Freud's books I read that summer, but I remember the case studies of his patients. One of them detailed one of his patient's hysterical amnesia. It was the most promising thing I'd heard of since I abandoned the Bible as a means of coping with my crazy life. Obviously God wasn't going to be rescuing me or he'd have done it long before then. It made supreme sense to me thatif I couldn't get God to help me escape, I might be just fine if I could simply forget everything that had happened up to that point. However just to ensure my success at forgetting, I decided to pray for it, too.
Of course, I also encountered penis envy. I gave a lot of thought to that issue. At first it just seemed absolutely preposterous. I searched my heart. Did I really want a penis? No amount of soul searching produced any envy that I could identify. Maybe I envied kids who didn't live with psychotic parents, but none of them had penises. Finally, just as many feminists concluded, I determined that he was incorrect. Grossly incorrect. Unfortunately, it seemed he was incorrect about the possibility of amnesia, too.
The real irony here is that, over the years, I have forgotten. Incidents are truncated or confusing. I guess God did answer my prayers after all. As I struggle to make sense of my life, I reach back to grab onto formative memories. Sadly, the absence of memory doesn't result in the absence of suffering connected to those memories. I'm not so sure I'd want to relive them even if I could. I guess the summer I spent with Dr. Freud was like mining fool's gold.
Quote of the day:
"I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat, or a prostitute." ~ Rebecca West
America Held Hostage Day 1909
Bushism of the Day:
"The legislature's job is to write law. It's the executive branch's job to interpret law." —Austin, Texas, Nov. 22, 2000
Website of the day: A Krishnamurti Library of Athens
http://www.kathens.org/
I'm not sure why I decided to hang out with my cousin Theresa. On the face of it, it seems a highly uncharacteristic congeniality on my part. Nonetheless, we must have had a good time and my dad issued the invitation for her to come for the summer. I wonder now why it was that her parents thought sending any female child home with my dad was a good idea. I was 12 and his wife was 15. I don't know...I just don't think I would have felt comfortable sending my daughter home with him.
Theresa, in addition to being my age, was about my size. She had a better complexion than I, which my father used as a cudgel to beat me with. As usual, whenever my dad was around other female kids my age, he always liked to point out the many ways those kids were more appealing than I. My dad also pointed out that Theresa seemed smarter than I. That fact was probably at the heart of my eventual change of heart towards her. I have no idea why Theresa didn't like me, but I'm sure it wasn't without cause.
Sometime that summer I discovered Sigmund Freud. I have no idea how I found out about him, but reading was my escape of choice and trips to the library were frequent. At that point in my life, I was searching for challenging intellectual books. I had abandoned any literature that seemed to be directed at people my age. I read adult books and began thinking about weighty and complex ideas. I lived in a frighteningly adult world and I knew books directed at 12 year olds wasn't going to help me one tiny bit.
I'm not sure which of Freud's books I read that summer, but I remember the case studies of his patients. One of them detailed one of his patient's hysterical amnesia. It was the most promising thing I'd heard of since I abandoned the Bible as a means of coping with my crazy life. Obviously God wasn't going to be rescuing me or he'd have done it long before then. It made supreme sense to me thatif I couldn't get God to help me escape, I might be just fine if I could simply forget everything that had happened up to that point. However just to ensure my success at forgetting, I decided to pray for it, too.
Of course, I also encountered penis envy. I gave a lot of thought to that issue. At first it just seemed absolutely preposterous. I searched my heart. Did I really want a penis? No amount of soul searching produced any envy that I could identify. Maybe I envied kids who didn't live with psychotic parents, but none of them had penises. Finally, just as many feminists concluded, I determined that he was incorrect. Grossly incorrect. Unfortunately, it seemed he was incorrect about the possibility of amnesia, too.
The real irony here is that, over the years, I have forgotten. Incidents are truncated or confusing. I guess God did answer my prayers after all. As I struggle to make sense of my life, I reach back to grab onto formative memories. Sadly, the absence of memory doesn't result in the absence of suffering connected to those memories. I'm not so sure I'd want to relive them even if I could. I guess the summer I spent with Dr. Freud was like mining fool's gold.
Quote of the day:
"I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat, or a prostitute." ~ Rebecca West
America Held Hostage Day 1909
Bushism of the Day:
"The legislature's job is to write law. It's the executive branch's job to interpret law." —Austin, Texas, Nov. 22, 2000
Website of the day: A Krishnamurti Library of Athens
http://www.kathens.org/
24 March 2005
Just for the record, I really don't give a damn how you feel
I've been trying to think of something else to say, but all I can come up with today is that I'm appalled at the level of discourse in this country. The latest example is the Schiavo controversy, but I've been appalled a lot longer than that. It's the incessant emoting that's driving me crazy. It seems that everywhere I look, someone is wringing their proverbial hands over something or they're enraged about something. Generally speaking, the emoting is totally disconnected from the facts at hand. Here's the deal. I don't really give a happy fuck how the news folks...or anyone else...feel.
I'd just like the facts. Why is that so hard to get these days? It's so much easier and intellectually cheaper to resort to emotion, I suppose. Here's a mystery. We keep telling our children how important education is, but I'll be damned if we ever demonstrate any intellectual rigor.
Don't get me wrong, virtually every news story worth telling has a solid emotional hook. I have feelings about the Schiavo controversy, the Scott Peterson trial, etc. I just think we've gone way too far into the touchy-feely realm.
I was watching Nancy Grace last night and she had really worked herself into a lather about Terry Schiavo. She was supposed to be interviewing a neurosurgeon, but she really had absolutely no interest in the medical facts. She just wanted to get stuck in that emotional groove and god forbid that someone should try to offer analysis. I love Nancy Grace. I love the fact that she's this Southern belle with hair teased into a frenzy, yet she can go for the jugular when she deems it necessary. It's really a wonderful combination. If she'd just try to calm down every once in a while, I'd really appreciate it.
America. What a cheap date. We're such an excitable nation and we're so easily entertained. I'm just tired of it. Here's the quote of the day:
"Just once in a while let us exalt the importance of ideas and information." ~ Edward R. Murrow
America held hostage day 1898
Bushism of the day:
"I knew it might put him in an awkward position that we had a discussion before finality has finally happened in this presidential race." —Describing a phone call to Sen. John Breaux. Crawford, Texas, Dec. 2, 2000
Website of the day: Iraq Body Count
http://www.iraqbodycount.net/
I'd just like the facts. Why is that so hard to get these days? It's so much easier and intellectually cheaper to resort to emotion, I suppose. Here's a mystery. We keep telling our children how important education is, but I'll be damned if we ever demonstrate any intellectual rigor.
Don't get me wrong, virtually every news story worth telling has a solid emotional hook. I have feelings about the Schiavo controversy, the Scott Peterson trial, etc. I just think we've gone way too far into the touchy-feely realm.
I was watching Nancy Grace last night and she had really worked herself into a lather about Terry Schiavo. She was supposed to be interviewing a neurosurgeon, but she really had absolutely no interest in the medical facts. She just wanted to get stuck in that emotional groove and god forbid that someone should try to offer analysis. I love Nancy Grace. I love the fact that she's this Southern belle with hair teased into a frenzy, yet she can go for the jugular when she deems it necessary. It's really a wonderful combination. If she'd just try to calm down every once in a while, I'd really appreciate it.
America. What a cheap date. We're such an excitable nation and we're so easily entertained. I'm just tired of it. Here's the quote of the day:
"Just once in a while let us exalt the importance of ideas and information." ~ Edward R. Murrow
America held hostage day 1898
Bushism of the day:
"I knew it might put him in an awkward position that we had a discussion before finality has finally happened in this presidential race." —Describing a phone call to Sen. John Breaux. Crawford, Texas, Dec. 2, 2000
Website of the day: Iraq Body Count
http://www.iraqbodycount.net/
23 March 2005
Harridans
I noticed it late in the afternoon yesterday, after spending a couple of hours with my dentist. The harridans inside my head started telling me that I deserve to die. It took a little while before I recognized that it wasn't just a fleeting thought, but a tidal wave of voices. The thoughts woke up with me this morning and have been around all day. whenever I have a moment when I'm not concentrating on something else, my brain returns to that same old tired recording. even though I don't take them seriously, those thoughts are difficult to completely dismiss.
It's not that I have any intention of hurting myself. That option disappeared long ago, even before my father killed himself. When I was around 23, it occurred to me that I couldn't kill myself until everyone who loves me dies. It wasn't a happy revelation. After my dad committed suicide, i fully understood the correctness of that commitment.
It's just very troubling that I can't just stop this internal haranguing. As I mentioned earlier, my therapist suggested that those voices should be directed at the people who hurt me when I was a child. Of course that list is pretty extensive, so sometimes it's hard for me to figure out which villain should be receiving the brunt of the internalized rage these voices represent.
I think my inability to silence the voices is one of the reasons I continue to feel so damaged by my childhood. My therapist likes to point out that I'm the most traumatized people she's ever treated and one of the least damaged. I know that's true. When you wake up first thing in the morning to a Greek chorus of self destructive thoughts, it's hard to have a good feeling about yourself.
Quote of the Day:
"Anybody can become angry, that is easy; but to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not within everybody's power, that is not easy." ~ Aristotle
America held hostage day 1897
Bushism of the day:
"Dick Cheney and I do not want this nation to be in a recession. We want anybody who can find work to be able to find work." —60 Minutes II, Dec. 5, 2000
Website of the Day: Investigating the New Imperialism
http://www.williambowles.info/
It's not that I have any intention of hurting myself. That option disappeared long ago, even before my father killed himself. When I was around 23, it occurred to me that I couldn't kill myself until everyone who loves me dies. It wasn't a happy revelation. After my dad committed suicide, i fully understood the correctness of that commitment.
It's just very troubling that I can't just stop this internal haranguing. As I mentioned earlier, my therapist suggested that those voices should be directed at the people who hurt me when I was a child. Of course that list is pretty extensive, so sometimes it's hard for me to figure out which villain should be receiving the brunt of the internalized rage these voices represent.
I think my inability to silence the voices is one of the reasons I continue to feel so damaged by my childhood. My therapist likes to point out that I'm the most traumatized people she's ever treated and one of the least damaged. I know that's true. When you wake up first thing in the morning to a Greek chorus of self destructive thoughts, it's hard to have a good feeling about yourself.
Quote of the Day:
"Anybody can become angry, that is easy; but to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not within everybody's power, that is not easy." ~ Aristotle
America held hostage day 1897
Bushism of the day:
"Dick Cheney and I do not want this nation to be in a recession. We want anybody who can find work to be able to find work." —60 Minutes II, Dec. 5, 2000
Website of the Day: Investigating the New Imperialism
http://www.williambowles.info/
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