Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Door (Photo)
Moby has, for the first time as far as we know, gotten to go outside, unbagged and unboxed, and willingly. We have a small courtyard, fenced. Not that he couldn't escape, but we do use a leash, and it is a relatively small risk - given his proclivity to run toward us when startled.
He now wants to go out all the time, especially since seeing a mouse by the fence the other night, through the glass. Oh, brother, he wanted mouse. Nor does he seem to mind the rain. Only when his tail plopped into the inch deep puddle did he seem to mind, slightly.
We take him for walks in the hall. Today he flopped down across from our neighbor's door, and lolled. I noticed the door was ajar, and I know their two year old little girl is frightened of cats, sadly including Gentle Mobius, so I reached to gather him up. And noticed the glorious aromas of Indian food wafting out at me. Aha, I thought. Smart cat.
Guilt
My mother often read me a storybook about a little girl who found a red purse. There may have been a doll in it. There was, I think, some money in it. After a page or so of wanting to keep the lost treasure, she decides to try to give it back. The little girl who lost it is very grateful, and our Heroine gets a reward, and best of all, a new friend.
I didn't much care about purses or dolls or money, so I could be quite virtuous putting myself into this story. Especially since I knew the end. Trade a stupid purse for a friend? Easy. Even a friend who wanted to play dolls all the time.
In grade school, there was a landing near the door where all the little girls would throw their little purses when we ran outside to the parking-lot/playground to torment each other. I threw my pot-holder loom purse (with a snapped flap and crocheted strap) on the pile as usual. And when I retrieved it, I was devastated that the contents had been stolen. I would never steal anything. I cried to Sister Jean, the principal, who was supervising the chaos. And was chastised sharply for leaving anything valuable just lying there, unwatched. I was deemed guilty of leading another into temptation, and told to suck it up - not in those words. It was a bitter lesson, that I in no way appreciated at the time.
(Sr. Jean was the woman who, while I was gulpingly reporting my granny being in the hospital, corrected my grammar.)
I took it in, though. Guilt is not a finite quantity, where more or less, all or nothing are meaningful. I can be the victim, and still share responsibility for the sin. My obligation does not take away blame from the perpetrator. I shared the sin of violence, by tacitly condoning the ex's behaviour toward me. It was a goad to me to leave - it was not just my safety, a selfish reason that seemed insufficient in the insanity of my world. It was the erosion of his already weak character that I was guilty of, when I allowed him to continue. Took nothing away from his culpability. He refused his burden, and his life is a shambles. I picked mine up, and my life flourishes.
D postulates that it is a construct of a litigious society, where blame is a concrete comodity, and justice parcels it out in percentages, or in a win/lose ruling. A rape victim must be wholly innocent, or the rapist is not guilty - or the rapist is wholly guilty, and no blame must be laid on the reckless stupidity of the victim. Both sets miss the point. Theft and entitlement, lack of concern and consideration, violence, carry their own independent burden, regardless of the naivety, impulsiveness, laziness and idiocy of the victim. Each carry their own penalty. Few victims are truely innocent.
I had a message relayed to me a few years ago, from a woman who had bullied me as a girl. She apologized, and regretted her meanness. I sent back utter, decades-ago forgiveness, and the acknowledgment that I was a little wet rag at the time, a juicy target. I felt badly that she was still carrying the guilt.
We get what we wish for others. In twisty ways, we get what we deserve.
Thankful as I am for the lesson, I wonder how many friends Sr. Jean has these days.
I didn't much care about purses or dolls or money, so I could be quite virtuous putting myself into this story. Especially since I knew the end. Trade a stupid purse for a friend? Easy. Even a friend who wanted to play dolls all the time.
In grade school, there was a landing near the door where all the little girls would throw their little purses when we ran outside to the parking-lot/playground to torment each other. I threw my pot-holder loom purse (with a snapped flap and crocheted strap) on the pile as usual. And when I retrieved it, I was devastated that the contents had been stolen. I would never steal anything. I cried to Sister Jean, the principal, who was supervising the chaos. And was chastised sharply for leaving anything valuable just lying there, unwatched. I was deemed guilty of leading another into temptation, and told to suck it up - not in those words. It was a bitter lesson, that I in no way appreciated at the time.
(Sr. Jean was the woman who, while I was gulpingly reporting my granny being in the hospital, corrected my grammar.)
I took it in, though. Guilt is not a finite quantity, where more or less, all or nothing are meaningful. I can be the victim, and still share responsibility for the sin. My obligation does not take away blame from the perpetrator. I shared the sin of violence, by tacitly condoning the ex's behaviour toward me. It was a goad to me to leave - it was not just my safety, a selfish reason that seemed insufficient in the insanity of my world. It was the erosion of his already weak character that I was guilty of, when I allowed him to continue. Took nothing away from his culpability. He refused his burden, and his life is a shambles. I picked mine up, and my life flourishes.
D postulates that it is a construct of a litigious society, where blame is a concrete comodity, and justice parcels it out in percentages, or in a win/lose ruling. A rape victim must be wholly innocent, or the rapist is not guilty - or the rapist is wholly guilty, and no blame must be laid on the reckless stupidity of the victim. Both sets miss the point. Theft and entitlement, lack of concern and consideration, violence, carry their own independent burden, regardless of the naivety, impulsiveness, laziness and idiocy of the victim. Each carry their own penalty. Few victims are truely innocent.
I had a message relayed to me a few years ago, from a woman who had bullied me as a girl. She apologized, and regretted her meanness. I sent back utter, decades-ago forgiveness, and the acknowledgment that I was a little wet rag at the time, a juicy target. I felt badly that she was still carrying the guilt.
We get what we wish for others. In twisty ways, we get what we deserve.
Thankful as I am for the lesson, I wonder how many friends Sr. Jean has these days.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Decoration (Photo)
I miss the desire and ability to decorate the ordinary. Like bleachers for a baseball field.
Harm
In response to Dale, Tuesday, June 13, 2006 ::: Answer to Dweezila, 3
My mother did not believe in hitting children. She slapped the end knuckles of my fingers with the tips of hers, on the rare occasions that she could not get my attention with words. It stung, but I never remember feeling it unfair. My mother always apologized and explained herself. Today, it reminds me of having my hand tapped in surgery, when the retraction is to be released, a startle, but not harmful. Proportional.
My father knew my mother's feelings about hitting. Or I believe we all would have been beaten. Instead, there were the spankings. I never understood where they came from, nor do I ever feel they were fair. They hurt. They humiliated. They terrified me. In part, that I was under the authority of a person out of control. But far worse, I was dependent on someone who could hurt me with impunity. They stopped, fairly early on. And I think my mother, quietly, behind the scenes, with the United Front intact, told him that was enough. Hitting was one of the few issues she would do battle with him on. She stated quite clearly, that if he ever hit her, she would leave. I am glad her bluff worked, because I know it is harder than that. For a shy, fervently Catholic woman, born in 1925, making this her rallying cry, this had the odor of radicalism. That she put up with everything else takes the teeth out of it.
I always remembered him hitting me. And I hated and resented him for it. I fantasize killing him, after all this time. The last time, when he came apart at me, I considered taking him by the throat and slamming him against the wall. But I was better than that. I cared more for the health of my soul, than for the catharsis of revenge.
I know that I intimidate people. Some of that violence, never indulged, must leak at the edges. I want there to be a glimmer of that danger, so that I never have to unleash it.
I can harm. I will not.
No secret.
My mother did not believe in hitting children. She slapped the end knuckles of my fingers with the tips of hers, on the rare occasions that she could not get my attention with words. It stung, but I never remember feeling it unfair. My mother always apologized and explained herself. Today, it reminds me of having my hand tapped in surgery, when the retraction is to be released, a startle, but not harmful. Proportional.
My father knew my mother's feelings about hitting. Or I believe we all would have been beaten. Instead, there were the spankings. I never understood where they came from, nor do I ever feel they were fair. They hurt. They humiliated. They terrified me. In part, that I was under the authority of a person out of control. But far worse, I was dependent on someone who could hurt me with impunity. They stopped, fairly early on. And I think my mother, quietly, behind the scenes, with the United Front intact, told him that was enough. Hitting was one of the few issues she would do battle with him on. She stated quite clearly, that if he ever hit her, she would leave. I am glad her bluff worked, because I know it is harder than that. For a shy, fervently Catholic woman, born in 1925, making this her rallying cry, this had the odor of radicalism. That she put up with everything else takes the teeth out of it.
I always remembered him hitting me. And I hated and resented him for it. I fantasize killing him, after all this time. The last time, when he came apart at me, I considered taking him by the throat and slamming him against the wall. But I was better than that. I cared more for the health of my soul, than for the catharsis of revenge.
I know that I intimidate people. Some of that violence, never indulged, must leak at the edges. I want there to be a glimmer of that danger, so that I never have to unleash it.
I can harm. I will not.
No secret.
Up (Photo)
Whisky River
"Nothing influences our ability to cope with the difficulties of existence so much as the context in which we view them; the more contexts we can choose between, the less do the difficulties appear to be inevitable and insurmountable . . . the more complexities, the more crevices there are through which we can crawl."
- Theodore Zeldin
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Lawyers
Dewey, Cheetham & Howe. In Harvard Square. The fictional law firm for Car Talk
I honestly do not know if this is where they record, or if this is a real law firm with an unfortunate name. I can say that in the two years I have been visiting this corner of the world, I have never noticed this window before.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Universal
Long ago, when I was a pretentious little theater student, I had discussions about what is Universal. Class discussions, theater party rants, directors having the stage and expounding. Shakespeare being the most cited example of what is Universal, because he wrote so specifically. Think Lear and fussing at a button. And the curiosity of why the Everyman in the Cycle plays seemed so abstract and remote. Popular for so long, no doubt because in performance, the actor added in local references.
I came to the conclusion that it is the closely observed details, seen clearly, that are what is really universal. Class Struggle, Good vs Evil, the Nature of God, are all Big Ideas that should speak to everyone. Yet, what people everywhere actually respond to is more like, When My Feet Hurt, That Buzzy Feeling When I Can't Get To Sleep, The Frustration When I Have Dropped That Little Thing Four Times In A Row What Is Wrong With Me.
Even when everyone's details are different. I wrote about liking ugly, comfortable shoes for wide feet, but I spoke just as clearly to those who love high heels and have narrow feet.
We are none of us average. As much as we want to be more or less normal, we really don't want to be like everyone else. Much as we think we want to be able to walk into a store, pick up the first thing in a color we like, and it will fit, flatteringly, (and be on sale) we prefer to be perverse, and unusual. The most perfect Ubermodel will complain about the shape of her nose, or the width of her fingers, not, I am beginning to think, because she thinks herself ugly. But because she does not want to be stamped-out-of-plastic perfect. In a mass produced world, we demand to be, ourselves, handmade. We want to be recognizable, but not identical, the same, but different.
Universal does not mean to be perfectly, exactly the same, everywhere. A smile is a universal human behaviour, fraught with different cultural meanings. But have Gromit roll his plasticine eyes at Wallace (yes, I did just see Curse of the Were-Rabbit), and the world smiles in recognition. Because, Happy is too Big. I Explained This And It's Quite Simple, Why Don't You Listen To Me is much more specific, and everyone can agree on how this feels.
My writing is where I strive to see clearly. To explain my experience trusting that, if I am deeply honest, brutally thorough, transparently enigmatic, then those who read this will say "I feel that same way, exactly!" Small observances, a color, my kitchen, a shoe. No point of view is less exotic than any other. Look through any peephole, and the infinite is there.
Pick any one of the ten thousand things, and really look.
I came to the conclusion that it is the closely observed details, seen clearly, that are what is really universal. Class Struggle, Good vs Evil, the Nature of God, are all Big Ideas that should speak to everyone. Yet, what people everywhere actually respond to is more like, When My Feet Hurt, That Buzzy Feeling When I Can't Get To Sleep, The Frustration When I Have Dropped That Little Thing Four Times In A Row What Is Wrong With Me.
Even when everyone's details are different. I wrote about liking ugly, comfortable shoes for wide feet, but I spoke just as clearly to those who love high heels and have narrow feet.
We are none of us average. As much as we want to be more or less normal, we really don't want to be like everyone else. Much as we think we want to be able to walk into a store, pick up the first thing in a color we like, and it will fit, flatteringly, (and be on sale) we prefer to be perverse, and unusual. The most perfect Ubermodel will complain about the shape of her nose, or the width of her fingers, not, I am beginning to think, because she thinks herself ugly. But because she does not want to be stamped-out-of-plastic perfect. In a mass produced world, we demand to be, ourselves, handmade. We want to be recognizable, but not identical, the same, but different.
Universal does not mean to be perfectly, exactly the same, everywhere. A smile is a universal human behaviour, fraught with different cultural meanings. But have Gromit roll his plasticine eyes at Wallace (yes, I did just see Curse of the Were-Rabbit), and the world smiles in recognition. Because, Happy is too Big. I Explained This And It's Quite Simple, Why Don't You Listen To Me is much more specific, and everyone can agree on how this feels.
My writing is where I strive to see clearly. To explain my experience trusting that, if I am deeply honest, brutally thorough, transparently enigmatic, then those who read this will say "I feel that same way, exactly!" Small observances, a color, my kitchen, a shoe. No point of view is less exotic than any other. Look through any peephole, and the infinite is there.
Pick any one of the ten thousand things, and really look.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Shoe
I was born with squashed up, turned in feet. Not quite bad enough to be in a cast, but enough for special shoes. Hard leather encasements that turned my feet outward, and provided me hours of cradle kicking, noise making fun. I still have a pair of those shoes, the toes cut out to extend the life of expensive orthopedic footgear for the rapidly growing baby of a strictly working class family. Poor mom, she stood 4'11", and I weighed in at 8 pounds 10 ounces (3.1 Kg).
I grew up with a pragmatic view of shoes. Fitting them was a trip to Allen Park, and a special shoe store for my Buster Brown shoes. I was fitted and fitted and fitted, with little regard for style. No, utterly no regard for style. But when the new shoes fit, they felt so good, I didn't much care. Some were even two-tone! I had good shoes for church, and school shoes for the rest of the week. I went barefoot whenever I could. Add in cheap pink ballet slippers, snow boots, and galoshes handed down from brothers.
Oh, there was that pair of white shoes for First Communion, bought too big so I would grow, but I didn't, and I found out the joys of heel blisters.
High school meant the same penny loafers that my mother had, genetically wide feet shared as well. But I kept growing, as did my shoe size. I would have knock-off Earth Shoes, and crepe soled Hush Puppies. Sensible shoes. Wide shoes.
Out on my own income, I got cheap cloth shoes. And let my arches fall. I had high heel character shoes as required by theater dance classes. Those would last me through two weddings, and every event seeming to need dressy shoes, amidst.
The Army gave me boots, and, used to trying on many shoes, and urged by my Drill Sergeant to make sure they fit, I bloody well did. No arch support, but they never gave me blisters. Cheap running shoes for PT.
White sneakers for nursing school, leather Avias that I could put white polish on, and keep going. Tried a pair of branded 'nursing' shoes that hurt, and were discarded in disgust for the waste.
I've had Birkenstocks and Tevas for summer and socklessness. All deteriorated now, long gone.
Today, I have a pair of light hiking shoes at work, that never leave, nor bring home OR contamination. I keep shoe covers on them, and they are always visibly clean, with good arch supports. Similar shoes for my daily walking.
And today, I have a pair of soft, wide, bright yellow shoes, with air holes. It's been a long time since I felt the childish delight of a brand new pair of shoes gleaming on my feet. But there they are. Inexplicably yellow, not a color I generally like.
Silly, but practical. Hey, the shoe fit. What else could I do?
I grew up with a pragmatic view of shoes. Fitting them was a trip to Allen Park, and a special shoe store for my Buster Brown shoes. I was fitted and fitted and fitted, with little regard for style. No, utterly no regard for style. But when the new shoes fit, they felt so good, I didn't much care. Some were even two-tone! I had good shoes for church, and school shoes for the rest of the week. I went barefoot whenever I could. Add in cheap pink ballet slippers, snow boots, and galoshes handed down from brothers.
Oh, there was that pair of white shoes for First Communion, bought too big so I would grow, but I didn't, and I found out the joys of heel blisters.
High school meant the same penny loafers that my mother had, genetically wide feet shared as well. But I kept growing, as did my shoe size. I would have knock-off Earth Shoes, and crepe soled Hush Puppies. Sensible shoes. Wide shoes.
Out on my own income, I got cheap cloth shoes. And let my arches fall. I had high heel character shoes as required by theater dance classes. Those would last me through two weddings, and every event seeming to need dressy shoes, amidst.
The Army gave me boots, and, used to trying on many shoes, and urged by my Drill Sergeant to make sure they fit, I bloody well did. No arch support, but they never gave me blisters. Cheap running shoes for PT.
White sneakers for nursing school, leather Avias that I could put white polish on, and keep going. Tried a pair of branded 'nursing' shoes that hurt, and were discarded in disgust for the waste.
I've had Birkenstocks and Tevas for summer and socklessness. All deteriorated now, long gone.
Today, I have a pair of light hiking shoes at work, that never leave, nor bring home OR contamination. I keep shoe covers on them, and they are always visibly clean, with good arch supports. Similar shoes for my daily walking.
And today, I have a pair of soft, wide, bright yellow shoes, with air holes. It's been a long time since I felt the childish delight of a brand new pair of shoes gleaming on my feet. But there they are. Inexplicably yellow, not a color I generally like.
Silly, but practical. Hey, the shoe fit. What else could I do?
Friday, June 16, 2006
Admire
A woman in her 80s, waiting for surgery, her husband waiting for her. The nurses in the room, out of her hearing, astonished at the idea of waking up next to the same person every day for 50, 60 years.
"Why would you want to do that?"
"No one would get married if it weren't for the insurance reasons!"
I stayed silent. How could I explain that 60 years is not enough. Not nearly enough, but I would take what I was given. That I felt blessed beyond words that I would wake next to a dear man, who loved me, every morning for the rest of our lives. That his faults and irritations were endearing expressions of character and eccentricity. That he seems to think the same of me.
"Well," I ventured, "If you admire someone, and there is much there to admire, it's rather easy."
"Oh, well, yes, my last boyfriend wasn't anything to admire."
"I guess I should stop dating ex-felons." She laughs, I'm not sure if she is joking.
I gave them margin. "Nor was there any much in my first husband. You can't have a good marriage with a bad person."
"I heard first marriages were a gimme."
Not quite sure what she meant by that, I imply agreement. "It's his first marriage. He seems happy with me still."
And I marveled, again, at the conflicting cultural imperatives, the ideal to marry, and to be unhappy with marriage.
I wonder if we speak the same language at all, and decide we do not.
Then I think about spending every day, for the rest of my life, beside such a funny, kind, intelligent, deeply courageous, and thoroughly genuine human being, and my face grins.
"Why would you want to do that?"
"No one would get married if it weren't for the insurance reasons!"
I stayed silent. How could I explain that 60 years is not enough. Not nearly enough, but I would take what I was given. That I felt blessed beyond words that I would wake next to a dear man, who loved me, every morning for the rest of our lives. That his faults and irritations were endearing expressions of character and eccentricity. That he seems to think the same of me.
"Well," I ventured, "If you admire someone, and there is much there to admire, it's rather easy."
"Oh, well, yes, my last boyfriend wasn't anything to admire."
"I guess I should stop dating ex-felons." She laughs, I'm not sure if she is joking.
I gave them margin. "Nor was there any much in my first husband. You can't have a good marriage with a bad person."
"I heard first marriages were a gimme."
Not quite sure what she meant by that, I imply agreement. "It's his first marriage. He seems happy with me still."
And I marveled, again, at the conflicting cultural imperatives, the ideal to marry, and to be unhappy with marriage.
I wonder if we speak the same language at all, and decide we do not.
Then I think about spending every day, for the rest of my life, beside such a funny, kind, intelligent, deeply courageous, and thoroughly genuine human being, and my face grins.
Homeward (photos)
It's a new walk home, past the Museum and it's Walker, the snapping turtle and her eggs, and home to a flat cat.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Name
When I was born, I was given a name very like the one you know me by. Joan. I hated it. It seemed such a thud of a name, unmusical, ugly, plain. Although, I am told, I decided when I was five that I was not to be called Joanie, but only Joan. This may have had to do with Joannes and Joanies in school, of which there seemed to be a great number. Although I was always the only plain Joan.
My mother had wanted Patricia, which I loved, but my father vetoed that, because of a "fat girl" he didn't like in school with that name. And in proper Catholic naming tradition, and by baptismal requirement, a saint, in this case St. Joan of Arc became my patron, and I her namesake. Silly martyr. Although reading the Twain biography reconciled me to her. A rather clever character, however much a nutjob. Still, I dreamed, unlike most other girls, of changing not my last name, but my first.
I wasn't very good at naming then. Not much for the dolls I was given, I usually didn't bother naming them. When asked by adults the name of my doll, I dubbed them all Theresa. Perhaps after St. Theresa, perhaps one came already named, and I just used it as a convenient catchall. Raggedy Ann came with her own name, as did Pooh and Tigger (not the Disney versions, but a bear and a tiger certainly.) Topo Gigio himself, from when I had my tonsils out, did not need my faltering imagination to be named. My brothers named our black cat Midnight. I chose Frances as my confirmation name, but it never quite fit, and it became a footnote in my lost paperwork. Likewise a host of other names, long forgotten. Nor was I was ever nicknamed.
Much later, bellydancing, I was peer pressured (at age 34) into listing a more exotic dancer name for a festival. I tried, I really tried to develop something like Sharavar, or Lalafalala, but they all slid off like an untied scarf. And I looked at my name. I knew how it was supposed to sound in French, after all my original last name was a mash of French into illiterate French Canadian, lots of extraneous letters. I had learned the phonetic alphabet long ago. So, out of that play, and a reckless disregard for proper spelling, I discovered an alluring shade of Joan.
Shortly after that, and with no discernible connection, I was dubbed Justjoan. And I started naming personalities that came to me. The bear Sebastian. The penguin George. The iBook Isabel, and iPod iCapod. Names that stuck.
When we brought Midnight home, we knew the name did not fit such a unique and powerful personality. We brainstormed and free associated. Then, on a walk, I remembered that D, with the middle name Israel, had, when we were in Saudi Arabia, asserted that if asked what his middle initial stood for, would say it was for Ishmael. He had read Moby Dick not long before. I reminded him of this, and asked if Ishmael might not be a good name for the cat.
No, not quite.
Well, how about Moby?
And for reasons not at all obvious, a black cat after all, it fit. Yes, he mostly stayed submerged under the couch, bed, bathroom cabinet. And at that point, we had not realized just how big a cat he was. When we call out his name, he looks at us, and his tail perks up. So, yes, he seems to agree.
I have found, unlooked for (and freakish for a chick with a pathetically poor memory for names) a talent for naming.
I believe now, that I was named very well. The prism of my life has found more color than I imagined as a child, in that simple name. I found that there is another St. Joan, a scholar. She lived a long time.
My mother had wanted Patricia, which I loved, but my father vetoed that, because of a "fat girl" he didn't like in school with that name. And in proper Catholic naming tradition, and by baptismal requirement, a saint, in this case St. Joan of Arc became my patron, and I her namesake. Silly martyr. Although reading the Twain biography reconciled me to her. A rather clever character, however much a nutjob. Still, I dreamed, unlike most other girls, of changing not my last name, but my first.
I wasn't very good at naming then. Not much for the dolls I was given, I usually didn't bother naming them. When asked by adults the name of my doll, I dubbed them all Theresa. Perhaps after St. Theresa, perhaps one came already named, and I just used it as a convenient catchall. Raggedy Ann came with her own name, as did Pooh and Tigger (not the Disney versions, but a bear and a tiger certainly.) Topo Gigio himself, from when I had my tonsils out, did not need my faltering imagination to be named. My brothers named our black cat Midnight. I chose Frances as my confirmation name, but it never quite fit, and it became a footnote in my lost paperwork. Likewise a host of other names, long forgotten. Nor was I was ever nicknamed.
Much later, bellydancing, I was peer pressured (at age 34) into listing a more exotic dancer name for a festival. I tried, I really tried to develop something like Sharavar, or Lalafalala, but they all slid off like an untied scarf. And I looked at my name. I knew how it was supposed to sound in French, after all my original last name was a mash of French into illiterate French Canadian, lots of extraneous letters. I had learned the phonetic alphabet long ago. So, out of that play, and a reckless disregard for proper spelling, I discovered an alluring shade of Joan.
Shortly after that, and with no discernible connection, I was dubbed Justjoan. And I started naming personalities that came to me. The bear Sebastian. The penguin George. The iBook Isabel, and iPod iCapod. Names that stuck.
When we brought Midnight home, we knew the name did not fit such a unique and powerful personality. We brainstormed and free associated. Then, on a walk, I remembered that D, with the middle name Israel, had, when we were in Saudi Arabia, asserted that if asked what his middle initial stood for, would say it was for Ishmael. He had read Moby Dick not long before. I reminded him of this, and asked if Ishmael might not be a good name for the cat.
No, not quite.
Well, how about Moby?
And for reasons not at all obvious, a black cat after all, it fit. Yes, he mostly stayed submerged under the couch, bed, bathroom cabinet. And at that point, we had not realized just how big a cat he was. When we call out his name, he looks at us, and his tail perks up. So, yes, he seems to agree.
I have found, unlooked for (and freakish for a chick with a pathetically poor memory for names) a talent for naming.
I believe now, that I was named very well. The prism of my life has found more color than I imagined as a child, in that simple name. I found that there is another St. Joan, a scholar. She lived a long time.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Black
Black mood. Disturbed by the random, rhythmless drips of dead of night rainwater off the building onto the newly installed window air conditioner. Cramps, and a misery behind my eyes, always accompanied by denial, especially at 2AM, that I forced myself to medicate. Inky syrupy sleep, lingering along the new, longer walk to the train, in the rain. Standing, jostled, missed connections, fuzz in my dim, hungry, tea-less semi-consciousness.
Working with an anesthetist who is a chaos generator, who sees no good in me at all. A surgeon who is, outside the actual surgery, a careless human. A patient who needs a translator, had a daughter whose English is not as good as she thinks, a hopeless snarl of inadequate preparation, missed assessment, unavailable translators, lack of follow through, and it was all hitting me in the face like a wet fish dance.
Psychology calls it learned helplessness, when the rat gets shocked no matter what it does, it sits in the middle of the cage, twitching, essentially.
Cramps.
D met me at work, to go find small chairs. But the storm of horizontal torrent is harsh, and we snag a cab home. Another day.
The preferred ISP, after five attempts at connecting us, including two missed times, got us hooked up. Not quite working, because D'd already cancelled them when they showed up finally, appointmentless. He could not give all our numbers and stories one more time, nor could he remember how to pretend to be Bob Newhart and make it funny, so I took over the crappy cell phone that only got decent reception when I was sitting in the window, listened to static/hold music, drank tea, watched the drenching downpours, and relayed messages to the former Mac IT guy (D) at the computer. Moby came over and deigned to be adored, touching both of us with his feline bliss. He is not interested in chasing erasermice today.
We now have connectivity, a telephone. A decent, patched together dinner. Drugs working for me. We'll be fine, we'll be fine, we'll be fine. Poopie. Ow.
I'm up to grey.
Working with an anesthetist who is a chaos generator, who sees no good in me at all. A surgeon who is, outside the actual surgery, a careless human. A patient who needs a translator, had a daughter whose English is not as good as she thinks, a hopeless snarl of inadequate preparation, missed assessment, unavailable translators, lack of follow through, and it was all hitting me in the face like a wet fish dance.
Psychology calls it learned helplessness, when the rat gets shocked no matter what it does, it sits in the middle of the cage, twitching, essentially.
Cramps.
D met me at work, to go find small chairs. But the storm of horizontal torrent is harsh, and we snag a cab home. Another day.
The preferred ISP, after five attempts at connecting us, including two missed times, got us hooked up. Not quite working, because D'd already cancelled them when they showed up finally, appointmentless. He could not give all our numbers and stories one more time, nor could he remember how to pretend to be Bob Newhart and make it funny, so I took over the crappy cell phone that only got decent reception when I was sitting in the window, listened to static/hold music, drank tea, watched the drenching downpours, and relayed messages to the former Mac IT guy (D) at the computer. Moby came over and deigned to be adored, touching both of us with his feline bliss. He is not interested in chasing erasermice today.
We now have connectivity, a telephone. A decent, patched together dinner. Drugs working for me. We'll be fine, we'll be fine, we'll be fine. Poopie. Ow.
I'm up to grey.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Stuff
I spent the first 19 years of my life living in one house. There were summer vacations and visits to the homes of aunts and uncles to assuage my itchy feet. But that one, small, post WWI tract house was my sole abode for all my life. Until I escaped, and ran, and ran.
Funny, I'm not running anymore, but the momentum spins me on. For the third time in two years, I have shoved my life possessions in boxes, and listened to strange sounds that I know in a month I will no longer even hear. I know, with no end of squirming anxiety, that this will not be the last place. It will be fine, my life will spin on, and it's all fine because I get to live my life beside a wonderful soul who loves me. But.
But.
But, I'm tired, and I have too much stuff, which I want to both get completely rid of and utterly keep, and will wind up taking the middle path. I want a moment of respite given to me, and I know I must wrest it from the pit of myself.
I want the sores in my mouth and around my nose to heal, from having a miserable head-cold while packing. Or rather, from blowing my nose too much, despite the ultrasofsensitivewithaloelotion tissues. I want to know where everything is, and not have to stand in the kitchen trying to choke out of my memory where I put the rice. And the rice cooker. And where my tiny swiss army knife got to. I want to have cable, and stop sponging off the idiot who has wifi and has not even changed the name of the router.
I want to live in a place where I want to live for 20 years, and get likable jobs for both of us, and a little place on the earth to set a tumbleweed tiny home.
I want to stop moving stuff, then getting rid of it. The other way around makes more sense. I've lived with one carload of stuff, most of which had such a psychic stink I wound up throwing it away anyway. Sometimes I have to carry burdens a while before I realize how little they mean to me.
I walked Moby over from the old place to the new, my cousin walked with me, and we talked. Moby mewed, at first, then quieted down, not liking the bag, but not otherwise distressed. The mewing was occasional rote complaint, not the frantic, constant calls of panic, as when he's been in cabs. And when he was released into the apartment, he was calm and curious. I have dark purple bruises on my shoulder from the strap. Some burdens are not burdens at all, whatever the marks left.
If there was a fire tonight, we would stuff cat in bag, and have no regrets for material losses.
My home is carried with me. The stuff is just stuff, inconvenient and expensive to replace, is all. I have to remind myself to float, sometimes.
Funny, I'm not running anymore, but the momentum spins me on. For the third time in two years, I have shoved my life possessions in boxes, and listened to strange sounds that I know in a month I will no longer even hear. I know, with no end of squirming anxiety, that this will not be the last place. It will be fine, my life will spin on, and it's all fine because I get to live my life beside a wonderful soul who loves me. But.
But.
But, I'm tired, and I have too much stuff, which I want to both get completely rid of and utterly keep, and will wind up taking the middle path. I want a moment of respite given to me, and I know I must wrest it from the pit of myself.
I want the sores in my mouth and around my nose to heal, from having a miserable head-cold while packing. Or rather, from blowing my nose too much, despite the ultrasofsensitivewithaloelotion tissues. I want to know where everything is, and not have to stand in the kitchen trying to choke out of my memory where I put the rice. And the rice cooker. And where my tiny swiss army knife got to. I want to have cable, and stop sponging off the idiot who has wifi and has not even changed the name of the router.
I want to live in a place where I want to live for 20 years, and get likable jobs for both of us, and a little place on the earth to set a tumbleweed tiny home.
I want to stop moving stuff, then getting rid of it. The other way around makes more sense. I've lived with one carload of stuff, most of which had such a psychic stink I wound up throwing it away anyway. Sometimes I have to carry burdens a while before I realize how little they mean to me.
I walked Moby over from the old place to the new, my cousin walked with me, and we talked. Moby mewed, at first, then quieted down, not liking the bag, but not otherwise distressed. The mewing was occasional rote complaint, not the frantic, constant calls of panic, as when he's been in cabs. And when he was released into the apartment, he was calm and curious. I have dark purple bruises on my shoulder from the strap. Some burdens are not burdens at all, whatever the marks left.
If there was a fire tonight, we would stuff cat in bag, and have no regrets for material losses.
My home is carried with me. The stuff is just stuff, inconvenient and expensive to replace, is all. I have to remind myself to float, sometimes.
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