Friday, July 29, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Nothing
I love doing nothing. I have vivid memories of long hours in my backyard, sitting on the grass peeling leaves, or on my back feeling the earth revolve beneath me in the summer. Or taking very deliberate steps in the fresh snow, imagining I was the first to step in that snow. Staring into the brilliance until I became white blind. On the swing as high as I could swing for as long as I could until I entered some kind of altered state of mind. Lonely at times, I also know how to be content alone, comfortable with silence and idleness.
The next part of my life that enriched my spiritual silence was surprisingly in the Army, Fort Dix New Jersey. My body was kept busy, sleep was inadequate, but my mind had little to do, as I spent much time waiting, or marching. I learned to love the beauty of dawn, watched geese flying over, the red blue flashlights swinging through the pre dawn dark of early marches. I came to feel rather than see when my platoon was in step, we all must have because by the end of the two months, thirty women marching in boots sounded like one woman walking quietly. We responded as one to commands, a strange kind of alertness that was like meditation. Cadences shouted- sung filled the mind like a mantra, keeping out the whining that I was always prone to. When I ran, in pain and exhaustion, I chanted "I'm young, I'm strong, I'm health-y" and the pain faded. I could feel the earth pushing back at my steps, giving me a push forward. I took satisfaction in having all my uniform hangers three finger widths apart, all my buttons buttoned, hat straight. Hugging the earth at the ranges, which kept me out of the wind screeing off the ocean smelt but not seen.
Out in the wind, we would huddle around the smallest thinnest women to warm them, rub arms and backs to warm each other, put woolen socks in the webbing of our helmets to keep the wind from whistling around our heads. I was outside more than I had ever been in my life, at least in October November and December. The fall leaves were brilliant, the mud constant, the cold a presence like the pain. But there was no escape, only acceptance, and the duty of taking care of each other. My feet went numb during bivouac, and that was that. No excuses, no gratitude, doing and letting the mind follow, the only way out was through. Laying in my bunk at night listening to people breathing, knowing who was on night CQ by the sound of their footsteps. We reeked of Ben Gay, and one CQ sergeant would always say,
"Smells like my Grandmother in here!"
At first startled- waking to companies shouting outside as they marched past our barracks through the night, later I slept reassured by those sounds. Field stripping an M16 blind, yes I still could -I am sure. Just as I could always hit what I aimed at with one. My meddling busy mind was too tired to care, so I simply got on with the work at hand. Payment would come later, but I learned what I could do, and I understood how strong a quiet mind is. Nothing in busyness.
When I started back to school at the U. I was very alone, isolated by my attitude and precarious position. Too much silence, but no one to be quiet with. Until I found myself again at the whim of the government, and I found D. Waiting in Colorado to be sent to Saudi Arabia, we spent many hours sitting with our backs leaning together, sometimes talking or reading, or as often simply being together. The gift of silence, shared. Doing nothing, we built a haven together. Out on the bleachers for the parade field, I was recovering from a bad sinus infection, and fell asleep in the sun with my head on his lap. Such peace. Him finally asleep on the concrete, on my lap as we waited in the underground garage in Kobar for the C130 to take us to our housing outside Riyadh. I watched him like a vicious dog guarding her master, lest anyone think it funny to do anything to him. Because being on guard and alert is part of meditation, oblivious to the irritation, acutely aware of danger.
After such a difficult move, with too much to do, this week my mind is insisting on nothing. If I try to push myself into thinking, my thoughts collapse. My body hurts, my brain aches. But the words this week have been gushing out, pouring onto the screen. A deep desire to communicate while I can only do nothing. I idle, and orient. As long as I do nothing.
The next part of my life that enriched my spiritual silence was surprisingly in the Army, Fort Dix New Jersey. My body was kept busy, sleep was inadequate, but my mind had little to do, as I spent much time waiting, or marching. I learned to love the beauty of dawn, watched geese flying over, the red blue flashlights swinging through the pre dawn dark of early marches. I came to feel rather than see when my platoon was in step, we all must have because by the end of the two months, thirty women marching in boots sounded like one woman walking quietly. We responded as one to commands, a strange kind of alertness that was like meditation. Cadences shouted- sung filled the mind like a mantra, keeping out the whining that I was always prone to. When I ran, in pain and exhaustion, I chanted "I'm young, I'm strong, I'm health-y" and the pain faded. I could feel the earth pushing back at my steps, giving me a push forward. I took satisfaction in having all my uniform hangers three finger widths apart, all my buttons buttoned, hat straight. Hugging the earth at the ranges, which kept me out of the wind screeing off the ocean smelt but not seen.
Out in the wind, we would huddle around the smallest thinnest women to warm them, rub arms and backs to warm each other, put woolen socks in the webbing of our helmets to keep the wind from whistling around our heads. I was outside more than I had ever been in my life, at least in October November and December. The fall leaves were brilliant, the mud constant, the cold a presence like the pain. But there was no escape, only acceptance, and the duty of taking care of each other. My feet went numb during bivouac, and that was that. No excuses, no gratitude, doing and letting the mind follow, the only way out was through. Laying in my bunk at night listening to people breathing, knowing who was on night CQ by the sound of their footsteps. We reeked of Ben Gay, and one CQ sergeant would always say,
"Smells like my Grandmother in here!"
At first startled- waking to companies shouting outside as they marched past our barracks through the night, later I slept reassured by those sounds. Field stripping an M16 blind, yes I still could -I am sure. Just as I could always hit what I aimed at with one. My meddling busy mind was too tired to care, so I simply got on with the work at hand. Payment would come later, but I learned what I could do, and I understood how strong a quiet mind is. Nothing in busyness.
When I started back to school at the U. I was very alone, isolated by my attitude and precarious position. Too much silence, but no one to be quiet with. Until I found myself again at the whim of the government, and I found D. Waiting in Colorado to be sent to Saudi Arabia, we spent many hours sitting with our backs leaning together, sometimes talking or reading, or as often simply being together. The gift of silence, shared. Doing nothing, we built a haven together. Out on the bleachers for the parade field, I was recovering from a bad sinus infection, and fell asleep in the sun with my head on his lap. Such peace. Him finally asleep on the concrete, on my lap as we waited in the underground garage in Kobar for the C130 to take us to our housing outside Riyadh. I watched him like a vicious dog guarding her master, lest anyone think it funny to do anything to him. Because being on guard and alert is part of meditation, oblivious to the irritation, acutely aware of danger.
After such a difficult move, with too much to do, this week my mind is insisting on nothing. If I try to push myself into thinking, my thoughts collapse. My body hurts, my brain aches. But the words this week have been gushing out, pouring onto the screen. A deep desire to communicate while I can only do nothing. I idle, and orient. As long as I do nothing.
Movie
I grew up on television, as many of my age did. When it was still educational and no one was worried about it being an electronic babysitter. Not that it wasn't bad, but no one thought so. I lived for cartoons and Hallmark Special Presentations that meant I could stay up an hour later, or Charlie Brown Specials and the Wonderful World of Disney. It was there that I first found movies. The (Three Lives of Thomasina) sticks in my heart although I can hardly remember the plot.
I was taken to most of the G rated films showing, which is to say Disney. I loved (Winnie the Pooh) and (Mary Poppins), but more (Darby O'Gill and the Little People) -the banshee scene is seared into my mind. I would get swept up into the story and want to know the characters. I would live in that world for days after a movie, didn't matter if it was on TV or in a theater. I fantasized being a character in their world, telling other stories with them. I also starred in my own Mary Tyler Moore type sitcom, but that really is another story. As I got older and movies changed, the only G rated films were (The Voyage of Ra), and (Chariots of the Gods) those dreadful, but wonderfully Fortean, Sun Film productions. Saturday afternoon, and Sunday too, were about those awful dubbed Swedish children's movies, B&W, SF, Horror and Biblical flicks. They all smear together in my memory, one huge mass of grey strangers living out incomprehensible lives. I may have wanted to act as a way to enter that world.
I really consummated my love for movies when I went to college. There was a Wayne State University film society that showed late afternoon movies in a screening room in the Film department, $1. Many foreign or independent, not mainstream at all. Eye openers - Just a Gigolo-, or the frankly sexual -Montenegro-. Peeking into far stranger realities and alien points of view. The Unitarian church down the street showed all kinds of odd stuff, including -Five Easy Pieces-, and erotica (some arty thing involving a cucumber, I still shudder to think.) The Detroit Institute of Arts had a Film Theater, several series of French films (Get Out Your Handkerchiefs) and Hitchcock's canon - finally saw all of (The Birds.) They had a Sunday afternoon film series where I saw (Grapes of Wrath.) I often got the mainstream movies when I went to the downtown theaters for Tuesday dollar night like (48 Hours) Eddie Murphy. I was a bit daunted laughing at his particular brand of humor being the only pale face in a crowded theater, until I realized I would be drowned out, and no none cared what I thought, anyway. There was also the Punch and Judy, a lovely restored theater that showed Independent and second run shows, I saw (Apocalypse Now) there, among many others.
I took two semesters of Film classes- Prof Spaulding exposed me to directors like Scorcese and John Ford, Fellini and Kurosawa. I learned to read films, and sharpen my eye to what was good, or bad. I grew to hate Disney as I opened my eyes to the sexism and petty twisted "values" of them. Not to mention the flat photography and over-saturated colors. I learned to look for themes and motifs and messages, styles and details. I figured I saw 4-5 movies a week for almost four years. I have a knowledge base that is rather impressive.
And D? Well, he is far worse than I am, if less thoroughly trained. Cable he ... oh wait, can't give that away. Just say he saw a lot of movies on cable, shall we? He can name a movie seen for less than 30 seconds on screen, even if he has never seen the film in question. He spots actors with aplomb, and can tell me what else they have been in. In part, he does this better because of the IMDB. That site is the only reason I have the movies above listed correctly. I remember scenes and stories, but the names escape me unless I practice. D gives me lots of practice. We talk in Movie. We have a game where we name a motif, and have to list movies that have it. It's all about shared stories. And here is a completely unprovoked plug for Netfllix. We have rated over 3000 movies there, so far.
I have largely given up on mainstream Hollywood movies today. The Incredibles was the first in a long time, and the last one with real heart that I loved completely, and wanted to join their world (and figure out what Superpower I wanted to have.) I am a snob, I want well told stories, (Ikiru) complicated or warm (Triplets of Belleville). I want characters that I would like to see more of (Return To Me.) I want witty writing (Murder My Sweet) and true heart (Twilight Samurai.) I will not tolerate mediocrity or obvious manipulation (Basic Instinct.) I'm a huge MST3K fan, so I do like bad movies (Plan 9 From Outer Space) done with enough unbalanced energy. I want perfect movies, the ones that meet the goals they set (That Thing You Do.) Or even imperfect movies that have a redeeming feature, (Tank Girl) - simply because of Lori Petty, or the deeply flawed (Romeo+Juliet) because of so many good ideas, Pete Postlethwaite, and the Queen Mab speech. But neither do I think that a film is good simply because it is Arty. Pretentious crap is still pretentious crap wherever it is shown (Koyaanisqatsi.)
D. has come up with three rules of seeing movies, that we now live by
1. You are smarter than the movie. If you feel like you are not getting it, it just isn't there, even if the director would like to pretend it is. After sitting through (Mindwalk), (Eraserhead.)
2. Don't play chicken with the movie. Never stay to see the end thinking it cannot get any worse. It can, it will. Just leave. Even at the end of two otherwise good movies (Realm of the Senses) and (Pi.)
3. There is no point at which you cannot stop watching a movie. First five, last five, doesn't matter. If it is not working for you, just stop, walk away. Learned on (Meet the Parents), (Johnny Nemonic) You will be happier if you do.
Film is a refuge and a window into the minds and hearts of others.
Film is powerful, and should be used for good, not for evil.
I was taken to most of the G rated films showing, which is to say Disney. I loved (Winnie the Pooh) and (Mary Poppins), but more (Darby O'Gill and the Little People) -the banshee scene is seared into my mind. I would get swept up into the story and want to know the characters. I would live in that world for days after a movie, didn't matter if it was on TV or in a theater. I fantasized being a character in their world, telling other stories with them. I also starred in my own Mary Tyler Moore type sitcom, but that really is another story. As I got older and movies changed, the only G rated films were (The Voyage of Ra), and (Chariots of the Gods) those dreadful, but wonderfully Fortean, Sun Film productions. Saturday afternoon, and Sunday too, were about those awful dubbed Swedish children's movies, B&W, SF, Horror and Biblical flicks. They all smear together in my memory, one huge mass of grey strangers living out incomprehensible lives. I may have wanted to act as a way to enter that world.
I really consummated my love for movies when I went to college. There was a Wayne State University film society that showed late afternoon movies in a screening room in the Film department, $1. Many foreign or independent, not mainstream at all. Eye openers - Just a Gigolo-, or the frankly sexual -Montenegro-. Peeking into far stranger realities and alien points of view. The Unitarian church down the street showed all kinds of odd stuff, including -Five Easy Pieces-, and erotica (some arty thing involving a cucumber, I still shudder to think.) The Detroit Institute of Arts had a Film Theater, several series of French films (Get Out Your Handkerchiefs) and Hitchcock's canon - finally saw all of (The Birds.) They had a Sunday afternoon film series where I saw (Grapes of Wrath.) I often got the mainstream movies when I went to the downtown theaters for Tuesday dollar night like (48 Hours) Eddie Murphy. I was a bit daunted laughing at his particular brand of humor being the only pale face in a crowded theater, until I realized I would be drowned out, and no none cared what I thought, anyway. There was also the Punch and Judy, a lovely restored theater that showed Independent and second run shows, I saw (Apocalypse Now) there, among many others.
I took two semesters of Film classes- Prof Spaulding exposed me to directors like Scorcese and John Ford, Fellini and Kurosawa. I learned to read films, and sharpen my eye to what was good, or bad. I grew to hate Disney as I opened my eyes to the sexism and petty twisted "values" of them. Not to mention the flat photography and over-saturated colors. I learned to look for themes and motifs and messages, styles and details. I figured I saw 4-5 movies a week for almost four years. I have a knowledge base that is rather impressive.
And D? Well, he is far worse than I am, if less thoroughly trained. Cable he ... oh wait, can't give that away. Just say he saw a lot of movies on cable, shall we? He can name a movie seen for less than 30 seconds on screen, even if he has never seen the film in question. He spots actors with aplomb, and can tell me what else they have been in. In part, he does this better because of the IMDB. That site is the only reason I have the movies above listed correctly. I remember scenes and stories, but the names escape me unless I practice. D gives me lots of practice. We talk in Movie. We have a game where we name a motif, and have to list movies that have it. It's all about shared stories. And here is a completely unprovoked plug for Netfllix. We have rated over 3000 movies there, so far.
I have largely given up on mainstream Hollywood movies today. The Incredibles was the first in a long time, and the last one with real heart that I loved completely, and wanted to join their world (and figure out what Superpower I wanted to have.) I am a snob, I want well told stories, (Ikiru) complicated or warm (Triplets of Belleville). I want characters that I would like to see more of (Return To Me.) I want witty writing (Murder My Sweet) and true heart (Twilight Samurai.) I will not tolerate mediocrity or obvious manipulation (Basic Instinct.) I'm a huge MST3K fan, so I do like bad movies (Plan 9 From Outer Space) done with enough unbalanced energy. I want perfect movies, the ones that meet the goals they set (That Thing You Do.) Or even imperfect movies that have a redeeming feature, (Tank Girl) - simply because of Lori Petty, or the deeply flawed (Romeo+Juliet) because of so many good ideas, Pete Postlethwaite, and the Queen Mab speech. But neither do I think that a film is good simply because it is Arty. Pretentious crap is still pretentious crap wherever it is shown (Koyaanisqatsi.)
D. has come up with three rules of seeing movies, that we now live by
1. You are smarter than the movie. If you feel like you are not getting it, it just isn't there, even if the director would like to pretend it is. After sitting through (Mindwalk), (Eraserhead.)
2. Don't play chicken with the movie. Never stay to see the end thinking it cannot get any worse. It can, it will. Just leave. Even at the end of two otherwise good movies (Realm of the Senses) and (Pi.)
3. There is no point at which you cannot stop watching a movie. First five, last five, doesn't matter. If it is not working for you, just stop, walk away. Learned on (Meet the Parents), (Johnny Nemonic) You will be happier if you do.
Film is a refuge and a window into the minds and hearts of others.
Film is powerful, and should be used for good, not for evil.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Death
Death was no kind of taboo subject in my otherwise silent family, and for that I am grateful. Unavoidable, I think, I grew up going to funerals. I attended more than I can count. (In contrast, only went to three weddings before I was 21.) I met my cousins and much of my family attending viewings and rosaries for the Great Aunts and Uncles, then aunts and uncles, then both grandmothers- all by the time I was 24. Funerals I understand. I go in, be respectful, offer comfort, listen, hug, and it is sad, so I cry quite easily amist grief and loss and shock. And when the guest of honor had lived a long life, especially if they had suffered through a long dwindling, then, after the tears (often mixed in with them) the stories would start. Everyone would have some funny remark, a favorite joke, and the tears would ease. We got a bit loud, we laughed and celebrated. Healing and comfort and connection.
Not to say I was comfortable with death. I hated having to pray while staring at that waxy, frightening form in the satin lined casket. I tried to stare at the flowers, the wood, the rosary in the stiff hands, rather than the painted face, especially if I had known the Aunt well. I feared the dead. I obsessed about dying and all manner of gruesome ways of ending up a stiff. Normal for an adolescent, and I was especially morbid. A girl in high school died of leukemia. A neighbor boy and his cousin died in a car crash the night of their graduation- the naked grief of that funeral was breathtaking.
I was terrified of cemeteries, in part because there was one under the turn of the bridge that my father always took way too fast, and I always figured I would die there. Not buried, thrown from the car and killed in the cemetery. Nightmare fodder. My father worked as a custodian at a cemetery from the time I was about 12, after his factory closed and he was glad to have health insurance and an income as an unskilled worker in his mid 50's. I did everything I could not to go with my mother to pick him up. And when I was learning to drive at 17, guess where they thought it would be a great place for me to practice. I hated it.
Death became part of my job, at 33, when I had my shiny new RN license, working in a hospice/rehab floor of a nursing home. About a week in, a CNA called to me as I came on shift. Terrified, unprepared, I walked into that quiet room, alone with my stethoscope. I listened, heard nothing, and called the other nurse in. She found my bother amusing, but backed me up, and helped me make the calls and fill in the paperwork, while others did the hands-on that morning. That would be the first death of many requiring my presence. I came to know that look, the "um...." the tone to my name as the aide notified me of a death, often very much expected, occasionally not. I would wash the dead, talk to families, call the funeral homes. I would watch for the last breath, and hold the hands of the dying. I always cried, not sobbing, just a few minutes of pouring tears, then or later at home.
Weird things happened when people died. A sweetly demented woman who never got up at night, came to the desk at 2am saying two men were in her room wearing black suits. This was highly out of character for her. There was nothing when we went and checked, she calmly went back to sleep. One of our men on the other end died in the midst of this.
Another elderly woman, confused but more or less coherent, had been admitted for pneumonia. Every night she asked us if she was going to die. I always told her I thought she would live a while longer, which seemed to satisfy her. Then one night, after she was much better, and was being evaluated for going home, she told me "I'm going to die tonight." I stopped, and considered my words. "Then we will watch over you." Which also seemed to satisfy her. About midnight, she stopped breathing, her heart stopped. But neither the other nurse nor I were convinced she was dead. We moved her roommate to an empty room, washed her and called her family. They were not surprized, said she had told them earlier and they had said their goodbyes then. We called the mortuary, SOP. And went back to make sure we were right- repeatedly- not usual. She seemed still there, still alive, as though still confused about what she should do next. We went down to listen again through that night, even saying out loud "You are dead, you can go now. " Glad that the particular mortuary, normally so on time, didn't show until 6am. Because by then, the sense that she was still there, was gone.
I watched one woman heal up bedsores in a week. I had cleared her throat, when she turned her head with a startle, stared and took a last, sighing breath in my arms. I was told by a woman dying miserably of esophageal cancer that it (death) was "Not so bad."
I have seen those dying of lung disease keep breathing intermittently for a half hour after their hearts had stopped. Normal impulse to breath is a high CO2 sensor, long term pulmonary disease burns this out, and the secondary impulse- low 02 will continue to function. Nothing like dying to reduce oxygen levels. One such had died during lunch, we closed the door and would take care of her in an hour, but her friends came in, then came to tell us they had just made it, and seen her "Last Breath!" We did not clarify that she had died somewhat earlier than her last agonal breath.
In Surgery, death is far more rare, and more bitterly fought. A 14 year old boy hit by a bus, cleaning the gore from him after the attempts at resuscitation and surgical repair, so that his parents could see him in those poor remains. The old-school nurses wrapping his hands in warm blankets so he would have warm hands, and perhaps not seem so dead to his mother.
A young woman killed in a climbing accident, her organs harvested for others, for a while I'd held her heart. I stayed to wash her, as I had the most experience of any present to do this for her. I cried as I did so.
Another woman, damaged at birth, and losing to an overwhelming infection, whose heart I had shoved into a few more minutes of work. I later sat with her in a surgical education room, until her family could come, they braided her hair.
A elderly woman, seemed to me supremely disinterested in her impending amputation. I figured she had other plans that evening, regardless of what we did. She died in surgery, after an hour of intermittently working resuscitation. Her family insisted we put her leg back on. The surgeon wrapped it in place, all that seemed possible at that point.
A young man, receiving a liver transplant, the surgeon losing self control, the man losing way too much blood, the family insisting on coming into that chaos to see him alive one last time- to all our astonishment. They were eventually brought in, allowed to kiss their son-- intubated, invasive lines, his blood permeating the room, all the noise of the surgeons continuing the useless fight, but we found out later they understood better because they were allowed in.
Death is not a fearful prospect for me. It is too familiar. I do not know what happens, but it is profound, with much the same hot press of a birth. A blessing when the suffering would be far worse. Inevitable, impartial. I have seen those who stare into the face of death, and there is beauty there. I'm told it's not so bad. My own death awaits me, the path where my soul will walk alone.
Not to say I was comfortable with death. I hated having to pray while staring at that waxy, frightening form in the satin lined casket. I tried to stare at the flowers, the wood, the rosary in the stiff hands, rather than the painted face, especially if I had known the Aunt well. I feared the dead. I obsessed about dying and all manner of gruesome ways of ending up a stiff. Normal for an adolescent, and I was especially morbid. A girl in high school died of leukemia. A neighbor boy and his cousin died in a car crash the night of their graduation- the naked grief of that funeral was breathtaking.
I was terrified of cemeteries, in part because there was one under the turn of the bridge that my father always took way too fast, and I always figured I would die there. Not buried, thrown from the car and killed in the cemetery. Nightmare fodder. My father worked as a custodian at a cemetery from the time I was about 12, after his factory closed and he was glad to have health insurance and an income as an unskilled worker in his mid 50's. I did everything I could not to go with my mother to pick him up. And when I was learning to drive at 17, guess where they thought it would be a great place for me to practice. I hated it.
Death became part of my job, at 33, when I had my shiny new RN license, working in a hospice/rehab floor of a nursing home. About a week in, a CNA called to me as I came on shift. Terrified, unprepared, I walked into that quiet room, alone with my stethoscope. I listened, heard nothing, and called the other nurse in. She found my bother amusing, but backed me up, and helped me make the calls and fill in the paperwork, while others did the hands-on that morning. That would be the first death of many requiring my presence. I came to know that look, the "um...." the tone to my name as the aide notified me of a death, often very much expected, occasionally not. I would wash the dead, talk to families, call the funeral homes. I would watch for the last breath, and hold the hands of the dying. I always cried, not sobbing, just a few minutes of pouring tears, then or later at home.
Weird things happened when people died. A sweetly demented woman who never got up at night, came to the desk at 2am saying two men were in her room wearing black suits. This was highly out of character for her. There was nothing when we went and checked, she calmly went back to sleep. One of our men on the other end died in the midst of this.
Another elderly woman, confused but more or less coherent, had been admitted for pneumonia. Every night she asked us if she was going to die. I always told her I thought she would live a while longer, which seemed to satisfy her. Then one night, after she was much better, and was being evaluated for going home, she told me "I'm going to die tonight." I stopped, and considered my words. "Then we will watch over you." Which also seemed to satisfy her. About midnight, she stopped breathing, her heart stopped. But neither the other nurse nor I were convinced she was dead. We moved her roommate to an empty room, washed her and called her family. They were not surprized, said she had told them earlier and they had said their goodbyes then. We called the mortuary, SOP. And went back to make sure we were right- repeatedly- not usual. She seemed still there, still alive, as though still confused about what she should do next. We went down to listen again through that night, even saying out loud "You are dead, you can go now. " Glad that the particular mortuary, normally so on time, didn't show until 6am. Because by then, the sense that she was still there, was gone.
I watched one woman heal up bedsores in a week. I had cleared her throat, when she turned her head with a startle, stared and took a last, sighing breath in my arms. I was told by a woman dying miserably of esophageal cancer that it (death) was "Not so bad."
I have seen those dying of lung disease keep breathing intermittently for a half hour after their hearts had stopped. Normal impulse to breath is a high CO2 sensor, long term pulmonary disease burns this out, and the secondary impulse- low 02 will continue to function. Nothing like dying to reduce oxygen levels. One such had died during lunch, we closed the door and would take care of her in an hour, but her friends came in, then came to tell us they had just made it, and seen her "Last Breath!" We did not clarify that she had died somewhat earlier than her last agonal breath.
In Surgery, death is far more rare, and more bitterly fought. A 14 year old boy hit by a bus, cleaning the gore from him after the attempts at resuscitation and surgical repair, so that his parents could see him in those poor remains. The old-school nurses wrapping his hands in warm blankets so he would have warm hands, and perhaps not seem so dead to his mother.
A young woman killed in a climbing accident, her organs harvested for others, for a while I'd held her heart. I stayed to wash her, as I had the most experience of any present to do this for her. I cried as I did so.
Another woman, damaged at birth, and losing to an overwhelming infection, whose heart I had shoved into a few more minutes of work. I later sat with her in a surgical education room, until her family could come, they braided her hair.
A elderly woman, seemed to me supremely disinterested in her impending amputation. I figured she had other plans that evening, regardless of what we did. She died in surgery, after an hour of intermittently working resuscitation. Her family insisted we put her leg back on. The surgeon wrapped it in place, all that seemed possible at that point.
A young man, receiving a liver transplant, the surgeon losing self control, the man losing way too much blood, the family insisting on coming into that chaos to see him alive one last time- to all our astonishment. They were eventually brought in, allowed to kiss their son-- intubated, invasive lines, his blood permeating the room, all the noise of the surgeons continuing the useless fight, but we found out later they understood better because they were allowed in.
Death is not a fearful prospect for me. It is too familiar. I do not know what happens, but it is profound, with much the same hot press of a birth. A blessing when the suffering would be far worse. Inevitable, impartial. I have seen those who stare into the face of death, and there is beauty there. I'm told it's not so bad. My own death awaits me, the path where my soul will walk alone.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Monday, July 18, 2005
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Friday, July 15, 2005
Path
I longed to live an interesting life, being isolated in the petty destructiveness of my parent's home. I lived in a small circle of family- aunts and uncles, grandmothers, that we visited each week. I had my own narrow back yard, and the occasional neighborhood child for play, but never really friendship. I was deeply lonely and very alone. There was little money for entertainment, the Library was my consolation, and my first employer. Family vacations, car trips on a shoestring, took us far- Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, Appalachian Trail, Nova Scotia, all were a peek out to the wider world, but inevitably devolved into my father's ill temper and rages. Catholic high school, especially with bright classmates who were friends truly, allowed me to breathe for the first time. Still small and straited into parental expectations, I grew inside, had ideas about what I might be. I had the skills to study well, and endure much, and lurk inside myself until my path became clear. I was desperate to escape my naiveté, my narrow choices, my stifling safety.
I escaped up North to a radio station job, but failed, quit. Being more alone, with my parents trying to rescue me to feel important themselves, instead of letting me fall and find my own way, I crawled back. I used my scholarship toward a Theater degree, at Wayne State, learned about Shakespeare and standing up in front of others. No talent for acting, and I learned what I didn't want- relying for my livelihood on the constant approval of unpredictable others. Almost learned, I lived with and then married an entirely wrong 15 year older man, quit school, moved to where he had family in Salt Lake. I would never have thought of Utah on my own. I only knew I needed to get far far away from my parents, and Detroit. We neither of us had anything like job skills. He liked to spend money on himself. I desperately saved it. I worked several part time jobs at a time, modeling for art classes for cash, survey research, whatever. He got a job at the library because he went to school in Idaho with the personnel director, and I was hired shortly after- part time. I shelved books. Worked hard. There was a tax reduction initiative that threatened that small job, so I looked harder. Checked the want ads daily.
One ad said "Part Time, Earn money while you train. Money for school. Utah National Guard." I figured what the hell, if it was a good deal, I'd go for it. Took the ASFAB the next day, and by Friday I had raised my hand, and joined up. Didn't get really scared until right before I left. Had no idea. But it would change how my brain worked, permanently. Push me to limits I would have drawn much smaller. Get me away from a bad marriage. I was 26.
I met many interesting people, who had joined the Army for all kinds of odd reasons. D was the best. I thought him 17, but he was 20 when we first started talking. Bright, opinionated as men that age are, an unaccountably stretchy mind, given such narrow experience of life in Mormon suburban Utah. Emotionally insightful, though lacking the language to describe his truths. We got to know each other when we were sent off to Colorado Springs, then Saudi Arabia for Gulf War I. He was not easy to get to know, but he was generous and curious, unfailingly kind, loyal, warmly affectionate, he was who I needed to let me grow out of my hurts and distrusts. He had-has- the rare gifts of always being able to make me laugh, and of being comfortably silent. Sees nothing wrong in me, ever. Never turns his anger at me. Taught me not feed my anger.
With his indispensable support, I made it through nursing school. And my first year in surgery, which was harder than getting my degree. My work, which I love,has supported us while he got through his BA. And now he is in grad school here in Boston, as I do the traveling/agency nurse shtick, which gives us housing. I have cousins here, that I did not know I could count on, but who rescued us from a night on the floor of the train station, and have befriended us.
His friends, some which he has had since grade and high school, surround us. And they keep marrying into each other. So we stretch and strengthen our bonds. I have a non-genetic, but altogether real family. A family that opens up the world, instead of contracting in. We continue to grow together. And gather in more people.
My life, my mistakes and whimsical decisions, seem to have lead us to a place of great joy, and there seems to be more on the horizon. Perhaps Fate, an ineffable pattern forming. I stretch out, aspiring to be an intelligent, sophisticated, cosmopolitan, eccentric woman who has lived all over, fallen in love, broken my heart, been out on a number of limbs, seen transplants and traumas, deaths and births, thrown pots, danced, sang, gone to war, and is still often an idiot willing to try another adventure. I did want an interesting life. What the hell.
I escaped up North to a radio station job, but failed, quit. Being more alone, with my parents trying to rescue me to feel important themselves, instead of letting me fall and find my own way, I crawled back. I used my scholarship toward a Theater degree, at Wayne State, learned about Shakespeare and standing up in front of others. No talent for acting, and I learned what I didn't want- relying for my livelihood on the constant approval of unpredictable others. Almost learned, I lived with and then married an entirely wrong 15 year older man, quit school, moved to where he had family in Salt Lake. I would never have thought of Utah on my own. I only knew I needed to get far far away from my parents, and Detroit. We neither of us had anything like job skills. He liked to spend money on himself. I desperately saved it. I worked several part time jobs at a time, modeling for art classes for cash, survey research, whatever. He got a job at the library because he went to school in Idaho with the personnel director, and I was hired shortly after- part time. I shelved books. Worked hard. There was a tax reduction initiative that threatened that small job, so I looked harder. Checked the want ads daily.
One ad said "Part Time, Earn money while you train. Money for school. Utah National Guard." I figured what the hell, if it was a good deal, I'd go for it. Took the ASFAB the next day, and by Friday I had raised my hand, and joined up. Didn't get really scared until right before I left. Had no idea. But it would change how my brain worked, permanently. Push me to limits I would have drawn much smaller. Get me away from a bad marriage. I was 26.
I met many interesting people, who had joined the Army for all kinds of odd reasons. D was the best. I thought him 17, but he was 20 when we first started talking. Bright, opinionated as men that age are, an unaccountably stretchy mind, given such narrow experience of life in Mormon suburban Utah. Emotionally insightful, though lacking the language to describe his truths. We got to know each other when we were sent off to Colorado Springs, then Saudi Arabia for Gulf War I. He was not easy to get to know, but he was generous and curious, unfailingly kind, loyal, warmly affectionate, he was who I needed to let me grow out of my hurts and distrusts. He had-has- the rare gifts of always being able to make me laugh, and of being comfortably silent. Sees nothing wrong in me, ever. Never turns his anger at me. Taught me not feed my anger.
With his indispensable support, I made it through nursing school. And my first year in surgery, which was harder than getting my degree. My work, which I love,has supported us while he got through his BA. And now he is in grad school here in Boston, as I do the traveling/agency nurse shtick, which gives us housing. I have cousins here, that I did not know I could count on, but who rescued us from a night on the floor of the train station, and have befriended us.
His friends, some which he has had since grade and high school, surround us. And they keep marrying into each other. So we stretch and strengthen our bonds. I have a non-genetic, but altogether real family. A family that opens up the world, instead of contracting in. We continue to grow together. And gather in more people.
My life, my mistakes and whimsical decisions, seem to have lead us to a place of great joy, and there seems to be more on the horizon. Perhaps Fate, an ineffable pattern forming. I stretch out, aspiring to be an intelligent, sophisticated, cosmopolitan, eccentric woman who has lived all over, fallen in love, broken my heart, been out on a number of limbs, seen transplants and traumas, deaths and births, thrown pots, danced, sang, gone to war, and is still often an idiot willing to try another adventure. I did want an interesting life. What the hell.
Pain
My tonsils came out when I was 5. I woke up from anesthesia to shocking amounts of pain. I had no idea it would hurt so much, I had never had anything hurt so much. It was awesome and terrifying and endless. The adults around me were nowhere near as concerned as I thought they should be, and I was bereft and helpless. I work today in surgery and a Post Anesthesia Care Unit (PACU ) and I fear working with children, lest I fail them in that moment of suffering and terror. I am a nurse who never needed to be convinced that children feel pain. I know. I remember. I generously give drugs.
There was no such thing as migraines in children when I was a child, so mine were never diagnosed, nonetheless treated. Anxious in a house of quietly desperate dysfunction, bullied at school, illness was the only time I was defended, given any peace. My gut knotted and my head throbbed to give me respite. Children do whatever they have to do. My body protected me the only way it knew how. It never quite learned to forget- when I had my life to myself. I have been gaining on it over the years, and I am finally really coming around.
As an adult, the migraines were incapacitating. Curled up on the floor of the bathroom, squeezing my head, I would have gladly put a bullet in my brain, not to die, but just on the off chance that it would stop the pain. Finally diagnosed and given drugs, wonderful drugs, when I was in my 30's, I now only fear going though a migraine unmedicated. A rare aura developed at work once, and I told the anesthesiologist so that someone in the room knew I might go down soon. He offered me IV drugs. I rolled up my sleeve. It was a very strange exchange, for which I am still grateful. Wonderful drugs.
Pain, I have found, I can ignore, while being drained of energy. Accumulated back injuries from numerous falls dancing, slipping on ice, moving patients, car accidents have left me vulnerable. I was thrown from a see-saw when I was very small, hit my head on the fulcrum, lost consciousness, and woke to agony. I fell down the wooden stairs in my parent's house, numerous times, bruised and my breath shocked out of me, then wracking sobs that my brothers tried to stop by making me laugh. Made it worse, but at least they were there. Four impacted wisdom teeth that ached for months and then oral surgery to top it off. An abscessed tooth, debrided without anesthetic, several moments of excruciating sensation. Breathing in CS gas in Basic, the worst two minutes of my life. I never knew lungs could hurt so. I broke a toe once, getting out of bed. As I healed, I walked around a winter campus on hills, as to be expected at the University of Utah, every step a wince. Or rather, every other step. I kept going. (Step, ow. Step, ow.)
My D smashed his elbow. I knew from first getting to know him in the middle of a war zone that he was brave, quietly deeply brave. I forgot for a time, and was forcibly reminded when I met him at the Instacare out in West Valley. Grey, tight, holding his arm delicately, still his eyes (slightly) lit when he saw me. He joked with me, laughed at my attempts at humor.
All through that long night until he would have surgery the next day, he never complained, never asked 'why me?' Throughout the next year of physical therapy, and a second surgery, he never played up the pain, never asked for pampering, was constantly grateful for anything done for him. He complained about the pain meds making him feel nauseated, angry at himself for not being able to do what he needed, whined a bit when the pain got too much, but did all the therapy, took two busses to make it to every appointment. Played his guitar the day after the second surgery, because he could finally make his arm bend enough (one four bar blues bar, it counts.) It hurt him, but that was his grail. He tends to hide the scar, and the misshapen arm to this day. But I kiss D'elbow, knowing what he endured. And because I fell in love with him again, having forgotten for a time how great his soul was. Pain is a great revealer of character.
Pain is not to be courted, but when it comes, it has wisdom to teach. A Vietnam Veteran at the Vet center talked with me after I got back from Gulf War I. I felt guilty when I was showered, along with the other new vets, with lavish public thanks, after merely an annoying time at war. I was suffering, but it seemed like it was over a bunch of nothing. He told me the worst pain he ever had was when he was hit by shrapnel, the wound that got him sent home But when he gets a paper cut that is the worst pain ever at that moment. He told me that pain does not compare, not from person to person, nor even from one part of my life to another. It may be telling us to stop, or be still, to listen, to change, to accept, to fight or flee. Inside of pain is the small voice with the real message, perhaps in a code that I can only decipher years later. Let me have ears to hear, lest I suffer in vain.
There was no such thing as migraines in children when I was a child, so mine were never diagnosed, nonetheless treated. Anxious in a house of quietly desperate dysfunction, bullied at school, illness was the only time I was defended, given any peace. My gut knotted and my head throbbed to give me respite. Children do whatever they have to do. My body protected me the only way it knew how. It never quite learned to forget- when I had my life to myself. I have been gaining on it over the years, and I am finally really coming around.
As an adult, the migraines were incapacitating. Curled up on the floor of the bathroom, squeezing my head, I would have gladly put a bullet in my brain, not to die, but just on the off chance that it would stop the pain. Finally diagnosed and given drugs, wonderful drugs, when I was in my 30's, I now only fear going though a migraine unmedicated. A rare aura developed at work once, and I told the anesthesiologist so that someone in the room knew I might go down soon. He offered me IV drugs. I rolled up my sleeve. It was a very strange exchange, for which I am still grateful. Wonderful drugs.
Pain, I have found, I can ignore, while being drained of energy. Accumulated back injuries from numerous falls dancing, slipping on ice, moving patients, car accidents have left me vulnerable. I was thrown from a see-saw when I was very small, hit my head on the fulcrum, lost consciousness, and woke to agony. I fell down the wooden stairs in my parent's house, numerous times, bruised and my breath shocked out of me, then wracking sobs that my brothers tried to stop by making me laugh. Made it worse, but at least they were there. Four impacted wisdom teeth that ached for months and then oral surgery to top it off. An abscessed tooth, debrided without anesthetic, several moments of excruciating sensation. Breathing in CS gas in Basic, the worst two minutes of my life. I never knew lungs could hurt so. I broke a toe once, getting out of bed. As I healed, I walked around a winter campus on hills, as to be expected at the University of Utah, every step a wince. Or rather, every other step. I kept going. (Step, ow. Step, ow.)
My D smashed his elbow. I knew from first getting to know him in the middle of a war zone that he was brave, quietly deeply brave. I forgot for a time, and was forcibly reminded when I met him at the Instacare out in West Valley. Grey, tight, holding his arm delicately, still his eyes (slightly) lit when he saw me. He joked with me, laughed at my attempts at humor.
All through that long night until he would have surgery the next day, he never complained, never asked 'why me?' Throughout the next year of physical therapy, and a second surgery, he never played up the pain, never asked for pampering, was constantly grateful for anything done for him. He complained about the pain meds making him feel nauseated, angry at himself for not being able to do what he needed, whined a bit when the pain got too much, but did all the therapy, took two busses to make it to every appointment. Played his guitar the day after the second surgery, because he could finally make his arm bend enough (one four bar blues bar, it counts.) It hurt him, but that was his grail. He tends to hide the scar, and the misshapen arm to this day. But I kiss D'elbow, knowing what he endured. And because I fell in love with him again, having forgotten for a time how great his soul was. Pain is a great revealer of character.
Pain is not to be courted, but when it comes, it has wisdom to teach. A Vietnam Veteran at the Vet center talked with me after I got back from Gulf War I. I felt guilty when I was showered, along with the other new vets, with lavish public thanks, after merely an annoying time at war. I was suffering, but it seemed like it was over a bunch of nothing. He told me the worst pain he ever had was when he was hit by shrapnel, the wound that got him sent home But when he gets a paper cut that is the worst pain ever at that moment. He told me that pain does not compare, not from person to person, nor even from one part of my life to another. It may be telling us to stop, or be still, to listen, to change, to accept, to fight or flee. Inside of pain is the small voice with the real message, perhaps in a code that I can only decipher years later. Let me have ears to hear, lest I suffer in vain.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Comics
My seventh grade teacher, Mark Esper assigned us a project where we had to illustrate current events with comics. Not like I didn't read comics before, but it was mostly Family Circus and Peanuts, you know, the Funnies. But this project was a eye opener, because I started reading Doonsbury, and the Editorial cartoons, all the cartoons in the paper. I read it all, and cut them out, put them in a notebook and wrote why I thought they applied to current events. I still think about comics as social commentary, cultural context.
I have read For Better or For Worse for 20 years, despite it being about families and babies, it is not laugh out loud funny most of the time. But Lyn Johnston did a story about Lawrence, who is gay. No big political point, just here is a young man who is gay, and he has friends and family and is struggling with being honest. A series of four panel drawings that encapsulated a world wide realization of what freedom for all actually means. Because her characters grow up, the stories flow through. Because a dog dies, as old dogs do. I have a deep affection for this comic, she keeps surprizing me.
I have also realized that Doonsbury is at it's best dealing with the life and death issues of war, Vietnam and Iraq. That I must be aware, but I needn't wallow to the point of paralysis, grim laughter is my relief. Over the decades, much of my news came from that strip, just as many people get much of their news from Jon Stewart. Not because I am flip or uncaring, but because I must filter the flow a bit in order to take it all in. The tragedy of the world crushing me like a broken dam is not sustainable. I must step back and squint my eyes, lest I be blinded and broken. Like looking at the sun, I need a pinhole box.
And then there are the strips I abandoned because I grew up. I read Family Circle, Garfield, Blondie, every Peanuts collection at the library, they were all aimed at me. I gradually realized how much the same they all were, same jokes, simplistic, repetitious like sitcoms. I liked Cathy when I was young, I grew up and tiredof her, as her whining became unbearable, her self pity nauseating, her anti-feminist conflicts grating. I read The Lockhorns marital discord not understanding, but it was available as cultural information. Aimed at children.
Dilbert was wonderful when it was about engineers, of no interest to me when it was about cubicle world. For me, it lost it's appeal as it became more staid, and commercial. Creativity, humor, topicality, given over to the grinding demands of the market. People want them, read them, not because they are good, but because they are comforting, the same tired jokes every morning, safe predictable subjects, stasis. Children can justify it, it is all new to them, and they need continuity and repetition. For adults, it is a trap, or a symptom of being trapped. Like easy listening music, macaroni and cheese, a kind of comfort food for the sense of humor. Bland and harmless, save for damage to the wit. The fact that I am certain that anyone ever reading this will know all these comics is part of why I probably hate them. Pernicious and omnipresent, they are over-told jokes, overplayed songs.
Gary Larson and Bill Waterson had admirable integrity by stopping when they were done talking. Far Side and Calvin and Hobbs never became trite. Thanks, guys.
My favorite comics, now as ever, either change with time, or reflect the times. I am still always willing to say "enough" when a comic strip loses it's edge. When I saw the Target symbol on a bag in one recent strip, one of those where the kid never grows up, I stopped reading it. I am still often enough amused by Mother Goose and Grim to keep reading. I used to think Luann was lame, until he started the story about the brother becoming a firefighter. I gave it another chance, and glad I did, because the story was worthwhile.
I read quite a few strips every day, and I do not know why some make me laugh, and some leave me cold. I do know that it is important to occasionally ask myself why I read a strip every day, and if it is worth the time, and if there are others worth knowing about. These are the stories of our culture, small stories that speak to us, and about us. They are the signs of the times. And, they make me laugh.
I had links here, but most of them are now broken.
I have read For Better or For Worse for 20 years, despite it being about families and babies, it is not laugh out loud funny most of the time. But Lyn Johnston did a story about Lawrence, who is gay. No big political point, just here is a young man who is gay, and he has friends and family and is struggling with being honest. A series of four panel drawings that encapsulated a world wide realization of what freedom for all actually means. Because her characters grow up, the stories flow through. Because a dog dies, as old dogs do. I have a deep affection for this comic, she keeps surprizing me.
I have also realized that Doonsbury is at it's best dealing with the life and death issues of war, Vietnam and Iraq. That I must be aware, but I needn't wallow to the point of paralysis, grim laughter is my relief. Over the decades, much of my news came from that strip, just as many people get much of their news from Jon Stewart. Not because I am flip or uncaring, but because I must filter the flow a bit in order to take it all in. The tragedy of the world crushing me like a broken dam is not sustainable. I must step back and squint my eyes, lest I be blinded and broken. Like looking at the sun, I need a pinhole box.
And then there are the strips I abandoned because I grew up. I read Family Circle, Garfield, Blondie, every Peanuts collection at the library, they were all aimed at me. I gradually realized how much the same they all were, same jokes, simplistic, repetitious like sitcoms. I liked Cathy when I was young, I grew up and tiredof her, as her whining became unbearable, her self pity nauseating, her anti-feminist conflicts grating. I read The Lockhorns marital discord not understanding, but it was available as cultural information. Aimed at children.
Dilbert was wonderful when it was about engineers, of no interest to me when it was about cubicle world. For me, it lost it's appeal as it became more staid, and commercial. Creativity, humor, topicality, given over to the grinding demands of the market. People want them, read them, not because they are good, but because they are comforting, the same tired jokes every morning, safe predictable subjects, stasis. Children can justify it, it is all new to them, and they need continuity and repetition. For adults, it is a trap, or a symptom of being trapped. Like easy listening music, macaroni and cheese, a kind of comfort food for the sense of humor. Bland and harmless, save for damage to the wit. The fact that I am certain that anyone ever reading this will know all these comics is part of why I probably hate them. Pernicious and omnipresent, they are over-told jokes, overplayed songs.
Gary Larson and Bill Waterson had admirable integrity by stopping when they were done talking. Far Side and Calvin and Hobbs never became trite. Thanks, guys.
My favorite comics, now as ever, either change with time, or reflect the times. I am still always willing to say "enough" when a comic strip loses it's edge. When I saw the Target symbol on a bag in one recent strip, one of those where the kid never grows up, I stopped reading it. I am still often enough amused by Mother Goose and Grim to keep reading. I used to think Luann was lame, until he started the story about the brother becoming a firefighter. I gave it another chance, and glad I did, because the story was worthwhile.
I read quite a few strips every day, and I do not know why some make me laugh, and some leave me cold. I do know that it is important to occasionally ask myself why I read a strip every day, and if it is worth the time, and if there are others worth knowing about. These are the stories of our culture, small stories that speak to us, and about us. They are the signs of the times. And, they make me laugh.
I had links here, but most of them are now broken.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Activation
I did my two week AT (Annual Training) for my National Guard Unit in the summer, painting and doing mostly busy work, while bullshitting with fellow sufferers. The Operation Desert Shield thing was starting, and we were taking informal bets what would happen to us. I was in the bitter end of an abusive marriage, having a pointless affair with a guy in the Unit, I was sanguine about being taken out of the state for a while. We all figured that if we got activated, it would be to hold down the post for an Army Hospital in Mississippi, as had happened in the Cuban Missile Crisis- the last time this hospital unit had been activated.
Then the rules started changing. We would no longer be just at the beck and call of the Governor, but of the U.S. President, and units were being sent to the Gulf. Being a great pessimist, I figured we were for it. I had just escaped the entanglement of my marriage less than a month before. Taking Microbiology and organic chemistry, I'd heard other Reservists getting called up, and being given credit for classes that were already half over. And then it was my turn.
I had just bought myself a futon and frame, and a bedspread. (I had been sleeping on a foam pad.) Made my nice new piney smelling bed, new black bedspread, and the phone rang. I blithely answered. Told to report to the Armory at the usual time on Saturday when we were already scheduled for drill. I was On Alert. I laid down on my new bed, stunned, thoughts, or at least obscenities racing through my head. Not least of which was "Well, I may be able to have an affair with D." I have no recollection of the rest of the day.
At first formation, we were told we would be in Saudi Arabia for Christmas. We were not just On Alert, we were being Activated. My sergeant walked through his duties that day with tears in his eyes. He was not the only one. Parents were frantic about their children, students worried about their education and loans, the older ones speculated on whether their businesses would still be there when they got back. We were not given an end date, perhaps it would be for the duration. Gossip took over, and amidst the busy preparations- made easier in my section due to our Colonel "Mom" who had done her work to make us organized and ready, was a suppressed panic. D and I sought each other out, and found solace in catching each other's eyes, commiserating.
That evening, I would get dumped by the guy I had been seeing. Which took nerve on his part, and I give him credit for doing it immediately and not dragging it out. But I spent that night crying, not just for him, but for all my loss and anxiety and fears and uncertainty and mortality.
I would get up early with a headache that became a migraine as I stood in line after line to get this bit of equipment, that form, my will and insurance, all the Army shit. And D would be sure to stand in line with me, at some point getting me a chair and putting my head down on his mask carrier as we waited in another line. A gesture I found overwhelmingly endearing and comforting then, that still brings tears of gratitude to my eyes.
I would go to all my classes the next day and with up to a dozen other students in each class, to sign up for the "get the grade you would get for your work so far, and get credit for the whole semester" deal. My recent friends from class agreed to help with various tasks I could not do. One - then living with her grandparents, would move into my apartment, I would pay rent and she would cover utilities only, so I would not have to find a new place if and when I got home. Another friend would hold my checkbook, another would handle anything else. I was dumping on them but with only a week's notice, and friends I had not known that long, I tried to spread it out, to reduce both burden and temptation. I was desperate, and with few choices. They would all come through for me.
The week would involve most days at the Armory, but Thursday off. Because Thursday was Thanksgiving. I spent it with friends, one of whom had been a radio man in Vietnam, he gave me his infantry badge - to bring back to him. He would take me the next day, with D, to get some allowable comforts, a short wave radio, scissors, swiss army knives, a few other odds and ends. It was a lovely, normal day, and friend and D bonded in a gratifying way. Sunday night, at 0dark30, we were put in all the bulky webgear, and loaded on busses alphabetically, and sent off to wait at Fort Carson for a month until we were sent to Saudi Arabia.
Such began my first date with D. We would both come through changed, blind to the road before us, reaching out to each other. This is why we count our anniversary, the one that counts, as the date on our activation orders, celebrated on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Because we would survive, and this would turn out for us to be six months of annoyance in a footnote war.
Not like the current sequel.
Then the rules started changing. We would no longer be just at the beck and call of the Governor, but of the U.S. President, and units were being sent to the Gulf. Being a great pessimist, I figured we were for it. I had just escaped the entanglement of my marriage less than a month before. Taking Microbiology and organic chemistry, I'd heard other Reservists getting called up, and being given credit for classes that were already half over. And then it was my turn.
I had just bought myself a futon and frame, and a bedspread. (I had been sleeping on a foam pad.) Made my nice new piney smelling bed, new black bedspread, and the phone rang. I blithely answered. Told to report to the Armory at the usual time on Saturday when we were already scheduled for drill. I was On Alert. I laid down on my new bed, stunned, thoughts, or at least obscenities racing through my head. Not least of which was "Well, I may be able to have an affair with D." I have no recollection of the rest of the day.
At first formation, we were told we would be in Saudi Arabia for Christmas. We were not just On Alert, we were being Activated. My sergeant walked through his duties that day with tears in his eyes. He was not the only one. Parents were frantic about their children, students worried about their education and loans, the older ones speculated on whether their businesses would still be there when they got back. We were not given an end date, perhaps it would be for the duration. Gossip took over, and amidst the busy preparations- made easier in my section due to our Colonel "Mom" who had done her work to make us organized and ready, was a suppressed panic. D and I sought each other out, and found solace in catching each other's eyes, commiserating.
That evening, I would get dumped by the guy I had been seeing. Which took nerve on his part, and I give him credit for doing it immediately and not dragging it out. But I spent that night crying, not just for him, but for all my loss and anxiety and fears and uncertainty and mortality.
I would get up early with a headache that became a migraine as I stood in line after line to get this bit of equipment, that form, my will and insurance, all the Army shit. And D would be sure to stand in line with me, at some point getting me a chair and putting my head down on his mask carrier as we waited in another line. A gesture I found overwhelmingly endearing and comforting then, that still brings tears of gratitude to my eyes.
I would go to all my classes the next day and with up to a dozen other students in each class, to sign up for the "get the grade you would get for your work so far, and get credit for the whole semester" deal. My recent friends from class agreed to help with various tasks I could not do. One - then living with her grandparents, would move into my apartment, I would pay rent and she would cover utilities only, so I would not have to find a new place if and when I got home. Another friend would hold my checkbook, another would handle anything else. I was dumping on them but with only a week's notice, and friends I had not known that long, I tried to spread it out, to reduce both burden and temptation. I was desperate, and with few choices. They would all come through for me.
The week would involve most days at the Armory, but Thursday off. Because Thursday was Thanksgiving. I spent it with friends, one of whom had been a radio man in Vietnam, he gave me his infantry badge - to bring back to him. He would take me the next day, with D, to get some allowable comforts, a short wave radio, scissors, swiss army knives, a few other odds and ends. It was a lovely, normal day, and friend and D bonded in a gratifying way. Sunday night, at 0dark30, we were put in all the bulky webgear, and loaded on busses alphabetically, and sent off to wait at Fort Carson for a month until we were sent to Saudi Arabia.
Such began my first date with D. We would both come through changed, blind to the road before us, reaching out to each other. This is why we count our anniversary, the one that counts, as the date on our activation orders, celebrated on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Because we would survive, and this would turn out for us to be six months of annoyance in a footnote war.
Not like the current sequel.
Feel
I have always been tactile. I ran my fingers along anything I could, in stores, fences, rows of book spines, best of all bolts of cloth in fabric stores. The colors attracted my eyes, but I had to touch. My earliest memories are of standing on the pew in church and petting the fur collar on a woman's coat. It would keep me quietly content for hours. I had to have been small because I had to stand to reach the shoulder of a little old lady. Don't ask me which old lady, there were several neighbor ladies who would sit with my family in church, my Aunt Evelyn had a fur collar, my granny had one, the memory is no doubt a series of memories rather than a single event. But I can still feel the fur under my small hand.
I would also react against bad feelings. Weird "catchy" fabric would cause me to pull away as though hurt, and I would have to rub my hand to remove the feeling. When my mother would turn over the soil for a garden in the spring, I could cope with the dirt until I touched my first worm of the year, then I could not go near it. Oatmeal pans left to soak overnight, the cold water with globs of slimy chunks would make me retch when I had to clean them out. I hated flannel sheets, they pilled, and sparked in the dry winter air. I liked seeing the static light when I ran my feet between, but it felt awful.
I rubbed the eyes, shiny black smooth eyes, of my raggedy ann that my brothers had given me, until they lost their surface. My Aunt Evelyn had a figurine of a bear, called Fuzzy Wuzzy, that had fuzz on it. I rubbed what was left completely off during my childhood. Her Chesterfield was brown with the paisley shaped pattern of weave and loops that I would run my fingers over incessantly.
My Aunt Alma's poodle, fat Gigi, my oldest friend, curly, clean black fur, lived to eat, and chase her ball, always rubber, always saturated with dog spit that squidged in my hand when I threw it for her. Midnight was patiently gentle cat that I could carry on my shoulders when I was four, and stroked and stroked. The current feline is Moby, whose fur is black silk, warm and alive, and I rest my hand on him. I have a weakness for shaven heads discovered while in the Army, soft velvet shorn hair is irresistible. That D likes his head kept shaved is a daily pleasure to me.
I know what humans feel like outside and in. Trained in massage, I learned how to feel for the tightness and pain in muscles, what was bone, what tendon. Subtle feeling that I have no words for. The feeling of tension under skin. There is a particular feeling of heat and sharpness with pain. Friends and fellow workers who I work on Wonder How I Know to go Right There where they are hurting. It is logical, but not amenable to words. My hands know.
Working in surgery, I have felt inside, a heathy liver, tumors, cysts. The surprizing strength of a heartbeat straining against a hand - not to be held still, as it shoves away with each thump. Fatty tissue so slippery it cannot be restrained. Intestine squirming and gurgling through my hand, soft stones or sandy grit inside a gall bladder -itself a deflated lubricated balloon. The distanced feel of putting in a catheter, knowing by the resistance if it has gone where it should. The waxen feel of the dead that have expelled the soul. The marvel of the human body, even in such extremity demands respect.
My hands reach out to comfort, and to experience, itch to feel, test, understand. No beauties, they are battered hands, scarred and scraped. Sore, aching curious extensions of my mind and eyes. Small blunt useful hands. With a tendency to sneak out and stroke soft stuff with very little invitation.
I would also react against bad feelings. Weird "catchy" fabric would cause me to pull away as though hurt, and I would have to rub my hand to remove the feeling. When my mother would turn over the soil for a garden in the spring, I could cope with the dirt until I touched my first worm of the year, then I could not go near it. Oatmeal pans left to soak overnight, the cold water with globs of slimy chunks would make me retch when I had to clean them out. I hated flannel sheets, they pilled, and sparked in the dry winter air. I liked seeing the static light when I ran my feet between, but it felt awful.
I rubbed the eyes, shiny black smooth eyes, of my raggedy ann that my brothers had given me, until they lost their surface. My Aunt Evelyn had a figurine of a bear, called Fuzzy Wuzzy, that had fuzz on it. I rubbed what was left completely off during my childhood. Her Chesterfield was brown with the paisley shaped pattern of weave and loops that I would run my fingers over incessantly.
My Aunt Alma's poodle, fat Gigi, my oldest friend, curly, clean black fur, lived to eat, and chase her ball, always rubber, always saturated with dog spit that squidged in my hand when I threw it for her. Midnight was patiently gentle cat that I could carry on my shoulders when I was four, and stroked and stroked. The current feline is Moby, whose fur is black silk, warm and alive, and I rest my hand on him. I have a weakness for shaven heads discovered while in the Army, soft velvet shorn hair is irresistible. That D likes his head kept shaved is a daily pleasure to me.
I know what humans feel like outside and in. Trained in massage, I learned how to feel for the tightness and pain in muscles, what was bone, what tendon. Subtle feeling that I have no words for. The feeling of tension under skin. There is a particular feeling of heat and sharpness with pain. Friends and fellow workers who I work on Wonder How I Know to go Right There where they are hurting. It is logical, but not amenable to words. My hands know.
Working in surgery, I have felt inside, a heathy liver, tumors, cysts. The surprizing strength of a heartbeat straining against a hand - not to be held still, as it shoves away with each thump. Fatty tissue so slippery it cannot be restrained. Intestine squirming and gurgling through my hand, soft stones or sandy grit inside a gall bladder -itself a deflated lubricated balloon. The distanced feel of putting in a catheter, knowing by the resistance if it has gone where it should. The waxen feel of the dead that have expelled the soul. The marvel of the human body, even in such extremity demands respect.
My hands reach out to comfort, and to experience, itch to feel, test, understand. No beauties, they are battered hands, scarred and scraped. Sore, aching curious extensions of my mind and eyes. Small blunt useful hands. With a tendency to sneak out and stroke soft stuff with very little invitation.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Polite
I have had a long and difficult relationship with politeness, having lived in three very different areas of the country, plus growing up in a Canadian family. Canadians, well renowned for their politeness, are nevertheless not in perfect agreement with everybody everywhere else (or each other, for that matter.) Individual Canadians are not necessarily up to the Mountie Gold Standard. (Didn't know there was one did you?) Well, and many times Canadians seem polite to strangers who do not realize they are being very sarcastic. Often with each other. So I know polite, but it is not the same flavor in Windsor as in Detroit or Salt Lake City or Boston.
I grew up in Detroit, a rough town at the best of times, but very much influenced by it's northern (in some places where the river bends, actually to the south, but let's not quibble) neighbor. But also the raucous liveliness of both black and middle European shouting and hand talk, added to big city privacy, and the street smarts to brusquely deflect beggars, muggers or hucksters. A polite person would adapt to the requirements of the context, others would wind up offending, or being victimized. Politeness greased the rubbing together of so many people from so many backgrounds and expectations. It was an aloof and cold manner, that could not be described as friendly.
Detroit public politeness (at least when I was growing up there) tended toward the assumption of dishonesty and threat - where quiet avoidance of social interaction, especially on the street, was a safety measure. In Boston generally, on the T(train) especially, silence is the rule, even when giving up one's seat. Unless the individual is clearly out of line, insane or pushy, talking is a clear indicator of a need for assistance, and is usually responded to helpfully. Read any blog from Eastern Urban centers with public transport, and you will see humorous lists of Rules - like "Do not floss on the train... just ... don't." The politeness of most commuters means that they pretend not to notice such lapses, unless it is intrusive on someone else. With near collisions, I might hear an "excuse me." If we actually hit (rare) I will hear a "sorry" as they continue past.
Then there is Utah, Salt Lake City in particular, where people will stand clearly in the only pathway and have conversation, not allowing anyone past. I have been more often jostled or had to force my way through much thinner crowds there than in the densely packed streets here in Boston. In Utah the women can still expect their menfolk to run around the car to open the door for them, and in exchange they are expected to be unbearably sweet and docile. I often found skin deep friendliness to be a mask for appalling and breathtaking rudeness and manipulation. Or for moral weakness excused. Some truly decent people who grew up there struggle to be so outwardly sugary, and still keep their personal boundaries and integrity intact without resorting to becoming angry and resentful themselves. They confuse "niceness" with polite behaviour, and get pushed into accepting what can only be described as evil. They do not call spades spades, because that would not be nice. They prevaricate and squirm, seeing niceness as more important than honesty or standing by their core values. To fight is seen as rude, even in a just cause. Even the ones who succeed in keeping some integrity bear the scars of unbearable niceness.
So I need to offer my definition of polite behaviour for one of those so scarred. Every culture has a series of rules and expectations, which individuals can either use to ease interpersonal friction, or to manipulate people. I will take, for instance, as a silly example, the Canadian, and Northern Mid-Western Rule of Three of Hospitality. It goes a bit like this...
Offer#1 "Would you like some tea?"
Refusal #1 "No, thanks, I'm fine."
Offer #2 "I just got the kettle on, are you sure?"
Refusal #2 "Oh, I really don't want to put you to any trouble."
OR
Offer Withdrawal #1 "I really do have to get going, see you later then, eh?" (Conversation ends)
Offer #3 "No trouble at all, I was going to have a cup myself."
Refusal #3 "No, I really have to get going, but thanks." (interchange ends)
OR
Acceptance "Well, that would be very nice, if you are sure you don't mind."
This is the ideal, the host and guest and both get what they want. When it gets manipulative is when the host only offers once. Twice is fine, if the host would really be put out, only had enough for one, was an a hurry, whatever. Four offers is badgering. A guest who says yes at once better be crawling out of the desert, s/he must allow that the first offer is merely for form. A guest who says no after three should not be put out if not offered again. It is an arbitrary number, but accepted in this culture. A polite host will be aware of someone from elsewhere, and either explain the rule or pick up on other clues and respond accordingly. A rude one will apply the rule to their own benefit, and make allowances for no one, while breaking it for themselves when it is convenient.
But there are more important examples. My Aunt Evelyn volunteered for Birthright, a pro adoption anti-abortion group, that posed as a neutral pregnancy help service. She was devoutly Catholic and lost several pregnancies, and an adopted child (taken back by her birth mother). I am unabashedly pro-abortion, any woman who does not want a child should under no circumstances be forced, coerced, to have one. If my mother asked me if I would have had her abort me, I would say- yes. I'm here, and have made myself a good life, but if I could erase my childhood, I would, no question. I would never have made a point of telling my aunt this, out of deep respect for her life, and her kindly and deeply held beliefs. She had every right to make her own choices, and I mine. She would not have tried to pin me down on the issue. If she had, I would have asked to be allowed my privacy. I did not need her to agree with me in order to think her polite. She would not have forced me to overtly agree with her in order to be seen as polite.
The heart of this is to be gracious, and make others feel acknowledged and wanted, even if it is inconvenient. To allow for friendly refusal and a limitation on both unwanted hospitality and imposition. It allows for both communication and an OUT. It is perfectly polite to deflect impolite requests, even to outright refuse them. At the lowest level is sarcasm- which is to say funny- responses when one person is not playing fairly. Because if we can laugh at the error, it is simply an error, not meanness. Even if it was meanness.
If necessary, brusqueness is the next step, implying a more serious error of interchange, in terms of pushing too hard or prying or being inconsiderate of context or time constraints. The implication is that the other person was being thoughtless or stupid, rather than mean or dishonest, even if they are being mean or dishonest.
Outright rudeness is perfectly acceptable when the other person is clearly dishonest or mean, a sidewalk hustler, abusive beggar, forcing their obviously different from your viewpoint, or any solicitation to illegal, unethical or grossly inappropriate services. At this point it is perfectly acceptable to indicate that what you are being asked is unethical, illegal or coercive. If you absolutely have to be nice, a "teaching" tone would be acceptable. "Have you thought of taking an ethics class, going to the police, asking me how I feel?" Because being considerate does not mean being a doormat, it means considering the other person's point of view. If they are not considering me, it is fair to ask them to. If they do not, I are under no further obligation to comply.
So let us be fair, and honest, fight for what is right, treat each other decently, and stand firm, with all due respect for the toes of our fellow travelers. But say please and thank you, and sorry, and don't push or yell. Because politeness really is not dependent on how many times I do or do not offer tea, or how many times you refuse. But I have just put the kettle on......really, no trouble at all.
I grew up in Detroit, a rough town at the best of times, but very much influenced by it's northern (in some places where the river bends, actually to the south, but let's not quibble) neighbor. But also the raucous liveliness of both black and middle European shouting and hand talk, added to big city privacy, and the street smarts to brusquely deflect beggars, muggers or hucksters. A polite person would adapt to the requirements of the context, others would wind up offending, or being victimized. Politeness greased the rubbing together of so many people from so many backgrounds and expectations. It was an aloof and cold manner, that could not be described as friendly.
Detroit public politeness (at least when I was growing up there) tended toward the assumption of dishonesty and threat - where quiet avoidance of social interaction, especially on the street, was a safety measure. In Boston generally, on the T(train) especially, silence is the rule, even when giving up one's seat. Unless the individual is clearly out of line, insane or pushy, talking is a clear indicator of a need for assistance, and is usually responded to helpfully. Read any blog from Eastern Urban centers with public transport, and you will see humorous lists of Rules - like "Do not floss on the train... just ... don't." The politeness of most commuters means that they pretend not to notice such lapses, unless it is intrusive on someone else. With near collisions, I might hear an "excuse me." If we actually hit (rare) I will hear a "sorry" as they continue past.
Then there is Utah, Salt Lake City in particular, where people will stand clearly in the only pathway and have conversation, not allowing anyone past. I have been more often jostled or had to force my way through much thinner crowds there than in the densely packed streets here in Boston. In Utah the women can still expect their menfolk to run around the car to open the door for them, and in exchange they are expected to be unbearably sweet and docile. I often found skin deep friendliness to be a mask for appalling and breathtaking rudeness and manipulation. Or for moral weakness excused. Some truly decent people who grew up there struggle to be so outwardly sugary, and still keep their personal boundaries and integrity intact without resorting to becoming angry and resentful themselves. They confuse "niceness" with polite behaviour, and get pushed into accepting what can only be described as evil. They do not call spades spades, because that would not be nice. They prevaricate and squirm, seeing niceness as more important than honesty or standing by their core values. To fight is seen as rude, even in a just cause. Even the ones who succeed in keeping some integrity bear the scars of unbearable niceness.
So I need to offer my definition of polite behaviour for one of those so scarred. Every culture has a series of rules and expectations, which individuals can either use to ease interpersonal friction, or to manipulate people. I will take, for instance, as a silly example, the Canadian, and Northern Mid-Western Rule of Three of Hospitality. It goes a bit like this...
Offer#1 "Would you like some tea?"
Refusal #1 "No, thanks, I'm fine."
Offer #2 "I just got the kettle on, are you sure?"
Refusal #2 "Oh, I really don't want to put you to any trouble."
OR
Offer Withdrawal #1 "I really do have to get going, see you later then, eh?" (Conversation ends)
Offer #3 "No trouble at all, I was going to have a cup myself."
Refusal #3 "No, I really have to get going, but thanks." (interchange ends)
OR
Acceptance "Well, that would be very nice, if you are sure you don't mind."
This is the ideal, the host and guest and both get what they want. When it gets manipulative is when the host only offers once. Twice is fine, if the host would really be put out, only had enough for one, was an a hurry, whatever. Four offers is badgering. A guest who says yes at once better be crawling out of the desert, s/he must allow that the first offer is merely for form. A guest who says no after three should not be put out if not offered again. It is an arbitrary number, but accepted in this culture. A polite host will be aware of someone from elsewhere, and either explain the rule or pick up on other clues and respond accordingly. A rude one will apply the rule to their own benefit, and make allowances for no one, while breaking it for themselves when it is convenient.
But there are more important examples. My Aunt Evelyn volunteered for Birthright, a pro adoption anti-abortion group, that posed as a neutral pregnancy help service. She was devoutly Catholic and lost several pregnancies, and an adopted child (taken back by her birth mother). I am unabashedly pro-abortion, any woman who does not want a child should under no circumstances be forced, coerced, to have one. If my mother asked me if I would have had her abort me, I would say- yes. I'm here, and have made myself a good life, but if I could erase my childhood, I would, no question. I would never have made a point of telling my aunt this, out of deep respect for her life, and her kindly and deeply held beliefs. She had every right to make her own choices, and I mine. She would not have tried to pin me down on the issue. If she had, I would have asked to be allowed my privacy. I did not need her to agree with me in order to think her polite. She would not have forced me to overtly agree with her in order to be seen as polite.
The heart of this is to be gracious, and make others feel acknowledged and wanted, even if it is inconvenient. To allow for friendly refusal and a limitation on both unwanted hospitality and imposition. It allows for both communication and an OUT. It is perfectly polite to deflect impolite requests, even to outright refuse them. At the lowest level is sarcasm- which is to say funny- responses when one person is not playing fairly. Because if we can laugh at the error, it is simply an error, not meanness. Even if it was meanness.
If necessary, brusqueness is the next step, implying a more serious error of interchange, in terms of pushing too hard or prying or being inconsiderate of context or time constraints. The implication is that the other person was being thoughtless or stupid, rather than mean or dishonest, even if they are being mean or dishonest.
Outright rudeness is perfectly acceptable when the other person is clearly dishonest or mean, a sidewalk hustler, abusive beggar, forcing their obviously different from your viewpoint, or any solicitation to illegal, unethical or grossly inappropriate services. At this point it is perfectly acceptable to indicate that what you are being asked is unethical, illegal or coercive. If you absolutely have to be nice, a "teaching" tone would be acceptable. "Have you thought of taking an ethics class, going to the police, asking me how I feel?" Because being considerate does not mean being a doormat, it means considering the other person's point of view. If they are not considering me, it is fair to ask them to. If they do not, I are under no further obligation to comply.
So let us be fair, and honest, fight for what is right, treat each other decently, and stand firm, with all due respect for the toes of our fellow travelers. But say please and thank you, and sorry, and don't push or yell. Because politeness really is not dependent on how many times I do or do not offer tea, or how many times you refuse. But I have just put the kettle on......really, no trouble at all.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Thanks
Many thanks to Moira
Mirror
I have always loved staring into mirrors. Not that I love my face for it's beauty certainly. To examine a face that doesn't mind me staring perhaps. When I was very small I was held up to the mirror to 'kiss the baby good-night' before I was put to bed. I always had mirrors in my room. Where there were two mirrors to stand between, there I stood- at the counter at the Dime Store, or in an elevator, a movie theater lobby. Dressing room triple mirrors were a wonder. And of course, when I danced, there were walls of mirrors. Seeing myself from the outside, trying to understand how I was seen. Getting the movements right, which was related to visualizing myself from the outside and matching that to how my body felt. Loving the reflected movements of the whole line of girls in saggy leotards.
Staring into my reflection alone, I would frighten myself if I gazed into my own eye too long. Less so after knowing what the different parts of the eye were called, what they were for. Zits were a meditative preoccupation. Are. When working toward a theater degree, I took two semesters of Stage Make-up, and rearranged my looks every week. Two important insights: the most glamorous grad student actress looked perfectly ordinary without her expertly applied make-up, and I looked perfectly glamorous, if not at all like myself, with it all on. And unimportantly, that I made a gorgeous man in a beard.
My Uncle Walt's house was full of mirrors, making it seem very large and full of light, although it was really small and short of windows. Kaleidoscopes and fun-house mirrors, shiny spoons and silver teapots all catch my gaze. Christmas trees were about seeing my warped reflection in the smooth purple, green, or red ornaments. Liminal experiences all, seeing further into a space that is not physically present. The light gets there anyway.
Stories of the vanity of people, or gods who gazed at themselves in their reflections, struck me as somehow wrong- more than preoccupation with looks was involved. I always felt something missing from those stories, some misunderstanding of a disenfranchised deity mythos. I loved to look at myself in mirrors, but I was not vain. I was trying to see myself as I was, facing my flaws and reality without flinching. Finding one's own truth is of course, heresy. Established authoritarian regimented religions do not want their flock to look for truth inside their own souls, but from what the priests and elders say, from what is written. Dangerous stuff, mirrors. Even minor gods need to look out, not in. Still, all I could see was the outside of myself, so there are more subtle messages in the stories. Bujold talks about mirrors in this way, reflections as useful, but not entirely reliable.
D sees me as beautiful, and no mirror has ever told me that. My patients often reflect back trust, and my ability to assure them. Friends laugh, letting me know that I am funny. Strangers have reflected back wariness, even fear, telling me that I am dangerous. My best mirror is the eyes of those I love and care for. I still catch glimpses of myself in my reflection whenever possible, just to see what I can.
Staring into my reflection alone, I would frighten myself if I gazed into my own eye too long. Less so after knowing what the different parts of the eye were called, what they were for. Zits were a meditative preoccupation. Are. When working toward a theater degree, I took two semesters of Stage Make-up, and rearranged my looks every week. Two important insights: the most glamorous grad student actress looked perfectly ordinary without her expertly applied make-up, and I looked perfectly glamorous, if not at all like myself, with it all on. And unimportantly, that I made a gorgeous man in a beard.
My Uncle Walt's house was full of mirrors, making it seem very large and full of light, although it was really small and short of windows. Kaleidoscopes and fun-house mirrors, shiny spoons and silver teapots all catch my gaze. Christmas trees were about seeing my warped reflection in the smooth purple, green, or red ornaments. Liminal experiences all, seeing further into a space that is not physically present. The light gets there anyway.
Stories of the vanity of people, or gods who gazed at themselves in their reflections, struck me as somehow wrong- more than preoccupation with looks was involved. I always felt something missing from those stories, some misunderstanding of a disenfranchised deity mythos. I loved to look at myself in mirrors, but I was not vain. I was trying to see myself as I was, facing my flaws and reality without flinching. Finding one's own truth is of course, heresy. Established authoritarian regimented religions do not want their flock to look for truth inside their own souls, but from what the priests and elders say, from what is written. Dangerous stuff, mirrors. Even minor gods need to look out, not in. Still, all I could see was the outside of myself, so there are more subtle messages in the stories. Bujold talks about mirrors in this way, reflections as useful, but not entirely reliable.
D sees me as beautiful, and no mirror has ever told me that. My patients often reflect back trust, and my ability to assure them. Friends laugh, letting me know that I am funny. Strangers have reflected back wariness, even fear, telling me that I am dangerous. My best mirror is the eyes of those I love and care for. I still catch glimpses of myself in my reflection whenever possible, just to see what I can.
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