Thank You, Virginia Woolf

Mom & Her Forwards

2009-03-27T15:51:00.004-05:00

... and because I think it's a nice idea to blog once every - um - year or so...

Around the election my mom was emailing me all these Michelle Obama propaganda emails. You know the sort. They're half bolded, half italicized, largely underlined or in all CAPS. The authors favor red fonts and excessive exclamation marks!!!!!!

I started taking out all of the formatting, removing the extraneous punctuation, and sending them back to her with a "read it again" at the top. All the sudden things didn't seem so awful to her.

I feel proud of her because she's now stepping outside of her intellectual comfort zone a little. She's taken to sending me aggressive forwards with an adorable little note in her part of the email: "Is this true?". Haha. So, she's not exactly thinking for herself, but at least she's having me do her thinking for her. Here's the latest sample email and my response.

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THE LETTER: Had to remove some formatting, but imagine it mostly bolded AND underlined. Especially the first two paragraphs.

LETTER BY A FLORIDA TEACHER -- PLEASE READ

=0 A
When will the American People get fed up and do something, or is it too late...

Letter by a Florida teacher . . . A teacher speaks

This is a subject close to my heart. Do you know that we have adult students at the school where I teach who are not US citizens and who get the PELL Grant, which is a federal grant (no pay back required) plus other federal grants to go to school?

One student from the Dominican Republic told me that she didn't want me to find a job for her after she finished my program, because she was getting housing from our housing department and she was getting a PELL Grant which paid for her total tuition and books, plus money leftover.

She was looking into WAIT which gives students a CREDIT CARD for gas to come to school, and into CARIBE which is a special program (check it out - I did) for immigrants and it pays for child care and all sorts of needs while they go to school or training. The one student I just mentioned told me she was not going to be a US Citizen because she plans to return to the Dominican Republic someday and that she 'loves HER country.'

I asked her if she felt guilty taking what the US is giving her and then not even bothering to become a citizen and she told me that it doesn't bother her, because that is what the money is there for and if we are stupid enough to give it she is going to take it!

I asked the CARIBE administration at my school about their program and if you ARE a US citizen, you don't qualify for their program. And all the while, I am working a full day, my son-in-law works more than 60 hours a week, and everyone in my family works and pays for our education.

Something is wrong here. I am sorry but after hearing that they want to sing the National Anthem in Spanish - ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. That's a real slap in the face. Nowhere did they sing it in Italian, Polish, Irish (Celtic), German or any other language because of immigration. It was written by Francis Scott Key and should be sung word for word the way it was written without all the slurs by people who cant sing it well enough to sing it correctly. I don't care whether this offends anyone or not but this is MY COUNTRY. IF IT IS YOUR COUNTRY SPEAK UP -- please pass this along. I am not against immigration -- I just expect immigrants to come through like everyone else. Get a sponsor; have a place to lay your head; have a job; pay your taxes, live by the rules AND LEARN THE LANGUAGE as all other immigrants have in the past -- and GOD BLESS AMERICA!

PART OF THE PROBLEM -Think about this: If you don't want to forward this for fear of offending someone - YOU'RE PART OF THE PROBLEM! It is Time for America to speak up. If you agree -- pass this along, if you don't agree -- delete it!

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MY RESPONSE:

Hi Mom,

Some of the programs she mentions do exist, but the situation she’s describing is one that seems highly unusual and very unfortunately from a strongly biased point of view.

The main thing that sticks out for me is how she describes her one student as being lazy and taking advantage of free money. While this may be the case with that one person, the immigrants I’ve known – particularly from latin American countries – are the hardest working individuals I know. They came here for a better life, because there’s really nowhere else to go. They work terrible jobs – jobs most Americans don’t want – and they work two and three shifts a day. They send half or more of what they earn back home. And many attend school and seek funding where they can. And why shouldn’t they?

I looked into some of the specific organizations that this person mentioned. The organizations that her student is looking into.

WAIT is an org that teaches working adults how to become educators. It teaches them how to become teachers. The classes are ALL at night to accommodate their students’ work schedules. So already the woman who wrote this letter is off base. And if they use the skills learned here to go home and teach in their communities – especially if those communities are rural or under-served, then it seems fine to me.

CARIBE is a program designed for legal, documented immigrants, refugees or assylee status foreigners. So when the author of the letter writes that you can’t get it if you’re a citizen, that’s true. It’s an immigrant program – just like the programs in the early 1900s for Eastern European immigrants that helped women find work, for example. They help people learn English, get their high school equivalence and get technical training. It’s a not for profit org that gets assistance from various US Depts as well as other benevolent organizations. Sounds pretty good to me… I’m really not sure what the teacher is so upset about. I, for one, am glad that there are organizations like this for temporary residents – to help them while they’re here.

As for not “bothering” to become a citizen – that remark is crazy. Or at least uninformed. It takes years of commitment to become a citizen. Students from the US travel to do work exchange programs in other countries all the time, or just to live and study somewhere else for a time. We call it “studying abroad”. Sounds far less egregious when you say it like that. Why would she try to become a citizen when she plans to return home?

Remember when I was applying to SCAD and you encouraged me to get federal aid from the state of Georgia because I’d been living in Georgia for two years? And I did. It went through and I got financial assistance to attend college in a state I ended up living in by accident, for a brief period, and where I added very little to the community. The idea of state financial aid is that people who live there for ages have paid taxes there, have contributed to the local economy, etc. I did not fit that bill as a Georgian, but I got the aid anyway. At the time, we figured… if they’ll give it to us, we’ll take it. Because we need it. That’s the exact same thing this Dominican woman is doing.

To me, it sounds like the teacher who wrote this letter is bitter. She works hard, her son in law works hard. Maybe they’ve just taken what the world has dealt them, and they resent it? And this woman, from a third world country, got herself here and found organizations that she can take advantage of to change the entire landscape of her life. And maybe that’s not an opportunity the teacher found for her own self… Her letter is more a reflection of her own intolerance, I think, than the “problem” of latin American immigrants in our country. The fact that she refers to a Spanish accent singing the national anthem as “slurs” is enough to make me ball up her letter and toss it in the trashcan.

Don’t buy it. And please send my response back to Helen.

Why Can't I Just Kinda Want to Play The Guitar?

2008-02-06T16:23:00.001-05:00

I've decided to take guitar lessons. It seems like almost everyone I tell asks me why. So I tell them I've kinda wanted to play since forever, and it just feels like something I should know how to do. I explain I don't really want to start a band, or cut an album. I'd just like to be the girl at the party who can pick up the guitar and get things going. Or show up with a guitar somewhere and jump into a jam session. The responses I'm getting?

Waste of time.

Doesn't seem like a good enough reason.

Shouldn't you be writing instead?

Why not just write a few songs and hire a guitarist?

Hey everyone. Fuck off! I'm insanely passionate about everything I do. I happen to think it's perfectly fine, and even a good idea, to have an interest that doesn't blow my brains right out of my head. A little balance is a good thing. I tend toward love and hate at their extremes. So if there's an interest I'd like to pursue as a nice little hobby than what is the big deal?

So what if ALL I want out of playing guitar is to be the girl at the party playing guitar? Isn't it enough I only want to write a novel if it's Pulitzer worthy? Or that I work to be an indispensable promotion-worthy employee? Or that I berate myself if I'm anything less than the most loving girlfriend or loyal friend anyone could ever possibly conceive of? Do I have to have rockstar aspirations, too, to justify an interest in the guitar?

Fuck off. And thanks for the support.

I'll see you at the party. I'll be the girl playing guitar.

Plotless

2008-02-04T22:21:00.000-05:00

I spent much of today reading over my tome. You remember, the one I began writing in November in my writer's cottage? You remember November. Every post here began with NaNo something-or-other. NaNo Andiamo, for when I had arrived. NaNo Secludo, for when I was feeling secluded. And one of my current faves, Na No-Plot.

So, I re read all 157 pages today, and found that there is some good news (praise jah). My characters are dynamic, multi dimensional and interesting. My visuals are at once crisply literal and poetically abstract. There are some nuggets that are final-draft ready, where I'm actually moved by my own turn of phrase. I counted two Pulitzer worthy paragraphs. Can one win a Pulitzer for 188 words? The big worry here, my overarching concern (which by the way is not a new concern), is that my story entirely lacks a plot.

From a post on 11.27. I write:

But all the sudden, I have a story. A real story, with a hook and a plot and a viable "problem" to solve. There's mystery and things get worse before they get better and there are secrets the reader has to figure out.

What was I talking about? I have no memory of having these realizations. Or rather, I remember feeling this way, but I don't remember the actual details. In the very same post, though, I wrote:

I mean, I'm under no illusion that I'll go through another phase of thinking the story is crap, and being at a total loss for how to actually get these characters in a room together.

At least I know myself.

I feel a bit strange having spent a day with my in-progress work. It's sort of shallow in parts. I guess that's allowed since I wouldn't even qualify the manuscript as a draft just yet. It's a mess, really, with too many spare parts. I need a crisis. I need to kill someone or blow something up or get someone in trouble. I like them all too much, though, to really harm them. And what if I kill someone and then find I need them later? I haven't even really considered killing anyone. As much as I like them, it would be better if I were more attached to them before I kill them. That way the reader will really feel the blow.

Speaking of blow, I wrote some pretty sexual scenes, and I found I wasn't terribly embarrassed going back to read those. I mean, I'm not hurrying the non-draft off to Dad or anything, but they weren't as vulgar as I originally thought they were. They get the point across without overdoing it.

So what's it about, people? We have Fantanelle, Bea, Arraua, Ridley and Hunter. Aldaine was invented in the middle and joined Fantanelle who's currently in Agraria with Ridley. We haven't heard from Arraua (Fantanelle's long lost mother) for 10 years or so. Hunter is about 180 years old but looks about 40. Fantanelle has left the institute and is comfortably hiding away. A next step will be her running away from Agraria for fear of infringing on Ridley and Aldaine's kindness.

What I need to do:

I need to establish why R & A agreed to take F in in the first place. That part isn't clear.
I also need to revisit Bea and Owen who met about 20 years ago. I need to make it clear that they met before Fantanelle was even born and finish defining the beginnings of their union.
Was Arraua friends with Bea & Owen? Is that who told her about the hospital? Maybe Owen brings Bea to Arraua's cottage for dinner, and the cottage will give B & O some reference in time.
What's the crisis Fantanelle faces? She has to get shitwrecked somehow. Maybe I should just expand on her time in the woods, which allowed for a lot of prose.

What now, what now...

I am currently away from the computer.

2008-01-24T17:06:00.001-05:00

ravscallion: hello love....
*** Auto-response sent to ravscallion: I am currently away from the computer.
ravscallion: power's back on
ravscallion: freezer is freezing
ravscallion: what time do you come home, love?
ravscallion: text me...
ravscallion: love you...
ravscallion: seriously
ravscallion: not like a high school "I love her"
ravscallion: but like a Robert Browning/Elizabeth Barrett "I love you"...
ravscallion: just so you know

The Days Are Long

2008-01-23T23:54:00.000-05:00

Last weekend was three days long. Two plus the Monday off for Dr. King day. Andrew and I stayed in and were together. It was phenomenal. It was a day like I wish we had all the time, but that we hardly ever have. Monday through Thursday I don't even see him. We get home from work and say hello and fall asleep. Or, we get home from work and I prattle to release the day's stresses and he listens patiently while he loads laundry and heats up our leftovers and I follow him around the house talking. Then he tells me a few details of his day, when he feels like it, and then we fall asleep. Or he falls asleep and I come to smoke cigarettes in my office and write, or try to write, or putter around.

The work days are so long and so tiring. I get so wrapped up in it when I'm working hard and I burn out. So I'll step back to catch my breath and I feel much more relaxed. Then I realize I've fallen behind and I scramble to catch up and then I'm back in the same rattled place. The office is such a strange place to be. I got to work this morning after my endless commute and sat down at my desk and took a deep breath and said to myself, well I'm here now. And then I dove in. Just like that. Well, I guess I'm here so I'll do what one does in the office. I'll work. And then I drag it all home with me. The office can be a fine place to be. My coworkers are funny and I like most of them. There's laughter and relating and many human moments. That's what makes it bearable, I suppose.

I want to write. I want to write so badly. But I'm tired. I come home and I just want to relax and do something to take myself out of my swarming head, and so I don't write. I don't write.

It's a strange thing to not know what's next in one's life. I've always been somewhat clear on what's next. When I was a kid, the next thing was getting out of my parent's house. When I was in boarding school the next thing was just getting the hell out of there. When I was out of there, my next thing was going to college. After college there was a period of I don't know, but that ended and I came back to New York. The next thing then was moving out of the Bronx and developing a career. Done and done. Now what?

Often all I want to do is lay in bed with Andrew and be near him and hear what he thinks about things. I want to do that and I want to write. And I don't get to do much of either. And I don't know how to make those things happen. I'm tired and the days are long and I'm bored. Someone said I seem flat. And that's exactly how I feel. Flat.

Updated on The Mood

2008-01-14T10:10:00.002-05:00

I left the house. Everything was fine, as it turns out.

The Mood

2008-01-12T10:15:00.000-05:00

Andrew's nephews came to visit last night. They brought their girlfriends with them. We ordered barbeque and the girls ordered salads that they barely touched. Then we walked down to the beach. Andrew and I watched the kids throw the football around. They played a game like monkey in the middle where the boys tried to keep the ball away from the girls and the girls used all their might, to no avail, to try to get the ball from the boys. Then I lay in the sand in my giant puffy winter coat and looked at the stars. We came back to the house with a 36 pack of beer and they set up for beer pong. I just didn't have it in me. I wanted to be alone. So I went into the bedroom and went to sleep.

The girls are sweet. I guess that's how they can be described. They're nice and they're pretty and they're both thin as rails with big boobs. It's a little disheartening for me to see young girls who are sweet and nice and who don't seem to have much of an opinion about anything. The younger of the two seems like she has more in there, but if anyone contradicts her, even in the slightest, she goes back on the point she was trying to make. Maybe she'll grow out of that. She's only eighteen or so. She needs a little more confidence and with that she could be a pistol, I'll bet. Let's hope she finds the confidence she needs.

I feel badly about excusing myself. The kids probably thought it was them. I don't think they have a frame of reference for what goes on with me. I'm sure they're not able to guess that sometimes my mood just plummets irretrievably and that it has nothing to do with who's around me.

Today Andrew and I have tickets to see Avenue Q. I've been wanting to see that show for years. I should be looking forward to it, but I'm not. Still, I just want to be alone. I want some quiet.

A friend is in town this weekend, and we were supposed to see her last night but we couldn't because the boys were coming. I never made other arrangements to see her and now I might miss her, and while I feel badly that I may have hurt her feelings, I'm just not compelled to fix it and to try to see her tonight. There's a surprise birthday party tonight as well, and since we're already going to be in the city it will be easy to kill time between the show and the party to go to that as well. It's right on the west side, right on seventh avenue, so it will be easy to get to. Again, there's very little compelling me beyond obligation to attend. I don't know why this happens really, but I get into this crawl-under-a-rock and hide mood and then, eventually, I get out of the mood.

Andrew doesn't know what to do with me. He searches my face and asks, "Did something happen?" I keep trying to tell him that nothing has to happen. I happen. It just happens. He tries to figure it out like something that makes sense so he can help fix it, and he never will because there isn't anything to put your finger on. There's nothing I can say that would help him make some actionable decision. He does well with it. With me. Better than most. Better than anyone ever has, actually. I can see that it pains him, though, when I get like this. In some ways, it's probably worse for him than it is for me. He's probably wondering when I'll completely crack up and what he'll do then.

I warned him, though. I told him about this from the very beginning. Right when we began to fall in love, I told him I was crazy. He asked how and I said it's not the sort of crazy women are. I have that too. That irrational frustration that women experience that men tap dance around trying to avoid. I have that normal kind of female behavior, sure. I tried to explain to him, though, that I have a different malady. One that's much more persistent, much more present, much less tangible and much more scary than what he may be expecting. I told him that it's why I'm scared to have kids because I'm afraid I'll give it to them. Or that I won't be able to mother because I'll be too busy crying alone in the bathroom for no reason at all. I told him I'm out of my fucking bag, and that it just happens sometimes, and there won't be anything he can do, and that when it's over it just goes away as mysteriously as it arrived, and there's nothing he can do. I think he thought it would go away if he gave me enough love. I guess I thought that too.

It's funny how so few people know me. I would guess that just about no one who I come into contact with on a daily basis would guess this about me. I'm generally playful and silly, and anyone would qualify me as a happy person. As much as I hate to admit it, I think my mother is the only person who really knows this about me and isn't scared shitless of it. She just takes it as a part of who I am and doesn't really treat me any differently when it's happening.

I wish I could just be a normal partner to Andrew. He's so fucking loving and so fair and so patient. I wish I could be the sort of girl for him who didn't need to be coaxed out of the car when we go to a party. The sort of girl who will just suck it up and play beer pong with his nephews. The sort of girl who can wake up on a Saturday and not feel the need to hide away in her study to spew secrets into the blogosphere. I just can't shake it when it's on me. And I can't explain why, at this moment, I'm terrified by everything that exists beyond the door to this room.

i gots the blues

2008-01-10T21:22:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure where it really comes from, this heavy separateness. It feels like it could all just get sucked out of some hole as if nothing was ever here, and I'll I'd be is thankful for the quiet.

Weight Watchers Update

2008-01-09T23:02:00.000-05:00

I attended my fifth weight watcher's meeting tonight. I stayed exactly the same. I guess I can't complain about that. Andrew and I threw a surprise brunch for my parents this weekend, and it was an eight course, six hour meal at which I ate plenty. I've been doing this for five weeks, and I've lost 3.6 lousy pounds. Granted, four of the five weeks were over the holidays, during which time I likely would have put on a few pounds were I not watching my weight. So it's okay, really. It was just easier before.

There's nothing too terribly interesting to say about it at this juncture, except that it's hard, and it sucks, and I'm sick of thinking about it. So there's my update on the topic.

245 / 248

I weigh a freaking lot.

There's an interesting thing that's happening to me, as I embark on yet another weight loss epoch. It happened to me last time as well. Prior to starting weight watchers, the most frustrating aspect of my weight is the clothing situation. Most of my pretty fantastic wardrobe doesn't fit, and if it does fit, the clothes don't look right. The clothing difficulty paired with not enough energy are really the parts that compel me to try to knock off some weight. In other words, I don't feel that badly about the whole thing. After beginning, though, it's like something becomes clear. I start to see myself at my actual weight and I could just die. I'll catch a look at myself in the mirror and I'm surprised to find that I look so bulky. I'll posture in front of the mirror until I find an angle that's somewhat acceptable, until I realize I'm ridiculously contorted and look like a lunatic. My point here is that it doesn't happen until I've started to address the issue. Starting a new regimen of being healthy is supposed to make a person feel better. Not worse. And this phenomenon has occurred more than once in the same way.

Aside from surprise attacks of self loathing, I suppose it ain't so bad. I do feel better. More healthful, already.

I'll never get a grip on the fact that people who don't have issues with food have no fucking clue what I'm talking about when I talk about it. All I have to do is say the words "weight watchers" and people go through a weird mix of being self conscious, overzealous in concealing their embarrassment and then hasty retreat from the topic. This dynamic used to fascinate me, but now I'm just a little bored over it. I'd just love to love food a little less, to have it mean less to me and to be less compelled to interact with it. And yes, I chose the right word there. I do mean interact. But see, if you're reading this and don't have a problem with food, you would never choose the verb interact to describe what you do with food. I'm not even sure what I'm trying to do by writing about it. So never mind for now.

The New Neighbors

2007-12-31T16:37:00.000-05:00

Someone told me today that what you're doing ten minutes prior to midnight is what you'll spend the coming year doing. As Andrew is working at the restaurant again, and I've opted out of any New Year's Eve activities, I hope to be writing. It seems, though, that my new upstairs neighbors will be fighting and/or moving.

They moved in a few weeks ago, maybe a month now, and pretty much all they've done is fight. At first Andrew and I said, "Well moving is stressful". We gave them the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they were just having growing pains. Andrew and I moved in together three months or so after we got serious. When we had settled in a few days after our move I set the table and prepared a lovely dinner, and he came home from a long day at work and we sat down to eat at our dining room table for the first time. The house was still and quiet, and we giggled awkwardly at each other. We likened our feelings in that moment to kids in summer running to the water, eagerly ripping their clothes off to swim, and then once they'd reached the waters edge, put their toes in to find that the water was uncomfortably cold. So we're familiar with the strangeness of existing in a space where things becomes ours. Our fork. Our candlesticks. Rather than mine. We thought, perhaps, they were having some of that discomfort in their own way.

It's now a month later, and as I write this their pleading tones serenade me, along with thunderous tumult up and down the stairs. It sounds like someone is moving out, and my guess is that it's her.

They're Danielle and Scott. I know these things about them: She's a schoolteacher from Long Beach, and her parents live about ten minutes away. He's sort of career-less, but does have a job. That job is in Westchester where he used to live, and it's about an hour and a half away from here. They've been together for five years, and they're just now moving in together for the first time.

Their fights have gone like this: they battle. They interact in pleading tones, loudly. They curse and say fuck you. He calls her a bitch and she responds with disdain. She says fuck you and shut up and he says a lot of words that sound like he's making a case. I can't hear all the words. They're muffled through the ceiling. My guess, though, is that he's trying to make her see the things he finds objectionable in her character or actions. The tone of her response is indifferent, although aggressive, and her side of the argument sounds a lot like, "Oh what does it even matter any more [you asshole]."

I'm partial to him. This could be because I've spoken with him alone, and I never have with her. He said things are worse between them than they ever have been, and he looked sad when he said it. He was vulnerable, and I value it when people are vulnerable.

In a recent episode, they had their usual pleading attack and counter attack. It escalated. Their tones grew hostile. Then some furniture was turned over. There was a scuffle that sounded like a struggle. There were heavy footsteps on the stairs. The door slammed. A car was turned on, and then sped away. It was her. He spent the next half hour sobbing while he picked up furniture and slid it back into place. About an hour after that I rang his bell and invited him down for tea. He declined.

She hasn't been sleeping over lately, but she does turn up around 4am drunk with an entourage. She and her dumb Long Beach girlfriends clomp around in their cheap heels (I can't tell if they're cheap by the sound, but one can only assume), they argue, and she and her girlfriends leave. The stairway up to their apartment is separated by one slab of sheetrock from our heads while Andrew and I sleep. So the 1, 4 and 6am encounters are particularly aggravating for me. The most frustrating part of the whole thing is that Andrew sleeps through it. Just snores away. Wouldn't even notice save for the fact that I wake him up pointing to the ceiling. He murmurs some indication that he's able to hear them, and goes back to sleep. Ha. I lay awake till it's ceased.

The business hour fights, though, are my favorite. I stooped to a new low today and climbed onto the island in the kitchen to try to get my head as close as possible to the ceiling. Unfortunately the fight ended as soon as I ascended, and I returned to my station at the dining room table. The current battle has been raging since shortly before I began writing and is still going on, and I haven't climbed the island again, so I think I'm getting better. Although I am still trying to decipher actual phrases and details from the hollow throb of their inflection. Now it sounds like three voices, one male and two female, although I can't be sure. The front door was just slammed though, so I can't be sure if someone was coming or going.

Details aside, it's just so dreadful, and so very Italian. I've had plenty of fights with plenty of men, but none have had the blitzkrieg enthusiasm of Danielle and Scott. And if they have, and I just don't remember - which is a possibility - they certainly didn't occur day after day with both parties returning for more of the same.

I suppose five years is a long relationship to let go of. It's just so not my style to stay in something that gives me that sort of discomfort. I can barely stick to things that make me happy, but that's another story entirely.

Well, back to the island with me.

What's With Those Holiday Greeting Cards?

2007-12-26T11:19:00.000-05:00

Who decided that around Christmas everyone is supposed to go out and get photos of their kids taken, and then put those photos into some red holly-themed border, and send them out to everyone they know. Why do people do this?

It's a perfectly nice thing to do. I'm not complaining, really. It's interesting to see how families grow up over the years, I suppose. But why specifically at Christmas?

It's interesting to observe how people handle it. Some take pictures all in khaki and white on the beach in July to use for their Christmas cards. Some have their kids posed in front of the tree. Some are all dressed up, and some are just naturally posed. Some parents are in the photos with the kids, and some just send their kids.

It's just one of those things that I'm skeptical of simply because SO many people do it, and do it the same way. What if a family were to decide one year that they don't want to? Would they be judged? Would other families think something was going on with them, that they couldn't get it together to send their cards? Then rumors would fly, maybe?

It's just a little absurd.

The Inevitable Blog Post About Dieting (& more!)

2007-12-11T18:41:00.000-05:00

Andrew and I joined weight watchers last week, and we're doing the core plan. This means that we don't have to count points or write down every morsel we put into our faces; Rather, we can eat till we're full from a select group of foods. We can eat any vegetables, healthy oils, fruits, meats, fish, tofu and the like. We may only eat whole brown rice, quinoa and other grains of that nature. If we eat dairy, it has to be non-fat. We joined a week ago tomorrow, and this week has been pretty successful. Although, I don't know how successful just yet, because I haven't been weighed. Although, I would qualify this week as a success regardless of not knowing how much (or even if) I've lost. I feel better. I ate well. It will only get better.

I'm going to do something radical now....

I weigh 248 lbs. Now don't everyone freak out. It's not a big deal either that I weigh that much, or that I'm telling you.

I've taken my NaNoWriMo bar below and turned it into a weight loss tracker. During NaNo, you watched the colored bar fill up the white space. Now, you'll watch the colored bar become empty. Well... not empty. Just smaller, as I lose weight.

248 . Top Weight.

It's interesting how people react to me around my weight. I'll never forget the day I saw my Aunt Carol after a few months time, and the very first thing she said, before even saying hello was, "I'm so upset about how you look". I think her eyes may have even become misty. That was years ago, and at this point, I would probably come up with something great to say (like, for example: "Really? I'm so upset with how you treat me." or "I'm sorry you're so upset. Maybe I should come back later when you're feeling better." or "What could you possibly hope to accomplish by saying something so hurtful? Do you think I don't know what I am, and that when you tell me what you see it all the sudden becomes clear and I'll have a change of heart and run sprinting to the fat farm?" or "You're my aunt and you're just supposed to love me. Not judge me."), but then all that happened was that I quietly scorned her.

Last week I had dinner with my parents, and I told them Andrew and I had joined, and my father said, "That makes me happier than the promotion you wanna know the truth." Verbatim. He was referring to my promotion, of course. Never mind the 50,000 words I just spent a month writing, or the fact that I felt more at home in those 50,000 words than I ever have in the pages of my writing ever before, or that I'm now more sure that writing is what I'm meant to be doing, and that I'm certain beyond a doubt that I have many, many books in me. Books that can change people and help people and do the wonderful things to people that books do when they're true and good. Dad is just happy that I joined weight watchers.

Of course, I didn't tell my father any of that, but how could I? He isn't able to concentrate long enough, it seems, to absorb things like that. Plus, it's just not so comfortable telling my parents things that feel very true to my heart. I guess anytime I let them anywhere near my heart they give it an abrupt thwack, or accidentally turn around too quickly with a big purse over their shoulder and knock all the delicate little things off the shelves. So I keep them out of there, and my delicate little things stay in one piece where I've put them. It's not that I don't want to tell them. The words come up. I begin on a train of thought that could feasibly lead me there, but I back down. I guess what I do is start the conversation off, and open the door, and wait for them to walk through it. More often than not they choose some other door off to the side and we end up talking about draperies or dehumidifiers instead. Woe.

My mother is an extreme creature. She always has been. I remember one of my Polish nannies once told me she thought my mother was "too nervous" and she asked me if I agreed. I was a kid, and understood the word nervous only to mean scared or worried. What she meant was anxious, although now that I know what she's referring to, I guess nervous is a perfect word. At the time I said, no, I don't think so. The woman just shrugged. (As much as I disliked my mother, she was still my mother, and this woman was just a Polish nanny from an agency like all the rest. I didn't like her coming into my home and judging us. All that aside, she was right.) My mother's anxiety has no limits on how it chooses to manifest, and without getting into too many of those methods of transformation, I'll say that she's developed a terrible new behavior. She chooses to... in moments.... (how to describe....)... She just becomes super affectionate all the sudden. In one particulary, please-god-drag-me-across-some-jagged-rocks-at-the-bottom-of-a-quary-
because-it-would-be-better-than-this moment, she came up behind me where I was sitting at the kitchen table, put her arms around me, and in a poetry voice said to me, "I feel so blessed to have you in my life." I responded by picking her up and tossing her through the window.

Okay, I didn't. But I did feel violent, and if I were a different sort of girl I may have pushed her or something. So, the other night over dinner, when I was gingerly opening the aforementioned doors, she called upon what I'll call "a surreptitious face of motherly pride". See, what happened was, she called up the face store before dinner, and asked for something that "looks like I'm trying to mask pride" and they gave her the face she was wearing while I started to talk about writing. It was this phony, contrived...thing... that she slipped on. It was obviously just not possible for her to listen to me and respond with decent questions that might actually get us further into something that mattered. I skimmed the surface (of the surface) of my experience of being in a cottage writing, and she put on a face that said she was so overwhelmed with motherly pride that she could hardly contain it, and then we were a happy family who shares and communicates. See how that works? I speak. She feels good about that. She lets me know without letting me know. Then everything's great. Simple! A magic formula for familyness. Brilliant. Standing O, Mom.

Next topic, they're planning to paint the apartment. I suggested color. She said no. They'll stay with bone.

This is why I don't go to dinner with them. They can go out with their friends, and they can talk about home decor, and doctors and lots of other nothing, and they can drink too much and go home happy.

One thing my mother knows better about, though, is mentioning my weight. She doesn't talk about it. It's one line she somehow knows not to cross. I wonder how that is.

Even Andrew told me he worries about my weight. Would you believe it?! I should first say that Andrew and I speak wholly candidly about our various weight concerns. I've gained more than 50 lbs since we've been together and his love/attraction/happiness with me hasn't waned in the slightest. (I guess I've been lucky that way. I've gained weight in every relationship I've ever been in and they've never said anything. Across the board. Except that idiot John who I cheated on. With his best friend. ha.)

Obviously, Andrew and I joined weight watchers together, so it's no secret that in our home and in our little family of two we make poor food choices. We're historically two food addicts of the worst fucking variety, and we're of a similar breed. We've both always been attractive, regardless of how heavy we are. We're that specific branch of fat person where it's sort of irrelevant to the people around us because of how we are as people, and because our genes handle the weight well. I have these huge tits and great hair and I'm bawdy and funny and comfortable enough so that people manage to see past it. Andrew is... well, he's him. And no one can help but adore him. Plus he's got that big-guy teddy-bear gentle-giant combo that people love to fall for. So we're kindred in that way. And what goes along with our particular breed of fat-but-it-doesn't-matter is that we each have our secret repositories, full of moments of fat-related humiliations and disappointment. Mine have made me edgier, more prickly and less forgiving of people of all varieties who are assholes on every level relative to fat or not. His have made him more tender, more compassionate.

We share these things, and we talk about them. My bagged weight-watcher-safe tuna sandwich on diet bread that my mother would pack for me to take to school in 5th grade. His traffic-cone-orange thermos filled with reconstituted skim-milk that his mother would send him off with each day. Yup. We talk about our lovers, and who we think ultimately didn't work out because of something ultimately related to our weight, and how we felt about ourselves. And we talk about how our weight affects our relationship. I once asked him if he'd still love me if I were 500 lbs. He said he believed he would, and then asked me if I would still love him if I were 500 lbs? It's probably one of the the best questions anyone's ever asked me.

So anyway, Andrew the other day said to me that he, too, worries about my weight. When I looked appalled and clutched my heart, he reminded me that I'm always begging him not to die. He's 13 years older, and it's something that concerns me. I want him to be fit and young so we can be old together. I wouldn't particularly like to wheel him around and feed him gruel and all that. So the other day, he said that I'm young now, so I'm limber and have energy, but in a few years if I stay heavy it will change. And he's right. He's right.

So here I find myself, on weight watchers. Again.

Two years ago I lost 70 lbs. I lost 70 lbs and then had sex with everyone in New York. It was an interesting time. It was a great time, actually. (I think a lot of people would chalk my behavior up to low self esteem or acting out or losing control. It was nothing of the sort. I was finally just able to be myself. It was amazing.) And at the time, I thought (and said out loud on various occasions) that I thought I would die if I ever gained it back. Well I have gained a great deal of it back, and I'm not dead. Not even close. And if nothing else, I've learned that.

What To Do About Family

2007-12-09T01:10:00.000-05:00

Tonight was the Chanukah "party" at my mother's house. It's the whole Jewish side of the family - my mother's side. I don't believe I have the room in my consciousness to navigate through the labyrinth of dynamics that exist among us. Sitting quietly, enjoying the nice moments and overlooking the shitty ones isn't really doing it for me any more.

The struggle is mostly around my cousin Deborah. I realize I'm entering into something I can't take away just by writing this, never mind posting it on the interweb, where anyone can read it. It's a chance I'm taking and a choice I'm making...

She's ruining her kids. She's ruining their lives. I want to hit her in the face and tell her to shut up more often that not. I want to turn to her husband and ask him how he can allow her to behave the way she does. That spineless sack of wallpaper paste lets her get away with the aggression, the anxiety, the incessant acting out. My aunt, Deborah's mother... it's a familiar situation. She's their savior figure, and she's letting Deborah get away with it too, and I've thought on more than one occasion it's specifically and deliberately so that she can be the safe person to run to. She was that for me. She was that safe person. The eternally supportive fairy godmother, always there to say yes to counter my parents nos, and to smile supportively when I was wanting for an ally.

I can remember the specific moment my relationship with her changed. She had just been cruel to my mother (it involved the candlesticks of their dead mother), and so my mother was busy being her crazy self, lashing out in every direction. My aunt looked at me and crinkled up her face as if to say, what's her problem? For the first time, I wasn't able to return the look. I didn't go to her. I didn't meet her there. I stood firmly on the dividing line between her and my mother and took neither side, and by doing that, I sided with my mother, who had always been the enemy she defended me from and so... so that was that.

Of course, we were still close in a way after that but never the same. And once her grandkids were born, forget it. I was in the middle of a sentence tonight when she fled to retrieve a cup of milk the boy-child was asking for. There were roughly 5 other people in the immediate vicinity who could have fetched it. She told me three times how happy she is about my promotion, but she never once asked what it means, or what my day is like, or if I even like my job.

And of course, there was never a follow-up to the emails we exchanged around my writer's cottage and thanksgiving. The ball was in her court, she wrote me to say she'd write me, and she never did. The dialog was weeks ago. I don't just forget nonsense like that. I don't just sweep it aside and carry on. There has to be some acknowledgment, and there has been none from her.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I shouldn't be surprised that she doesn't know how to do this. She's the sort of woman, that when you ask her how she is, she talks about her husband's cholesterol and her daughter's weight loss and her grandkids' most recent motor/sensory development. She never says how she is. I suppose she doesn't much think about it. I've never heard her say she's especially tired or in pain. She gest colds and the flu with terrible severity, but she doesn't really complain about it. It follows then that concepts of contentment, happiness or dissatisfaction with the state of one's life is probably as foreign to her as ignoring a hurtful exchange is to me.

I gave Shana an ant farm for Chanukah. It's a high-tech kind of thing with blue glowing lights that shine up through blue gel. It's not sand that they tunnel in, it's gel, so you can see them better. Shana hated it from the minute she opened it. Aunt Carol and Deborah immediately ran to find her another present to open so she wouldn't be sad. They found her something with frills. Something pink and soft and princessy. Something exactly like what I was avoiding getting for her. All they had to do was show the slightest bit of interest and encourage her to watch the ants, and read the book I gave her to go with it.

An hour later Deborah, that cunt, sat in the living room saying to no one, or everyone, that Shana would never go to sleep with "that thing" in her bedroom, and that she'd give the ant farm away later to Zach's teacher, and they could keep it as a classroom thing. Typically one waits till they're out of earshot of the gift giver before talking about getting rid of the item. Typically. But Deborah isn't typical. She's without a doubt the most toxic person I know, and I can't continue to be in rooms with her quietly allowing the poison to spill out of her without responding our countering in some way.

People choose friends, and people get close to their friends, and then often that relationship becomes outmoded and the people move on. With family, though, you're just expected to endure it till the end of days because DNA is shared. I don't... I don't think I want to.

some really silly/fun stuff i encountered in my many moments of procrastination

2007-11-30T15:03:00.001-05:00

Make horses(?) sing in harmony, and create your own beat.
Make a pipe cleaner break dance. I recommend you listen to some hip-hop, and type slowly to the beat to see him dance.
This is a maze game that's really hard. I never made it to the end. I always get stuck in the elevator.
I lost hours on this one.
Some stuff I'd definitely put in my house.
These dancers make it clear just how many words are in that daft punk song! Not many. WARNING: you may want to don boy shorts and a sports bra and write all over your body.

New Goal

2007-11-30T14:45:00.000-05:00

50209 / 85000 words. 59% done!

(I think it's safe to stop titling every blog post with a NaNo prefix now.)

I feel so great to have finished, and I've set a new goal for myself. 85,000 by new year's eve. It may seem lofty, but I really want to continue with this. I feel like I'm approaching a mid way point, and by 85,000 words, I should be nearing a climax, and preparing to wind it down toward an ending. An ending!

A few of my fellow NaNos aren't prepared to set a new goal. I think they're more interested in going back to edit and revisit. I didn't really follow the NaNo credo quite perfectly, and I edited a great deal along the way rather than just spewing words out. I'd say what I have right now is a pretty solid first draft. Not a complete first draft by any means. Just a draft that's a basic framework for the story I'm telling.

My last 1,000 words or so have been a challenge. I'm at a part of the story where I'm coming to realize that I'm contradicting myself about one issue. I'm either going to have to bend the current happenings to fit with what I've previously written on the topic, or let the story lead where it seems to be going, and go back to address all prior instances of the issue in question. I guess that's what happens with a long body of work. It changes, and I'm more inclined to let the story unfold and then go back to smooth out the wrinkles.

Part of the challenge is the document is quite large now. I have an 11pt Helvetica in 1.5 spacing, and it's about 115 pages. Going back to find every single place I mentioned something could be a challenge.

I do have it broken up into sections, of course, so finding portions I want to find isn't a problem. But one character's vignette may be 25 pages, which is hard to weed through if I'm not sure what exactly I'm looking for. This problem I'm encountering is with a significant plot element. It's not just some unimportant side detail. I just want to be careful not to have contradictions in the end. I guess what I should do is do a character sketch of the issue I'm dealing with. I should write that out, so I'm clear on it, and then go back to deal with it. That's what I'll do.

! NaNo Completo !

2007-11-30T14:04:00.001-05:00

50209 / 50000 words. 100% done!

I'm done! I'm done!

This is the little logo thing they give you when you submit your final word count on the NaNoWriMo site:

Its Long Beach's Fault

2007-11-29T14:41:00.000-05:00

I liked it for a minute, but... but not right now.

I started my day at a local panineri called Paninis and Bikinis. Beach themed names never tire around here. It was too busy and filled with middle aged Jewesses lunching, and if you've ever seen to two middle aged Jewish women lunching, you know their tone is bursting with varying levels of aggression, even if said aggression is good natured.

So I switched venues and came to the only locally owned coffee shop on Long Beach. I'm not sure I know the name of this place, but I'm sure there's a 'surf' or a 'wave' in it in some insipid alliterative configuration. It isn't SO bad, except for two impossibly irritating features. One are the people who work here, who are young and dumb and are talking loudly about who they "hooked up" with last weekend. Second is the lousy fucking music emanating from the speakers. I had considered asking them to change the station, but as I'm writing this, the prior turned the latter UP. I just can't write with top 40 in my head.

I could go to the library. The thing is, the library in Westhampton was so lovely. It had lots of nooks and cushy chairs everywhere, and the tables where I was sitting were heavy wood with glass tops and between the glass were old maps of the area. The Long Beach library is so sterile. I just don't want to deal with the contrast.

My final option is the starbucks, which is generally pretty quiet. But do I want to say I wrote part of my novel in a freaking starbucks? I suppose I could go to the diner or something, but I'm not hungry, and the waitresses might not take kindly to me lingering endlessly.

It's a sad state of affairs. My house seems so dingy and cluttered in comparison to the empty little clean slate of my writer's cottage. Plus, it's fucking freezing cold inside. I don't know if the heat is broken or what, but I slept in a sweater and a hat last night.

I feel incredibly angry at the moment. And frustrated. And very open to the possibility of lashing out at strangers which hardly ever serves me well. It could be the 17 cups of coffee I've had today. Or it could be the square peg-ness of me trying to fit into the round hole of Long Beach. I really was happy here for a time, but today I could just be done with it. For good. And actually.... never come back.

NaNo Home-oh

2007-11-28T20:35:00.000-05:00

This morning was my last morning at the cottage. I miss it. I felt quite sad leaving. I puttered around for 2 hours or so cleaning up and packing and clearing out the fridge. I had such a lovely time. I forgot that I loved living alone. I'm sure I used to get lonesome sometimes, but more often than not I think I rather enjoyed living alone and being surrounded by only my things. Not that I don't love living with Andrew. I do. I love being with him and coming home to him. It was just nice to have that again, if only in brief. I felt like I could cry pulling away.

The good news, though, is that....

40829 / 50000 words. 82% done!

Ta Da!

This means I have to write only 4585 words tomorrow and Friday in order to finish, and I know I can. I was supposed to go back to work tomorrow, but I took the rest of the week off so that I'd be sure to finish.

It's amazing that just a few days ago I had resigned not to finish, and now I'm sure that I will. Plus... I don't know if it's that luncheonette or what, or if my writing muscles are just in better shape, but 4,000 words has been coming pretty easy. I'm also writing all the fun parts now. At some point, I'll have to come back and join it all together. Less fun.

I'm home now. Andrew and I made dinner together. He didn't work tonight so that he'd be here when I got home, making the house welcoming and warm, which it was. The problem is, I just don't think I can write while he's here. I wrote about 900 words, but I'm torn between going to sleep so I can wake up early to write, or going out now to write somewhere else. The only thing opened in Long Beach at this hour are bars. I wouldn't be opposed to going to the bar to write. At all. I just don't really feel like it. But I do feel like writing. Conundrum.

I anticipated this scenario before I left Westhampton, and in preparation, I ordered myself some shelf brackets. Shelf brackets? you may be saying to yourself. Yes. Shelf brackets. With which I can finally hang those shelves in my office. And on the shelves, I plan to put all the crap that's currently on my desk and in boxes on the floor. And when the surfaces are clear, I'll buy a rug, and light a candle, and shut the door... and write.

Holy (NaNo) Cow

2007-11-27T17:15:00.000-05:00

34369 / 50000 words. 69% done!

In the interest of blogging this and getting back to my story... An excerpt from an email I sent to DBS earlier:

* * * * * * *
So I decided to go to the luncheonette to do some writing. Sitting alone in the house... the air just sorta vibrates, ya know? So I went to the luncheonette and I'm writing, writing away, and...

First, some back story:

I decided I want my story to have the sort of disjointed vignette quality of stories like Crash, Magnolia, Pulp Fiction, etc. Hence the text I sent asking if you knew of more stories like that. The good and bad news is that people were only able to recommend movies of that sort, and not books. Actually, one book. But like 7 movies. That's good, because maybe I can be a pioneer in that in literature. Bad, because there's very little inspiration/research I can get/do from books. So anyways, I decided that that's really what I wanted to do. I mean, how I wanted to arrange the story.

So I blog about how I have no idea what I'm doing, and I have no idea how to write, and I'm starting to think my story is bollocks. And then Xtine, bless her heart, leaves the comment that says just to write the stories, and then break them up at the end. Brilliant, and so simple. And I mean, duh. Editinggggg. Helloooo.

So yesterday afternoon, I just started writing. I just started in the middle... I mean really in the middle. I just wrote the line "... she was on a roll now." Ha. That was the first line of the session. I started on something where the character was already on a roll. And so... she was on a roll, and telling a story. 5000 words later, she's still on a roll, and I'm realizing that this is one of the main vignettes. I'm, like, writing the book and not even meaning to. I was all, holy cow, I'm writing a book.

Back to today at the luncheonette:

So, I'm writing, writing away and it hits me. I figured out my plot! I can't tell you because I haven't written it yet, and I don't want it to be diluted. But all the sudden, I have a story. A real story, with a hook and a plot and a viable "problem" to solve. There's mystery and things get worse before they get better and there are secrets the reader has to figure out.

AND, what I thought would be toughest of all! I figured out how the characters are interconnected. Yup. That was the struggle in doing the vignette thing. They all kinda ran into each other before, but I didn't know how exactly to weave their stories together. And now I DO! I know exactly how. And it's better than I thought it would be.

I mean, I'm under no illusion that I'll go through another phase of thinking the story is crap, and being at a total loss for how to actually get these characters in a room together. But I have never felt anything like this. I mean... I feel like a real writer, and like this could be a really real thing for me when it's all said and done.

And I'm so hesitant to talk about it. I mean, I'm even reconsidering sending this email (which I must have gotten over if you're reading this), because I don't want to jinx it or say it all and then let it not be true. But right now, I feel more like a real writer than I ever, ever have. I had an honest to goodness epiphany. Ha!

So that's good.

* * * * * * *

Isn't that fantastic, everyone? I'm in the library now, which is the noisiest library I've ever been in. The librarians are very chatty cathies but they loaned me headphones and aren't telling me I can't have my bottle of water, so no biggie.

I'm caught thinking that maybe I ought to call Kristin and ask her if I can have the house for two more days, and calling Mike and asking if I can have two more days off. I feel so guilty wanting to do that, though. I mean... more money, more time off, more time away from work to catch up on later. And what if I do take the rest of the week and end up deadlocked the way I was most of the week, and just do a piddly couple thousand words?

The thing is, now I'm thinking I can actually finish this! Not the whole book, of course, not in the next two days. But NaNoWriMo. I only have 30% left to go! And I learned something today, which is that I write much better with people and noise around. Between the luncheonette and this noisy library, I've had a more successful day than I did in all the others put together, secluded in that house. But, I still think the quietude of the house, and the relative isolation from work and social things helped me to clear my mind enough so that I could really get to where I am.

I'll talk to Andrew about it. He always makes so much sense. Or... often, anyway. ha.

NaNo Sunny Last Day

2007-11-27T11:17:00.000-05:00

Today's my last full day at my writer's cottage. I love it here so much, and I do not want to go home. I have some anxiety that this is it. That I'll go back to my life and feel tired and drained and not write any more.

I do have a room of my own at home. I could finally get around to hanging those shelves to put those art supplies away, so that I can sit comfortably in there to write my tome. Virginia Woolf was right about the concern of money. In my case, it doesn't put me in any worse of a position than any man (ie; Andrew). It just puts me in a bad position, independent of how it compares.

I've also considered getting off the train each night and going straight to the library till it closes, which is at 9:pm each night. And I can just make space in my life to write. I can say no to weekend activities and stay home to write instead of schlepping all over the damned place making visits.

I never know what I'll end up doing with myself until I do it. Aunt Carol wasn't wrong when she said I needed discipline. I have considerably more than I used to, but you can't fit a round shape into an undisciplined container.

Instead of feeling badly, I suppose I ought to channel whatever impetus I have into writing. I think I'll take my macbook and head to the luncheonette to write for a bit. I should re acclimate with writing in public spaces.

Oh yeah, and here's where I'm at.

27966 / 50000 words. 56% done!

Oh Yeah, Work Sucks

2007-11-26T13:22:00.000-05:00

I'm still at my writer's cottage, except this morning I had to sign on to do some About.com work. I signed on around 10am and I'm still not done working and it's past 1:pm! For a while there I was really pissed that I ever decided to work, but now I'm happy that I did. Because I re-remembered how completely full of bullshit my job is, and how I really want to write. Stories. Books. For a living. I'd almost forgotten!

So now I'm hitting the grindstone again. I don't think I'll finish my 50k words in the next 4 days. I'm sure I won't. I only wrote 84 words yesterday. But I did stare at a blank page for a good five hours. I've lied to the NaNo-Show offs who are at 47K+. Friendly competition culminates in head-hanging shame. Or straight up lying. Oh well.

It's gray. And cold. And a perfect day for writing a bestseller.

Nano-Fine-I'll-Outline-My-Plot

2007-11-25T16:59:00.000-05:00

I gave it some thought, and did some searches for plot, and came across a few sites that had interesting things to say on plots, outlines and the importance of preparation. I decided it would be a good idea after all, and I gave some thought to my storyline.

I want it to feel disjointed, but not too disjointed. I want it to have the intermingled vignette quality of Babel and Pulp Fiction.

I decided to write a synopsis, like what would be found on the back of the book (except longer) and this is what I have come up with so far:

The U.S.A. has been disbanded in a civil war, and re-established into corporate controlled New America. The Moston Project, a government initiated endeavor cloaked as an alternative to abortion, has gone awry. Fantanelle, one of the earlier generations of the Moston Project, escapes the institution where she was raised and spends nearly a decade eluding her captors.

Along the way she meets Ridley, a lonesome agronomist; Hunter, a bawdy and wise madame; and Bea, leader of an anti-corporate resistance. Each character has suffered his or her own losses, and struggles in their own way to find love and to recover from their own demons and isolation.

Fantanelle discovers that her mother is alive, and after modifying her appearance to evade the people still searching for her, she sets out on a mission to find her, and to learn more about her life and how she ended up at the institute. She calls on the friends she’s made for help, and they discover that their paths are all intermingled.

It seems like a good plot, except I have no idea how to make it happen.

My biggest fear here is that I'll write something contrived. I want the flow to be natural. I want the surprises to be punch-in-the-gut shocking. I want the commentary to be powerful and thought provoking. I want the prose to be lyrical and poetic. In the end, I'd rather read a review that says it's boring as opposed to over-reaching, obvious or dishonest.

Right now, there's no "problem", per se. The story is becoming about Fantanelle and her escape from an evil institution, and her journey to straighten herself out. Sound familiar? If you know me at all, it should. I don't want to write my story here. Specifically, I want to NOT write my story here. This story is about these characters I've created and their lives. There's a time for my own story, and it's not now. So how can I pull back from that 25k words in and give the story back to Ridley, Hunter and Bea?

No really... how?

Na No-Plot

2007-11-25T11:39:00.000-05:00

23311 / 50000 words. 47% done!

I haven't done quite as much as I've wanted to, but I still feel good about what I have done.

I'm starting to have doubts about my story. I have close to 25k words now, and the average novel is about 100k words (give or take 50k or so). If I plan to write a 100k word novel, then I'm about a quarter of the way through, and I'm just not where I should be a quarter of the way into the book. The characters are fairly well established, and they're moving along, but I'm not sure a reader would have the investment in the characters that they ought to by now.

But! That's not what I'm supposed to worry about right now. I'm just supposed to write. That's the NaNo philosophy. And like DBS reminded me yesterday "they" say there's no writing, only re writing. So I just need to create a story, and then I can go back and imbue them with more of the details that make characters lovable and loath-able.

I'm also a little concerned about my plot. Andrew keeps suggesting I specify my outline more and really plan the story through to the end. I'm so resistant to doing that. I don't want to know what happens ahead of time. I want to find out. I want it to develop organically. But still, the haphazardness is concerning me. But! Another NaNo thing is: No plot! No problem! That's kind of their tag line. So I'll just keep writing for now and hope the thing comes together into something more than just a fun little story about people moving around and meeting each other.

Stopping Short: A Bab-blog-ue

2007-11-24T18:40:00.000-05:00

19975 / 50000 words. 40% done!

So, Andrew came up last night, as I mentioned in a prior post. I didn't really get much sleep. The bed is small here and we are big, and I just couldn't get much done while he was here. I think I wrote about 800 words the whole time. He was here for about 20 hours.

The whole time he was here I kinda wanted him to leave, even though he was being SO good and quiet and reading alone in the other room to leave me to write. I just couldn't do it while he was here!

Now he's gone and, of course, I just wish he would come back. I wish he were in the other room reading quietly. But he's taking his mother to Yorktown Heights to see Monica perform in the Sound of Music.

Writing is getting to be a little lonesome. And it's not being out here in the desert that's making me feel lonely. (Okay, I'm in the Hamptons, not the desert.) It's the actual writing. I was in the middle of this abstract dream sequence and feeling very writerly, but then I just got... lonesome.

I wish I could smoke in here. It's distracting to have to go outside every time. As much as I've tried not to, I have linked writing to smoking so that it's quite a challenge to have to get started on the old manuscript without lighting up.

And here's me, right around now.

Now, back to the writing with me.

NaNo Seclud-o Update

2007-11-24T10:36:00.000-05:00

17651 / 50000 words. 35% done!

And going strong!

Andrew visited me last night, and although I know I'm not supposed to, I let him read what I've written so far. Aside from that fact that he praised it, and thinks the story is great, he read for forty five minutes! Forty-Five minutes of reading, is what I've written so far. That feels great.

The goal here is 50,000 words by the end of the next few days. While I'm still quite a ways away, I can still finish if I complete about 4500 - 4700 words a day. That's actually pretty doable. So off I go.

Worth a Watch

2007-11-24T00:51:00.000-05:00

Naomi Wolf: The End of America

NaNo Andiamo!

2007-11-23T13:21:00.000-05:00

I've been here since Wednesday, and this is where I am so far.

14621 / 50000 words. 29% done!

Arriving
I arrived on time, and the drive was easy. I met Kristin, who is lovely. Kristin is the owner of the Bishop Cottage. She showed me around the house, explaining everything. She told me everything I would have told a renter, if this were my house. She explained the thermostat and the balance of airflow by keeping some doors open and some doors closed. She had her son on her hip, and he wouldn't let her put him down, so she schlepped him the whole time, which was impressive. Kids get heavy...

She showed me the main house, and then the smaller guest house in back that I originally intended to rent. I preferred the large house, which is where I am now. She said that she and her husband thought I'd be more comfortable here. At first I assumed something was wrong with the guest house in the back, when she offered me the main house for the same price. As it turns out, though, she really did just think I'd like the main house more.

She handed over the key, and I handed over the remaining $220... then searched for $30 more in crumpled bills at the bottom of my bag. Ha.

She was close to my age... maybe early 30's? She had a newish volvo station wagon with her husband's dry cleaning hanging in the back seat, next to the child seat. She was in her suburban-mom comfort pants. A couple of years ago I would have assumed a lot of things about her.

She asked, somewhat carefully, what I'm writing about. I just started talking. I told her I work in technology, in the internet, and that there's a lot to say, and that I'm writing a Sci Fi story, and that there's a dearth of female sci fi writers. I think I probably prattled a bit because I'm shy about writing Science Fiction. I'm self conscious about it, so I make excuses. I should just own it, really.

Then we said goodbye. She told me she and her husband were so excited to have me here, working. She seemed very interested in me, which made me feel good. I liked her. I like being here, and I'm taking special care of their house... much better care than I take of my own.

Getting Settled
So then, she left. I pulled all my things inside and unpacked a bit. I put my toiletries in the bathroom, and hung up my vest in the little closet with hooks instead of hanger rods. I set up my computers at the dining room table and set out the books I brought. I plugged in my ipod dock/speaker donut thing and set out a few things to make the place feel like my own. I checked my work email and changed my outfit. I have no idea why I changed. I just like to do that. It feels like a new phase of something when I change my clothes. At the last party Andrew and I had, I changed my outfit 4 times.

I went to the grocery store and spent about $135 on a week's worth of groceries. That's Hamptons living, I guess. I came home and put everything away. I turned the TV on for a bit and ate some snacks. Then I shut the TV off and went into the dining room to write.

It was dark already, and the dining room has entirely wooden walls, stained in a dark brown. So the dining room felt different than it had earlier. It felt isolated from the rest of the house and sort of creepy. I didn't love it in there. I pulled the chair out where I had set up my computer, and the ratan was ripped in the middle. So I switched it out for another chair and sat down.

My goal was just to stay put. I opened up my document, but didn't feel settled enough to write. I was determined, though, stay there until I fell into a writing pattern. I spent about an hour staring at the walls. I tipped back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. I hung off the side of my chair and checked out the rug underneath the table. I examined my nails and changed the music a few times.

Finally, I gave in and surfed the web. The first thing I stumbled upon was something called Digital Resistance. This was perfect! I was struggling with establishing one of my main character's political leanings, and this site would be the perfect thing to help. Still not feeling the writing groove, though, I bookmarked the page and stumbled again. The very next thing I hit on was writing-world.com! 50 Tips for writers. I nearly threw my hands up then. The internets wanted me to write more than I wanted me to write. I stumbled once more, and came upon the procrastinator's flow chart.

Okay, fine, I thought. And I wrote a bit. But it wasn't happening. Then, I thought... there's a whole house. I have a laptop. I could really be anywhere.

After three hours of sitting there, I realized I had consigned myself to the creepy dining room for no reason. A few minutes after this epiphany, I found myself in the living room watching back to back episodes of A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila. Feeling guilty, I got into bed to read a bit, and went to sleep around 2:30am.

Day 1: Thanksgiving
My full first day here started off well. I woke up shortly before 10:am, and got out of bed. That's hardly ever something I do... waking up and then getting up. I usually wake up and go back to sleep, and wake up and go back to sleep and then eventually convince myself to rise. But I woke up feeling rested.

I went to the 7-11 for some sugar, which I forgot to buy the day before. I drove to the water's edge, where I sat for a few minutes. Then I came home. I enjoyed some coffee and meusli, and then went back to the book I'm reading. I took a few sci fi books from the library last week. I really haven't read much sci fi, so I think I should. I saw the title "The Carpet Makers" in the sci fi section and thought it so perfect for me! Carpet weavers in the future. What could be more up my alley than that, right now? The book is pretty lousy, but I'm still finding it helpful to read. The author, Andreas Eschbach, introduces a new main character in each chapter, and then promptly kills them, which is annoying. The story isn't character driven at all, as you're not given time to really invest in anyone before they're offed. The plot is loose, zipping around from present to past without a pattern. Nevertheless, like I said, I'm still sort of into it, and curious to see how it wraps up. It's more fantasy than sci-fi, really. I'm coming to learn, though, that the two genres are largely intermingled.

After reading, I called my family. It sounded like there were 50 people in my Aunt's house. The dog was barking and the kids were running around and people were yelling at the dog. I spoke with Uncle Joey, then Mom, then Dad, then Aunt Carol. I would have talked to Deborah as well, but Aunt Carol hung up when we said bye, and that was that. Dad asked me, loudly, "Are you sorry you're not here?!" And I said, "Well, not really." And he responded loudly, "No?!" I was irritated that he broadcast his version of my response. Oh well.

Later, I put a chicken in the oven to roast with some vegetables, and two hours later had that with some sweet potato fries. My own little Thanksgiving dinner. Then, at the kitchen table, I wrote.

Finally, it came. I re wrote Bea, who I originally had as somewhat young and green. She met Owen, who introduced her to a life as a resistance leader. This didn't feel right, and so I changed all that. She's well established before she ever meets Owen, now. So is he. They meet as contemporaries. Equals. And fall in love. I wrote a bit of Fantanelle as well.

Today: Friday

I woke up later than I wanted to today, and went to my computer right away. I re read a lot, and what's remarkable is... I like my story! I like it a lot, and I feel good about it.

Last night, in bed, I began getting Fantanelle out of the institution. I found that her escape is a version of mine, from Desisto. She walks along a dark road and hides in bushes when she hears a car, as I did. She's startled by a large owl taking flight from a tree, as I was. And she's dampened by a fine mist that fell steadily while she walked, as I was. I'm getting stuck a little bit, because when it becomes personal, it gets harder to write. I need to break out of that a little bit and put Fantanelle back on her own track, not on mine. So that's what's in order for today. That, and chicken leftovers.

Character Sketches

2007-11-12T18:25:00.000-05:00

These are character sketches of four of the five characters I've written about so far in NaNo.

Fantanelle
14, Female. She is one of the earlier generations of children whose parents essentially sold them to corporations to have their DNA scientifically encoded. (Their DNA was encoded to maximize their intellectual capacity and ensure health to become corporate workers). The work done on her wasn’t entirely successful. It just didn’t take. So she became a ward of a corporation, in an orphanage-like facility, where there are many like her. She’s gotten most of her information about the world from electronic sources.

Owen (maybe the son of Irma?)
Male, 50s. Sheep farmer in a region that used to be Canada, but is now made up of tiny privately owned provinces. He makes wool and grows cotton. (Natural fibers are very rare.) The sheep are prized Marinos, originally from Australia, but moved northward by his great grandfather, who bought them for a song just before the country was submerged. He’s a radical, anti-corporate crusader. He’s watched and disapproved of by corporate spies. They thought him a terrorist and stalked him until several years ago, when he got them to give up on him due to inactivity. They thought he’d grown out of his radicalism, but really he’d just gotten smarter and gone further underground. They still check up on him periodically. His woman is Bea.

Bea
Female, late 40s. Bea is extraordinarily beautiful. She’s always worn her hair long. She is less offended by genetically modified living than Owen is, but she obliges his wishes in the home. Although she does wear synthetic clothing and make-up at times. She has equal scorn for corporate control and was more dangerous than Owen when they were more active, planting several lethal bombs, killing more than 30 head figures of government corporations. The government always regarded her as a danger, due to her proximity to Owen, but never suspected her of the bombings or killings. She currently processes, dyes and weaves the wool and cotton. She also runs an old-fashioned print out of their subterranean home where she prints the anti-corporate literature that she and Owen write, turning them into coded literature. The pamphlets are coded in an ancient dot matrix that looks like printer errors at a glance, but it’s really a series of symbols that are a combination of morse code, Braille-like arrangements and binary scripting languages.

Ridley
Male, late 20s. Lives alone in a countrified suburb of a bigger city in a corporate-owned housing development. He has straight red hair with a parted-to-the-side haircut that never sits flat against his head, even though he wants it to. He’s very tall and lean and favors a particular micro-fiber shirt style adapted from glen-plaid flannels of yore. He is smart, but slightly socially mal adept, and so doesn’t mesh well socially. He always sits a bit on the outside and doesn’t ever really know why. His work is agronomy, and he’s very interested in his work. He spends most of his time in the lab testing soil samples for fertility, contamination, etc. He never wanted to work for a government corporation, but ended up conceding, as it was the best way for him to get access to the lab and all of the supplies he uses for his own experiments and research. He is nice and earnest.

NaNoWriMo

2007-11-12T17:43:00.000-05:00

In an attempt at finally getting some words down on paper, I'm participating in NaNoWriMo.

I'm renting this cute little place in WestHampton. I'll go up the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and stay for a week, alone. I'm about 18% through so far (as you can see below), and I'm hoping a week away will help get me caught up.

I'll post this little updater chart as I go.

9234 / 50000 words. 18% done!

I let my family know that I wouldn't be at Thanksgiving this year, and the response was mixed. I cleverly told my dad that I'd be going away to write before I told him when I'd be doing that. He was uncharacteristically enthused about my plan! When I broke it to him, a week or so later, that it would be over Thanksgiving, he looked a little disappointed, but then handled it with great grace! Aunt Carol didn't do so well. I let her know via email.

This was Aunt Carol's response:

You're wrong, I'm not happy you're writing on Thanksgiving. It greatly disturbs me that you do not care about family, holidays, etc. and have no interest in being with usl

I think the whole writing thing is ridiculous. Spending 8 days and who knows how much money to write 55,000 words for nothing makes no sense. If this is what you need to "get going on your project," I can't imagine what you will need to keep it going. You've been trying to write for years and what you need is discipline and motivation and you cannot permanently get either in 8 days in a cabin. When the 8 days are over you'll be back to your life and nothing will have changed.

Pretty much everyone's response has been better than hers. This is what the owner of the cottage I'm renting had to say:

Also, we would like to offer you the Guest House (for the same rate as the cottage). The idea of a guest working on a novel at The Bishop Guest House or Cottage is intriguing to us!

Thanks!

Kristin.

None of that is either here or there really. I've talked about Aunt Carol's response enough so that I don't much feel like blogging about it here. Suffice it to say, it was upsetting. And disappointing. And now I'm basically over it and on to worrying about my characters.

I've fairly well established my four main characters, and I've given them enough backstory so that we know why they are where they are. But... what do I make them do now?

News Stand Men & Coffee Cart Guys (and the occasional fruitseller, too)

2007-05-09T10:12:00.000-05:00

It must be something about me. It's just gotta be. I know it has to be something I bring upon myself, because I know for a fact that not every other woman is groped, fondled and talked dirty to by the newsstand men, coffee cart guys and fruit sellers of New York City.

Two years ago I stopped in front of 1411 Broadway at a fruit seller to buy a plum and a bunch of grapes to bring up to my mother's office so we could nosh while I visited. As I dug in my purse for the loose change that always jangles around in the bottom, the fruit seller - a tall pock-marked Arab - told me in great detail what he would like to do to various parts of my body. It started with a massage and I think ended up with... something... in my mouth. I stood quietly staring at him as these mottled words oozed from his grotesque, cracked yet slimy lips. I let him finish. And when he did finish I pulled the bottom apple from the pile and walked away, grapes and plum in tow, unpaid for, as the skinny Arab chased escape grannysmiths down 40th street hollering "Yoo Beeech!"

Cut to nine months ago when I met Harrid and Ttolit. These are the south Indian newsstand guys who sell me my perfectly sweetened coffee and a New York Times each morning before I board my fourteen hour train to the City. (Okay, so it's only 55 minutes.) Ttolit is the brains of the duo, possessing a certain peaceful quietude, while Harrid is the front man, slightly more silly and outgoing. I've taken the time to ask where they're from and demand to call them by their real names (instead of Nick and Dale, which they first offered), so I guess we kinda became friends. We always smile to each other. They show me some extra consideration. I requested they carry yogurt, and weeks later, they started carrying yogurt! When I switched from sugar in my coffee to splenda, Ttolit smiled and reminded me, "Little bit at a time, little bit at a time", and Harrid had mercifully stopped pushing "buhttad rrrrroll?" on me.

However, Harrid did take to grabbing my hand has I paid for my coffee. I'd thrust forward the two crumpled bills I'd prepared in route to the station, and he'd take the time to grab my entire fist, not just the bills, and give it a firm squeeze, before relieving me of my two dollars. The first time I smiled, unsure of exactly what this game was. I thought of Mr. Skinny-Arab-pock-marked-guy and his nasty muttered monologue and was immediately uncomfortable by Harrid's scratchy hand-grab. But Harrid is my friend! He and Ttolit are my buddies. They're not gross. If Harrid thinks it's okay to grab a woman's hand as she's simply trying to pay for her morning coffee, then maybe he's just especially fond of me, and perhaps some cultural disparity would allow this strange intimacy. Plus, I pride myself on my lack of physical boundaries in odd situations and Harrid my pal was not going to be the one to break this hippie-hell-with-it attitude I like to hang onto.

Then, the next day, he grabbed my wrist with one hand, and my money with the other, laughed heartily, then released me. Again, I smiled. Game on.

In the next few weeks I tried every means of evading the Harrid grab. I'd make sure to have two bills ready and I'd whip them down on the counter, thereby eliminating the need for us to make any exchange, but instead of setting my coffee down, he'd hand it directly to me and seize that opportunity to grab some part of my arm. So then another day I'd pretend to have my hands way too full, and say, "Just put it down" while I rifled in my bag for some imaginary train pass or a cigarette. Somehow, though, he'd manage to put his hand, calloused and hard, on mine for the morning squeeze. I even dragged Andrew into the station with me one morning to see if his imposing presence would hinder Harrid, and shockingly, it did not. I was certain at this point that this grab was not lewd after all! It was but a mere gesture of friendliness, and I reconciled to just continue smiling, and to stop my ridiculous dance of avoidance. Sadly, though, the grab continued, and somehow it started to feel more aggressive. He'd grab and actually hold, so that I had to forcibly remove myself to leave his newsstand, and he would just smile/laugh, tossing back his fat round head in amusement. So I stopped buying coffee before the train.

I'd sit drowsily on the LIRR, newspaperless and coffeeless for 55 minutes awaiting the moment when I would disembark, flee to the subway and emerge on 17th street to make a bee line for the coffee cart near my office.

Day 1:
A troll-like creature of ambiguous Persianish descent, smiling broadly under a gigantic black bushy mustache, pushes his head through the opening in the plexi-glass and asks me in a thick, heavy accent, "What woood yoo liyke?" I tell him, just a small coffee, please. One splenda and milk. He commences talking to me, prattling really, trying in vain to sell me donuts and rolls. I decline politely. He persists. I decline. Before I know it, he's attempting to make a philosophical statement about happiness as it relates to morning carbohydrates, and I thank him for my coffee, pay him his $.50 and leave.

Day 2:
Repeat of day one.

Day 3:
I avoid Harrid. I also avoid the mustachioed troll. As I walk down 7th avenue and near the corner at 18th street the troll calls out, "Hi Honey! Coffee for you today?!" The four pedestrians waiting in front of his cart turn to look at me. I smile, and turn toward the cart. I am a sucker, but a coffeeless sucker, and so I relent.

Um.... sure. Just one small coffee, please, with one splenda and milk.

Repeat of day one.

Day 4:
I buy coffee at the Le Pain Quotidian on 7th Avenue. No one grabs me. No one calls out to me. Somehow, I spend $7 and leave the store. The troll calls out to me (Hi Honey!) as I pass his cart in a pitifully ineffective wide arc. I smile, show him I’ve already gotten coffee, and continue around the block with him shouting after me to come over and talk to him, encouraging me to order an egg sandwich.

Day 5:
I cautiously approach the cart on 17th street, as it seems the troll is away and a younger man is manning the cart. I step up to the window and look up, and the troll appears from nowhere. “Halllllooooo!” he says brightly from behind his bushy moustache. I order my small coffee. He says, "Egggg sanwich?" And all the sudden, the idea of an egg sandwich appeals to me and tell him, "Sure! Why not. An egg sandwich on a roll please. No butter."

He begins giving instructions to a younger, taller troll who is cracking eggs on a flat top grill in the cart. He gives so many instructions I cannot imagine what sort of egg sandwich would require so much directive. I watch as the two Arabs interact, the littler older one barking orders, the younger one responding in a very, "Yes, I know, please shut up" sort of tone.

And some juice, please. A small orange juice. This is me, adding to my order. At this point the troll turns to me, puts one elbow on the stainless steel shelf between himself and me, leans down and bit and says in a most lascivious manner, softly, "I'll geeeve eet to yooo."

I remain still, but something in me moves. Did he? Was he just...? I couldn't be sure. I wasn't sure. I didn't react outwardly in the slightest, but still the troll sensed my apprehension.

"The juice," he corrected, now righting himself to stand straight,"I give it to you the juice."

Yes. The juice. I was right. In retrospect to just a few moments ago it's without question, he was being lascivious. I stayed to collect my egg sandwich, which turned out to have shells in it, and haven’t gone back to the cart on 17th street since. I now walk past him each morning and he doesn’t acknowledge my presence in the slightest.

I’ve resumed my relationship with Harrid and Ttolit, and I begin each morning’s commute with coffee, a New York Times and nice, firm handshake with a barnacle-handed Indian.

My New Camera

2007-04-23T21:53:00.000-05:00

Last year around tax return time, I bought myself a little gift I like to call the macbook pro. This year, I gifted myself an extravagance I could nary afford. I splurged on Nikon D40 and spent the day on Saturday exploring Oceanside and Island Park, taking a few photos. I learned a few things.

The Long Beach area is exactly as boring as I think it is.
A gorgeous camera does not automatically qualify one as a genius photographer.
Neighbors do not appreciate you traipsing across their lawn to take self-indulgent photos of the power plants that litter their backyards.

Here are a couple of my favorites. You can click on them to see them larger. I've been salivating over the Astro Steel Corps sign for months, and the birds were kind enough to fly into my shot, just before I slid down the windshield and collapsed on the hood of the car. Don't worry, both camera and car are in tact.

Here, this insane person has an actual missile decorating his lawn. It, and everything else on the lawn, was spray painted gold and emblazoned with American Flags except ironically, the flag on this side of the missile was backwards. And so we dub thee photo, Accidental Anarchy! (It's not an upside down flag, but it is backwards, so that's close.)

What's really funny is that the lawn ornament at the neighbor's house is one of those cheesy dolphins-coming-out-of-the-water sculpture. I wonder who's regarded as the eccentric....

There Be Some Crazy Bitches Up In This Piece

2007-04-23T21:15:00.000-05:00

As myspace and other message boards bring prior and former friends back into my life a few questions come up. One of the most pertinent questions being, am I as crazy as the people in my life?

Out of nowhere cyberspace is dredging up the past. Throw into a cauldron these few ingredients: former delinquents , 10 years of separation, years of resentment and confusion. Then throw in a pinch of internet-addled misinterpretation and there you have it, folks! Big fun and good times.

Granted, no one is forcing me to peek into my former boarding school's message boards. No one's pressing my hands to the keyboard as I punch in the myspace URL. There's just a little of that good old train wreck mentality happening here, and I can't help myself. Regardless of what's compelling me to come back for more, is the more interesting matter of what in the hell happened to these people I used to love, admire and even revere? Why, these people have gone completely off their rocker, I dare say. Or perhaps they've always been this way and I'm just now noticing.

What's especially troubling about the behavior I'm witnessing is that it's coming from two women in particular who I used to admire a great deal. I've been more intimate with these two women in my life than I have most lovers, relying on them for guidance and understanding when I was lacking it elsewhere. I don't question the validity of those times. What confuses me is how they went from being my steady counsel, my smart witty, wry girlfriends, to these frenetic out of touch miscreants.

What concerns me even more than that is, how does my evolution hold up against theirs? If our growth were tracked with line charts, and their trajectory is heading southeast, in which direction does my line move?

The problem here is that for all my craziness, and for all my shortcomings I think I'm basically of sound mind. I believe I make reasonable and informed decisions. I think I'm in touch with what goes on around me. I do my best not to embellish where it doesn't make sense to embellish, I use my best judgment in unstable situations, and I strive for balance in my life. This is not the same behavior I'm witnessing in these former friends, and I wonder what they think of themselves, and how they see their own actions. My guess is, they think they're doing just fine. Kinda like how I think I'm doing just fine...

Not Much of a Blogger, I suppose

2007-03-07T13:29:00.000-05:00

Since creating this blog, I added 4 posts in the first week and then didn't touch it again. I'm not sure anyone even knows it's here, but at the beginning I got too excited and told everyone I know, and then I felt like too many people knew about it to really be honest with it.

But that's what blogging is really; diluted journaling for mass-consumption. Regardless, I'd like to pick it back up again, and I'm writing this out loud regardless of the fact that likely no one will read it. Because ultimately this thing is about me, right?

Please, To Discuss

2006-12-05T12:59:00.000-05:00

I'd like to open up the floor on this one. If you were to call someone (not something) "ghetto" what would you mean? What would inspire you to refer to someone else as ghetto? What sort of behavior would elicit such a name-calling? Reply in the comment section, if you will.

Regarding: Pull Your Pants Up, Girl.

2006-12-05T12:05:00.000-05:00

In response to the many public and private responses I've received on my former post, I've decided to reblog. (Reblog, HA! Will the flux of new verbage ever end?)(HA! "Verbage")

If you haven't read the initial post yet, I recommend you do so before reading this response, lest you get confused. To read the initial post and subsequent comments, click here. To return to this post, click the Thank You, Virginia Woolf up top.

Well, well. So you think I sound like a mom, huh? Everyone's saying so, not just the folks willing to call me out in "public". Lemme make a few things clear.

I don't actually think these people should be chaperoned. I understand that they're adults. I was in college three years ago. It's not exactly a generation ago. But I'm 27 now. And most of those kids were 19 and are still in their first year of getting-drunk-and-fucking. That first year is always a shit kicker, until you realize you have the rest of your life to get drunk and fuck, and then most of us slow it down a little. I was just shocked at how young they looked, and at how young I really was at 19, without knowing it.

I was also speaking specifically about the culture of these people. Somehow, I'd rather see a stoned hippie chick with hairy armpits shamelessly throwing herself at a stoic revolutionary type with Che Guevara's bio in his back pocket, than see the same behavior happen as how I describe it in my blog below. Maybe that's just me being a judgmental asshole. But it seems that these weekend drunkfests are all these girls have. They have nothing else to occupy that part of their desire. They're rearing behaviors that will last into adulthood, possibly their whole lives. Maybe, at some point, they'll dress differently. But they'll likely make poor choices in relationships and then teach their own daughters this wacky behavior around men. Because they'll have nothing else to turn to. Not political leanings, or a fierce passion for existential literature or Russian constructivist sculpture. Again, insert the possibility of me being a judgmental asshole here. I'm just saying, despite the roster of dean's list achievers in the room, I just can't imagine that these girls were vying to become Nobel laureates.

Sex. Men. Attention. Self worth. It seems these things were being equated exclusive from all other things.

What I describe as promiscuity... I should have been more clear about this. A little bit I'm shocked that the people closest to me didn't interpret it differently, knowing me as you do. I mean, I'm not exactly, eh, prude. Free love, people, do it! But know yourself. Have some self respect. Share the experience of sex, don't just give your shit away. And don't for a second let it define your worth.

To read the initial post and subsequent comments, click here.

Confu(SED)

2006-12-05T09:56:00.000-05:00

For those of you not in the know, Bono of U2 joined up with the gap (who I'm defiantly lower-casing) to create a number of garments to be sold in gap stores, of which half the proceeds will go to helping the people of Africa who are suffering from AIDS. To read about the products and the mission, click here. This promotion was launched in mid-October and since then, the (red) product line has been spirited out of stores by zealous shoppers eager to do their part in saving the world. Millions of dollars are being made, and half of those dollars are being sent to the millions of unfortunate souls living with the AIDS virus all over Africa. Anti-retroviral medications are being distributed, and the recipients of the meds will surely live longer, healthier lives.

As wonderful as this is, I still feel compelled to roll my eyes every time I pass one of the new Gap (red) campaign posters. Aside from being a full-frontal assault on the ad space in NYC, it's confusing to me, and I'm forced to ponder its validity.

Each evening I descend into the uptown #1 train on 18th st, and I pause to glare at Seal, cuddling a puppy in a gap sweatshirt, as if I might be able to telepathically ask, "Are you really falling for this, Seal?"

Writing "peace" and "love" on your ad posters does not a socially conscious company make... Seal is actually posing for a "hood" gap ad (focusing on being with your loved ones/things on the holidays.... in a gap hoddie. How warm and fuzzy of them), not a (red) ad.

But the gap does seem to be addressing something these days that gap protesters have been rallying for for years: social responsibility.

Since the gap became the middle-of-the-road shopper's haven in the 80's, it's consistently been one of the worst offenders of social and economic injustice in big business. Not only did they (until very recently) manufacture all of their clothing in sweatshops, they employed some of the youngest, most malnourished, impoverished of peoples in the most decrepit cesspools in the world. The workers were often paid as little as 11 cents an hour. Further, as if the gap, bananna republic and old navy didn't make the Fishers (purveyors of the gap) enough money, the family decided to become redwood loggers. In 1998, for about $230 million, the family bought 350 square miles of timberlands just two hours north of the Golden Gate Bridge, in bucolic Mendocino County - ground zero in the battle to save the remnants of California's once-mighty redwood forests. In 2004, the Fishers destroyed 235,000 acres of redwood forest in Mendocino and Sonoma Counties, in northern California, with extensive clear cutting and toxic herbicide use. (To be fair, there are other details here. I believe the Fishers held less than a 50% stake in the gap at that time, and I don't know when old navy and bananna republic were added to the empire.)

For these reasons, I'm skeptical of the gap's intentions. It's not as if the money from the same overpriced $14 t-shirt is being divvied up, half going to Africa. People are now spending $28 on the overpriced t-shirt.

Of course, you won't find anti-capitalism scribbled on my wall. I don't fly my flag upside down, and I don't believe in anarchy. I'm all for making money, making as much money as you can, and spending it on whateverthefuck you want. So if someone wants to charge $45 for a single sock, and people will spend that, then go for it. If they then decide to give half of that to someone in need, then all the better. In fact, the gap is being pretty honest about the fact that this is not a "charity", it's a "business model". These are their words, taken straight from their "(red) manifesto". Really, I want to applaud this mission along with everyone else.

What I'm concerned about is not the idea. It's the possibility of the cloak. The proverbial wool over the eyes. What if they're just distracting us with their bells and whistles of aid to Africa, and then get busy logging every tropical forest from here to kingdom come? (The Fishers only own about 25% of the company now, so really we probably don't have to worry too much about that). What about the sweatshops? China doesn't provide the cheapest labor any more, so the gap is looking elsewhere. Some of the new production is happening where else, but in Africa? I can't comment on the quality of these new factories. I just don't know. Maybe, like the diamond trade, this industry is cleaning up as well, and providing legitimate and safe jobs for people in unimaginably destitute and violent places.

To quote Ani Difranco: "The system gives you just enough to make you think that you see change. They'll sing you right to sleep, and then they'll screw you just the same." That song begins: "Your basic, average superstar is singing about justice and peace and love, and I am glaring at the radio, swearing, saying that's what I was afraid of".

Is the gap being your basic, average superstar? Do they have the right to stamp their ads with "peace" and "love"? Will they honor these words and what they mean to people like me? Will they do right by us? If they do, does that mean I have to forgive them now? What if I'm not ready to just get over the years of horror?

Or maybe I should be grateful. Maybe websites like gapsucks.org, and all of the years of rallies and protests in front of gap stores all around the world really helped. Maybe the day I printed a few flyers from an anti-gap website and stood in front of the gap on Broughton St. in Savannah, GA helped to bring some degree of awareness to an issue nobody seemed to know about. Maybe the poor sales clerk I reprimanded for being a part of the "gap machine" went home and googled the situation and wrote someone, somewhere an angry letter. Then again, maybe not... but maybe, for once, our work paid off! It seems they listened to us, and are doing a reasonable penance. While a public apology from the gap to the world would be nice, complete with a five point plan on how they'll fix what they done, it might be a little bit more humble-pie than they can chew.

One final detail has been of concern, and that is: Does Bono know what he's doing? This has been one of the most head-cocking, brow crinkling aspects of the whole thing. Mr. Love-Peace-FairTrade himself pairing with the gap? But maybe he has an if-you-can't-beat-em-join-em philosophy. Maybe he's figured out that he probably couldn't get people to stop shopping gap stores, but if anything, he could get people to shop more. So he partnered with them in a mission that will surely be successful, and will save lives and qualities of lives regardless of the rest of its affairs. Moreover, it will get people involved and empowered. Even if it is a manner of getting involved that works against another side of the same war, it could be worth it. For all of us.

Requisite Skills

2006-12-04T13:25:00.000-05:00

My Apologies, My Father is a Republican.

I don't think he can help it, really. Something is happening to him as he ages. This rabid republicanism bubbles up in him, and he manages to anger and alienate even the most un-politically minded. His arguments are fiercely right-wing, and most infuriating of all, he insists he's middle-of-the-road.

Today is not the day to expound of my father's horrifying political leanings. There's time only for the mention of one bell that rung loudly in a recent conversation we were having.

".... he's not that good of an orator, that's true," said Dad of GW Bush. He had a tone as if to say, so what? As if he just said, "The president's not that good at kneading dough. He could really put more muscle into it." My question to him, and to the rest of the people out there, is shouldn't one of the job requirements for the President of the United States be public speaking, for christ's sake??

Pull Your Pants Up, Girl.

2006-12-04T12:28:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago I traveled with my boyfriend to visit his nephew at a Penn State frat house. His nephew, a lovely boy with an awkward/cool shy-guy persona, welcomed us warmly and invited us to the party that was to ensue later that night. We accepted the invitation. Around midnight girls and boys started pouring into the house already in various states of inebriation. I was shocked, at first, at how young they looked. It wasn’t so long ago that I was a book-toting college student as well, behaving in the ways only college students do. Yet it occurred to me more than once that these students were children, and should be required to have a chaperon present. What an old lady I’ve become, I thought. I leaned against the wall with a warming beer in my hand observing the general haphazardness to the underdeveloped debauchery the students were trying to cultivate through loud music and tight clothing and copious amounts of cheap liquor. I didn’t care for the energy in the place. This had never been my scene. Most disturbing, on a list of concerning details, were the girls, and the very specific way they were asking for attention.

In the darkened room that served as the dance floor, girls in skirts that were too short, heels that were too high and pants that were slung way too low shook their asses (and other parts) to the beat of popular hip-hop. These white, Midwestern girls were mimicking rap video dances, and were not executing the moves with any particular talent. They pressed their hips, grinding and swerving, onto each other for the attention of the boys. They bent over and flung their hair and touched their bodies suggestively. They paraded around the place in strings of six and seven and eight, all holding hands, moving purposely from dance floor to bar to bathroom, shaking unsteadily on their ambitiously high heels. Their main concern was attention, and this was an entirely different breed of attention-grabbing than I was used to. In more than one case that evening, it was the most attractive girls who seemed to do the most posturing. It was the girls with the enviably petite, tan and toned figures, and the most perfectly bleached and highlighted hair that were dancing the dirtiest and grinding the hardest. Their eyes shot frenetically around to see who was looking at them. They were the ones to grab their friend’s hands demandingly and lead them in a group to the next stop on the frat-party circuit. Their desire for acceptance, it came from some very deep rooted place. These girls made me nervous for their personal safety. Their personal emotional and physical safety.

I was a hippie in college, more apt to wear my curtains than some too-tight, too-low jeans. Not to mention, they don’t make jeans like that in my size. At least they didn’t a few years ago. I danced to hip-hop, but I did it in abandoned warehouses with skateboard punks and homeless train-hopping travelers. My version of the bump-and-grind dance was to participate in an educated discourse on the Middle East conflict or have the most tersely worded slogan on my artistically rendered poster at a political rally. My priorities were different, my venues were different, but my desperate need for attention and affection was the same.

There’s an equation as simple as one plus one. Girls who are raised with a sense of self worth are not blindly, self-deprecatingly promiscuous. They do better in school. They are more successful in life. Period. Instilling a sense of self worth is a tall order for any parent of adolescents, and I have to wonder where these particular girls' parents went wrong.