Labrador + Basset Hound = this charmer with a Charlie Chaplain air. D took this of his workfriend's dog, a rescued critter. I know nothing more, but this little guy deserved his own post.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Stewart (Photo)
Labrador + Basset Hound = this charmer with a Charlie Chaplain air. D took this of his workfriend's dog, a rescued critter. I know nothing more, but this little guy deserved his own post.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Order
Not being a naturally organized person, I have had to learn. This is probably a skill best learned, because the naturally organized are, from what I have seen, less flexible in their ability to change order. I work with nurses who have to do everything just their way, and no other, who cannot give a rational reason for their requirement. Their job is how they do their job, not why.
Basic was my first real exposure to extreme order. Before, an approximation was adequate, even exemplary. Then the earth tipped, and perfect became an exact science. Uniformity. All buttons (and there were many of the damned things) had to always be buttoned. The locker held uniforms neatly on hangers, all buttoned (again) and all facing the same way, hangers 2" apart. The class folder was held in the left hand, the right was empty, while marching. Hat came off as soon as coming in a door. A few examples among a worldfull.
Nursing required a more systematic approach to life than I had ever tried before, and the OR even more. Scrubbing necessitates a high level, done safely. Without that clarity of set-up on a sterile field, sharps get lost and dangerous, sterility is compromised, other scrubs come to hate you with a dark, passive-aggressive fury. At least I know I came to hate scrubs who hid items, when I had to relieve them for lunch. It always takes a minute to adjust to another's set-up, and the surgery continues unabated, and instruments need to be passed without too much interruption. Giving breaks becomes a specific kind of skill. When the scrub has a muddled table, murderous thoughts multiply. Worse, to have set-up beautifully, then have my lunch relief re-make it into a mess. How THEY work that way is beyond me, and they often have pissed off surgeons. (It's a bad sign when my surgeon not only acknowledges my return, but is overtly grateful.)
It's less immediately obvious with the circulating nurse role. Easier to pick up in the middle, more fixable issues, though it may involve having to run more, perhaps down the long hall to roll the microscope (a large, heavy, many elbowed object, with wonky wheels and a devil-may-care attitude) into a tiny room. That said, there is reasoning behind my paranoid checking that we have everything.
I am lazy.
It is enlightened laziness. I care deeply about the results of my organization. I would much rather have everything ready, do everything quickly, then sit. Partly because I like being able to rest, or watch the surgery, if there is a view to be had. Partly, because if something goes wrong, I want a head start. This spills over into our many moves. It's not because I have to have everything in order, I just don't want to lose too much. And I want to sit on the couch, sleep on the bed, without having to move boxes for too long. A week after the last one, a friend came by, and commented that we looked very settled in. D says,
"Once everything was out of boxes, they seemed to just put themselves away." I stared at him in amused incredulity, and with the clear expectation of a rethinking of his statement. He caught it, looked at me, rather abashed, and recanted,
"I meant... I didn't mean... ~You~ know."
I still laugh about that one.
So, how do I keep doing it? Without losing my mind along with my pens? I go by principles, like putting the tea supplies where I can most easily reach them when I am barely awake at five AM. Not hiding anything. Prioritizing the most irreplaceable. Being willing to always just buy a new pen.
Been thinking of trying to channel my Aunt Evelyn who was a natural organizer. She may be wringing her spectral hands right now, wanting to clean my kitchen. I figure, my work surface is clean. That'll do for now.
Basic was my first real exposure to extreme order. Before, an approximation was adequate, even exemplary. Then the earth tipped, and perfect became an exact science. Uniformity. All buttons (and there were many of the damned things) had to always be buttoned. The locker held uniforms neatly on hangers, all buttoned (again) and all facing the same way, hangers 2" apart. The class folder was held in the left hand, the right was empty, while marching. Hat came off as soon as coming in a door. A few examples among a worldfull.
Nursing required a more systematic approach to life than I had ever tried before, and the OR even more. Scrubbing necessitates a high level, done safely. Without that clarity of set-up on a sterile field, sharps get lost and dangerous, sterility is compromised, other scrubs come to hate you with a dark, passive-aggressive fury. At least I know I came to hate scrubs who hid items, when I had to relieve them for lunch. It always takes a minute to adjust to another's set-up, and the surgery continues unabated, and instruments need to be passed without too much interruption. Giving breaks becomes a specific kind of skill. When the scrub has a muddled table, murderous thoughts multiply. Worse, to have set-up beautifully, then have my lunch relief re-make it into a mess. How THEY work that way is beyond me, and they often have pissed off surgeons. (It's a bad sign when my surgeon not only acknowledges my return, but is overtly grateful.)
It's less immediately obvious with the circulating nurse role. Easier to pick up in the middle, more fixable issues, though it may involve having to run more, perhaps down the long hall to roll the microscope (a large, heavy, many elbowed object, with wonky wheels and a devil-may-care attitude) into a tiny room. That said, there is reasoning behind my paranoid checking that we have everything.
I am lazy.
It is enlightened laziness. I care deeply about the results of my organization. I would much rather have everything ready, do everything quickly, then sit. Partly because I like being able to rest, or watch the surgery, if there is a view to be had. Partly, because if something goes wrong, I want a head start. This spills over into our many moves. It's not because I have to have everything in order, I just don't want to lose too much. And I want to sit on the couch, sleep on the bed, without having to move boxes for too long. A week after the last one, a friend came by, and commented that we looked very settled in. D says,
"Once everything was out of boxes, they seemed to just put themselves away." I stared at him in amused incredulity, and with the clear expectation of a rethinking of his statement. He caught it, looked at me, rather abashed, and recanted,
"I meant... I didn't mean... ~You~ know."
I still laugh about that one.
So, how do I keep doing it? Without losing my mind along with my pens? I go by principles, like putting the tea supplies where I can most easily reach them when I am barely awake at five AM. Not hiding anything. Prioritizing the most irreplaceable. Being willing to always just buy a new pen.
Been thinking of trying to channel my Aunt Evelyn who was a natural organizer. She may be wringing her spectral hands right now, wanting to clean my kitchen. I figure, my work surface is clean. That'll do for now.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Plan
As a nurse, a veteran, and a generally disorganized person, I really appreciate a good protocol. Patry Francis has suggested a grand one. During Nanowrimo last year, I posted the day's writing, to general confusion, and a dramatic drop in readership (understandably.) This year I am using her idea of a template for the week, short but pointed, daily posts. Starting 1 November.
The plan goes something like this. Because that poem, Monday's Child, is engraved into my psyche. Like the Be A Rainbow one.
Monday: Cat Photo (very fair of face, our Moby.)
Tuesday: A Grace. A gratitude or a blessing.
Wednesday: Complaint. (Full of woe.)
Thursday: A question. (Far to go.)
Friday: 10 Things Day. (You get the idea.)
Saturday: Work anecdote or joke.
Sunday: Art or music or pretty, or a small photo of something homely.
The plan goes something like this. Because that poem, Monday's Child, is engraved into my psyche. Like the Be A Rainbow one.
Monday: Cat Photo (very fair of face, our Moby.)
Tuesday: A Grace. A gratitude or a blessing.
Wednesday: Complaint. (Full of woe.)
Thursday: A question. (Far to go.)
Friday: 10 Things Day. (You get the idea.)
Saturday: Work anecdote or joke.
Sunday: Art or music or pretty, or a small photo of something homely.
Fascination (Photos)
There is a theory that animals are normally like ADHD folks. And Granny had a jewelry box that played "Fascination." I would dance to it.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Secret
Post Secret is one of those sites I visit with every update, every week. I am surprized at how many friends do the same. It's a disturbing peek into society's twisted darkness. I am amused, appalled and confused. So many chaotic, unnecessarily fucked-up lives. So much fear over misperceptions, anger turned to revenge and betrayal. How little gratitude and appreciation and communication.
A woman afraid she might have cancer. Worried if she looks "brave." I hope she is educating herself and enjoying her friends, but I fear she is more concerned with hiding.
A woman afraid to accept a marriage proposal, because of a freaky MIL prospect. Which is probably reasonable. Maybe. Depending.
Someone who misses being in the war. Adrenaline is addictive, and the close contact with friends is potent. The aftermath is lonely and flat. Even I, in my slight brush far behind any kind of line, can understand this. I have wondered if, some day, there might be a job for me working with returned vets.
Presumably a "Lolita" considering ruining a man's life, because she thinks she is in love. Love is not ruining anyone. And I both want to shake sense into her, and wonder how short she must be on experience with real relationships to even consider this illusion.
A confession that needs to happen, gratitude expressed, admission of a problem half-spoken, hope, hints, paradoxical instincts, curiosity. An understandable, though criminal, intent to kill dogs (call the ASPCA first, please) who bark too much. Financial worry, dissatisfactions despite apparent attainment of companionship, joys and desires and surprizes.
I have been sad and lethargic this week, wanting to blame and retreat, deflect and hibernate. But I went to work, did my job with all I had. I wrote that pean to D and Moby. I have chatted with Moira. I have made an effort to be more chummy with my cow-orkers. I didn't much feel like it, but I made the effort, with slight effect.
Reading Post Secret each week, I realize I don't have any secrets I have never told anybody. Confidences kept, yes, but kept with whomever told me. I have anxiety issues, loneliness, frustration, despairing days. But it's all current, and flowing through, however sludgily. It clots and clumps, stinks awhile, then poops out, and is largely gone. Which is how it's supposed to work.
Change is coloring the far horizon, the glow of pre dawn, the mirage of a distant island. I am getting rid of any summer clothes I did not wear this summer, or winter clothes not worn last winter*. Lists are being made. Plans discussed. It's a secret, temporarily. I'm not about to let any problem rot inside, not anymore.
Life is complicated. We weave in and out of each other's lives, and small details and tones, our own ability to accept help, or take responsibility, are all the difference between life lived, and life regretted. Shit happens. Best to let it.
*To be donated, not discarded.
A woman afraid she might have cancer. Worried if she looks "brave." I hope she is educating herself and enjoying her friends, but I fear she is more concerned with hiding.
A woman afraid to accept a marriage proposal, because of a freaky MIL prospect. Which is probably reasonable. Maybe. Depending.
Someone who misses being in the war. Adrenaline is addictive, and the close contact with friends is potent. The aftermath is lonely and flat. Even I, in my slight brush far behind any kind of line, can understand this. I have wondered if, some day, there might be a job for me working with returned vets.
Presumably a "Lolita" considering ruining a man's life, because she thinks she is in love. Love is not ruining anyone. And I both want to shake sense into her, and wonder how short she must be on experience with real relationships to even consider this illusion.
A confession that needs to happen, gratitude expressed, admission of a problem half-spoken, hope, hints, paradoxical instincts, curiosity. An understandable, though criminal, intent to kill dogs (call the ASPCA first, please) who bark too much. Financial worry, dissatisfactions despite apparent attainment of companionship, joys and desires and surprizes.
I have been sad and lethargic this week, wanting to blame and retreat, deflect and hibernate. But I went to work, did my job with all I had. I wrote that pean to D and Moby. I have chatted with Moira. I have made an effort to be more chummy with my cow-orkers. I didn't much feel like it, but I made the effort, with slight effect.
Reading Post Secret each week, I realize I don't have any secrets I have never told anybody. Confidences kept, yes, but kept with whomever told me. I have anxiety issues, loneliness, frustration, despairing days. But it's all current, and flowing through, however sludgily. It clots and clumps, stinks awhile, then poops out, and is largely gone. Which is how it's supposed to work.
Change is coloring the far horizon, the glow of pre dawn, the mirage of a distant island. I am getting rid of any summer clothes I did not wear this summer, or winter clothes not worn last winter*. Lists are being made. Plans discussed. It's a secret, temporarily. I'm not about to let any problem rot inside, not anymore.
Life is complicated. We weave in and out of each other's lives, and small details and tones, our own ability to accept help, or take responsibility, are all the difference between life lived, and life regretted. Shit happens. Best to let it.
*To be donated, not discarded.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Love
Moby spent all night sleeping between us, about knee level. Before leaving for work, D sat stroking him, and I sprawled around both, a hand on both. We never assume we know what is in our cat's mind, that being presumptuous. But the evidence is that Moby loves us, and knows he is loved.
I have written before about the misuse of the word love. From my mother telling me 'of course he loves you, he's your father' to the abused wives on COPS! insisting on staying in violent homes 'But I love him!' to children kidnapped by selfish criminals who want a baby to love them, to the neglectful or cruel dog owners on Animal Cops who are in love with the idea of owning an animal, with no understanding of them as living creatures. Love used to describe possession, or mal-dependence, or habit, or societal expectation. One way obsession, power, or lust, or pure emotion divorced from action.
Love is both harder, and easier than any of that. D met me when I had no ability to trust, and earned my confidence patiently, through acts of loving kindness. Hoping for, but not expecting, love in return. Small moments of trust, returned attention, increasing gratitude, gradual ease. I strove to be worthy of his esteem, and became a better person. He says he wanted never to take my care for granted, and likewise wanted to repay me.
And he did the same for our abandoned, neglected feline. Moby found that there was always food. That he could hide under, and we would come and pet him, but not pull him out. We would pick him up, and gently put him down when he squirmed, so that, in time, he would stand nearby to be lifted and cuddled and scritched behind the ears. He rolls on his back for us to rub his belly. When he has had enough, he puts out his claws and touches the hand, the hand stops, he releases or licks, and trust flows.
Yesterday D tells me he was in a bad, anxious place, and Moby hopped up on the stool next to him. "As if to say, 'You look like you could use a cat right now'. Made me feel much better."
Love has to be a complete circuit. Admiration, humor, kindness. Love is about always acting lovingly. Nothing to be taken for granted. No mind-reading allowed. Evidence required.
Attentiveness affectionately applied.
But, Moby does ~seem~ to love us.
I have written before about the misuse of the word love. From my mother telling me 'of course he loves you, he's your father' to the abused wives on COPS! insisting on staying in violent homes 'But I love him!' to children kidnapped by selfish criminals who want a baby to love them, to the neglectful or cruel dog owners on Animal Cops who are in love with the idea of owning an animal, with no understanding of them as living creatures. Love used to describe possession, or mal-dependence, or habit, or societal expectation. One way obsession, power, or lust, or pure emotion divorced from action.
Love is both harder, and easier than any of that. D met me when I had no ability to trust, and earned my confidence patiently, through acts of loving kindness. Hoping for, but not expecting, love in return. Small moments of trust, returned attention, increasing gratitude, gradual ease. I strove to be worthy of his esteem, and became a better person. He says he wanted never to take my care for granted, and likewise wanted to repay me.
And he did the same for our abandoned, neglected feline. Moby found that there was always food. That he could hide under, and we would come and pet him, but not pull him out. We would pick him up, and gently put him down when he squirmed, so that, in time, he would stand nearby to be lifted and cuddled and scritched behind the ears. He rolls on his back for us to rub his belly. When he has had enough, he puts out his claws and touches the hand, the hand stops, he releases or licks, and trust flows.
Yesterday D tells me he was in a bad, anxious place, and Moby hopped up on the stool next to him. "As if to say, 'You look like you could use a cat right now'. Made me feel much better."
Love has to be a complete circuit. Admiration, humor, kindness. Love is about always acting lovingly. Nothing to be taken for granted. No mind-reading allowed. Evidence required.
Attentiveness affectionately applied.
But, Moby does ~seem~ to love us.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Day
Yesterday was twelve hours of trying my patience. Well, actually only about ten active hours of challenge. I apologize for any lack of context or terminology right now, I will gladly take questions at the end. Right now, I have to rant.
First, I'm doing Ortho in Pedi, a long walk from useful supplies. With a high maintenance surgeon. A traveler scrub with a grudge, who harasses me and then instructs me to "Relax, I'm just playin' with you!" A resident with a thick accent, who I really try to give the benefit of the doubt to the language barrier, who proves to be so dumb I wonder how he got past third grade, never mind med school. And me, I am no pedi nurse.
First case, a pleasant enough two year old, mom holds back tears until her child is under. I keep dad from backing into the sterile field, since the scrub has gone off for a smoke break instead of being in the room like he's expected to be. Getting everything plugged in sorted out, so the mini-c-arm is usable. All turns out fine.
Turnover, and the orderly has come in to get the send sheet for the next patient. Who has not checked into the hospital yet. I have mentioned this to her. She keeps reaching for the paper. I have to explain several times that I can't send for the next case yet, because the patient IS NOT HERE. I don't yell. I don't raise my voice. I just articulate very, very, clearly. She is still dubious, and makes sure I know to overhead page when I am ready to send. Three times.
Next case involves getting a prone Jackson bed in the room, a sprawling bit of equipment that can be x-rayed through everywhere. Cell saver RN has brought her machine, blood is being sent for, EEG monitoring is present, with a student. There will be x-ray. All fine, all good folks, just a lot of them for a small room.
We get started. Scrubgrump asks for a special instrument in another surgeon's specials. I delay in baffled exasperation. Thankfully the implant rep (up to eleven people, plus patient, in the room) points him to analogous bits in the set he already has. I feel my first truly murderous thought, the previous being merely to maim.
I run. And run. The running, the searching for supplies continues. The lack of staffing that has dumped me out of my area means I get last lunch. Hard for me who could eat two breakfasts and be fine until dinner, but I saw it coming, and I endure. Phone call after phone call for the attending anesthesiologist, who is never in the room when they call (the resident anesthesiologist is, proper care being given.) I get a garbled call, guy asking for what sounds like 'clerk' but since that makes no sense, I ask for several repititions. He asks where he has called.
"Operating room 18, surgery."
"Not the county courthouse?"
I break a short thumbnail into the quick, and get tape on it so it won't tear further. I do this while scrubgrump stands so close to me I can't properly open the door without contaminating his gown, and I can't get him to backthefuckup. I consider him to blame. I do not have a loaded scalpel.
Residumb's pager goes off while I am getting suture and seeing why the suction isn't working. I ignore it, until I can get to it.
"Would you check my pager?"
"As soon as I am done, yes." A few minutes, I have picked up the pager. And he says.
"Would you please check my pager?"
"That is what I am doing right now." And before I have a chance to push the green button.
"Could you read it out to me?" I take a moment to breathe, and read out the numbers displayed.
"What else does it say?"
"Nothing. Just the numbers."
"But, what does it say?"
I'm royally annoyed, it's not like I've never read off pagers of surgeons and residents before, and there are only the damn digits on his damn pager. And I've been dealing with his misdirected instructions all day. So I'm feeling a bit sarcastic.
"I only read numbers." I give the attending surgeon credit for chuckling.
Worse thing about dumb people, who don't know it? They cannot conceive of anyone smarter than they really are.
No, it all could have been worse. At three, I am blessed with a new scrub, who considers me a blessing. No blood needs to be given. We finish long enough before seven so I can get the room sorted, supplies returned, and still take a long break before going home. I restrained myself from killing anyone. So, it was a good day, by the definition of 'Any day when we all get out alive, is a Good Day.' A friend announces in the lounge that she is getting a cab home because it is raining and she does not have an umbrella.
I decide this is a wonderful idea, and will get me to D sooner.
He feeds me.
First, I'm doing Ortho in Pedi, a long walk from useful supplies. With a high maintenance surgeon. A traveler scrub with a grudge, who harasses me and then instructs me to "Relax, I'm just playin' with you!" A resident with a thick accent, who I really try to give the benefit of the doubt to the language barrier, who proves to be so dumb I wonder how he got past third grade, never mind med school. And me, I am no pedi nurse.
First case, a pleasant enough two year old, mom holds back tears until her child is under. I keep dad from backing into the sterile field, since the scrub has gone off for a smoke break instead of being in the room like he's expected to be. Getting everything plugged in sorted out, so the mini-c-arm is usable. All turns out fine.
Turnover, and the orderly has come in to get the send sheet for the next patient. Who has not checked into the hospital yet. I have mentioned this to her. She keeps reaching for the paper. I have to explain several times that I can't send for the next case yet, because the patient IS NOT HERE. I don't yell. I don't raise my voice. I just articulate very, very, clearly. She is still dubious, and makes sure I know to overhead page when I am ready to send. Three times.
Next case involves getting a prone Jackson bed in the room, a sprawling bit of equipment that can be x-rayed through everywhere. Cell saver RN has brought her machine, blood is being sent for, EEG monitoring is present, with a student. There will be x-ray. All fine, all good folks, just a lot of them for a small room.
We get started. Scrubgrump asks for a special instrument in another surgeon's specials. I delay in baffled exasperation. Thankfully the implant rep (up to eleven people, plus patient, in the room) points him to analogous bits in the set he already has. I feel my first truly murderous thought, the previous being merely to maim.
I run. And run. The running, the searching for supplies continues. The lack of staffing that has dumped me out of my area means I get last lunch. Hard for me who could eat two breakfasts and be fine until dinner, but I saw it coming, and I endure. Phone call after phone call for the attending anesthesiologist, who is never in the room when they call (the resident anesthesiologist is, proper care being given.) I get a garbled call, guy asking for what sounds like 'clerk' but since that makes no sense, I ask for several repititions. He asks where he has called.
"Operating room 18, surgery."
"Not the county courthouse?"
I break a short thumbnail into the quick, and get tape on it so it won't tear further. I do this while scrubgrump stands so close to me I can't properly open the door without contaminating his gown, and I can't get him to backthefuckup. I consider him to blame. I do not have a loaded scalpel.
Residumb's pager goes off while I am getting suture and seeing why the suction isn't working. I ignore it, until I can get to it.
"Would you check my pager?"
"As soon as I am done, yes." A few minutes, I have picked up the pager. And he says.
"Would you please check my pager?"
"That is what I am doing right now." And before I have a chance to push the green button.
"Could you read it out to me?" I take a moment to breathe, and read out the numbers displayed.
"What else does it say?"
"Nothing. Just the numbers."
"But, what does it say?"
I'm royally annoyed, it's not like I've never read off pagers of surgeons and residents before, and there are only the damn digits on his damn pager. And I've been dealing with his misdirected instructions all day. So I'm feeling a bit sarcastic.
"I only read numbers." I give the attending surgeon credit for chuckling.
Worse thing about dumb people, who don't know it? They cannot conceive of anyone smarter than they really are.
No, it all could have been worse. At three, I am blessed with a new scrub, who considers me a blessing. No blood needs to be given. We finish long enough before seven so I can get the room sorted, supplies returned, and still take a long break before going home. I restrained myself from killing anyone. So, it was a good day, by the definition of 'Any day when we all get out alive, is a Good Day.' A friend announces in the lounge that she is getting a cab home because it is raining and she does not have an umbrella.
I decide this is a wonderful idea, and will get me to D sooner.
He feeds me.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Fit
There is a burden to never fitting in. And I do not. I read too much, but not best-sellers. I've seen thousands of movies, and have popular actors, or directors, who I will not watch, no matter how good the movie is supposed to be. I am married, but no children, no house, no complaining about my spouse. I drink, and but only like really good beer, and am not interested in staying out late, or clubbing, or ever getting drunk again. I am open minded, but do not smoke, or indulge in illegal pharmaceuticals. I have had very short hair, but have had to politely deflect female advances.
I look conventional, but my politics, attitudes toward religion, and experiences are not. I dress very modestly, but I have tattoos and have posed nekkid. I am a nurse, I was in the military, I don't like guns, but I am a good shot with an M16. I dance, write, throw pots, but can't give a rat's ass about stamping cards or crochet or other crafts. I have lived all over this country, but prefer to keep within a few miles of where I live. I get along best with those who are older or younger than I am, by about a decade. My age-mates tend to assume they know what I am about. And are usually wrong. The age gap obviates assumptions, which I prefer.
I talked about this* with Moira yesterday. I am not much like anyone I know. Neither is she. She still feels like a misfit. I have recently come to think that this is the consequence of an authentic life, unmotivated by tribalism. Misfits, I believe, are odd, but trying to fit in somewhere, as hard as they can, and failing that, reacting against - to become a stereotype of a different kind. Would we all be lovely eccentrics, if every choice were honest active responses of each of us becoming who we actually are?
It's a lonely road. No question. For, how many people are there to talk with where there is only the truth and the silence? The dear hard truth, and the kindly silence? No assumed commonality. To never say "Of course... " or "I have to... " save in jest? But I am also beginning to believe that it is the only way to have a real friend, or genuine intimacy. If I cannot bear to look at my bare soul, unique and warty and peculiar, and feel alright about that, how can I let anyone else in for a peek?
Most don't travel this way voluntarily. It hurts, and I have the scars to prove it. But to cram myself into any other life would have been a half death. This way is real, sometimes calm, not gentle, not easy. Very confusing, no answers, no one size to fit.
Still.
Anyone still reading HERE would understand.
*Some of this is verbatim from our chat.
I look conventional, but my politics, attitudes toward religion, and experiences are not. I dress very modestly, but I have tattoos and have posed nekkid. I am a nurse, I was in the military, I don't like guns, but I am a good shot with an M16. I dance, write, throw pots, but can't give a rat's ass about stamping cards or crochet or other crafts. I have lived all over this country, but prefer to keep within a few miles of where I live. I get along best with those who are older or younger than I am, by about a decade. My age-mates tend to assume they know what I am about. And are usually wrong. The age gap obviates assumptions, which I prefer.
I talked about this* with Moira yesterday. I am not much like anyone I know. Neither is she. She still feels like a misfit. I have recently come to think that this is the consequence of an authentic life, unmotivated by tribalism. Misfits, I believe, are odd, but trying to fit in somewhere, as hard as they can, and failing that, reacting against - to become a stereotype of a different kind. Would we all be lovely eccentrics, if every choice were honest active responses of each of us becoming who we actually are?
It's a lonely road. No question. For, how many people are there to talk with where there is only the truth and the silence? The dear hard truth, and the kindly silence? No assumed commonality. To never say "Of course... " or "I have to... " save in jest? But I am also beginning to believe that it is the only way to have a real friend, or genuine intimacy. If I cannot bear to look at my bare soul, unique and warty and peculiar, and feel alright about that, how can I let anyone else in for a peek?
Most don't travel this way voluntarily. It hurts, and I have the scars to prove it. But to cram myself into any other life would have been a half death. This way is real, sometimes calm, not gentle, not easy. Very confusing, no answers, no one size to fit.
Still.
Anyone still reading HERE would understand.
*Some of this is verbatim from our chat.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Meteor
There is compensation for having to be up before dawn. Experiencing the beauty of the streaming end of night. The cool air, the quiet, the subtle colors. This morning, the air was crystalline, the moon and stars piercing. And then, the brightest meteor I have ever seen. It's been years since the last one, and this was dramatic, left a trail, covered a remarkable arc of sky, and felt close enough to scrape roofs.
I thought about it all day, and looked it up when I pulled my brain together after I got home.
The results surprized me, and leave me feeling touched by the universe itself.
Mark Twain thank you.
I thought about it all day, and looked it up when I pulled my brain together after I got home.
The results surprized me, and leave me feeling touched by the universe itself.
Mark Twain thank you.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Power
There was a series of books by Lyn V. Andrews, a sort of female Carlos Castenadas, who gets an Indian shaman woman as a mentor/guru. It's all pretty much fiction purporting to be fact, but there are some interesting lessons. The one I most remember was that power is never given, it has to be stolen, taken by force. If you are good and sweet, you may be granted privilege, but that can be taken away, it is power loaned, and cannot be counted on if the person who loans it is inconvenienced. Real power is like real liberty, it must be paid for in blood and taken by force of arms. It is not ever simply given away.
I am not sure I completely like the imagery, but I think the idea, as far as it goes, is sound. Too many trade power for comfort, responsibility for safety, spirituality for religious assurance. And then wonder why their lives fall apart and god abandons them. If there is a god, then there must be an exchange, where we must live our lives with as much energy and attention as we expect god to give to us. If there are divine gifts, and we expect to be given them - rather than creating them for ourselves, then we are left to our own empty soulscapes.
But power is not taken away from another, or it's just bullying. I have had the misfortune of working with several manipulative, aggressive monsters. I consider them evil. They have a kind of power. The kind that has to be constantly buttressed by fury and shouting. The minute they weaken, they are lost, as no one will fight for them, when the fear is gone, the illusion collapses.
Real power has to come from within, grows, and often does not look like much. It is not gotten by whining, or martyrdom. It takes exactly what it needs to do what it needs to do. There is always enough left over to share.
I am not sure I completely like the imagery, but I think the idea, as far as it goes, is sound. Too many trade power for comfort, responsibility for safety, spirituality for religious assurance. And then wonder why their lives fall apart and god abandons them. If there is a god, then there must be an exchange, where we must live our lives with as much energy and attention as we expect god to give to us. If there are divine gifts, and we expect to be given them - rather than creating them for ourselves, then we are left to our own empty soulscapes.
But power is not taken away from another, or it's just bullying. I have had the misfortune of working with several manipulative, aggressive monsters. I consider them evil. They have a kind of power. The kind that has to be constantly buttressed by fury and shouting. The minute they weaken, they are lost, as no one will fight for them, when the fear is gone, the illusion collapses.
Real power has to come from within, grows, and often does not look like much. It is not gotten by whining, or martyrdom. It takes exactly what it needs to do what it needs to do. There is always enough left over to share.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Men
My father, when he was irritable, which is to say he was breathing, would accuse me of being a "women's libber." When he was mad, he would say I was "Independent!" My brothers bemoaned the passing of the fashion of the mini-skirt. My mother complained of men as slobs, who had to be coddled. My aunt said a wife was merely an unpaid whore. I found all of this troubling. I detested my father, loved my brothers, loved my mother and aunt and uncle.
When I began to study the women's movement, I listened carefully to the most intelligent speakers. I began to form an understanding that privilege, accepting doors being opened, and going first, meant losing rights - to have one's own credit. I listened to all the voices that said, this is not about women being in power, just not being deprived of power over their own lives. This resonated, as my father, an idiot, had power over my life, that he abused. I did not want to chose for others, I wanted only to have the right to chose for myself. I called myself a dyed-in-the-wool feminist.
I have had a number of friends over the years, women who dated women. "Dated." I heard about the relationships, the dysfunction, the anguish, the love. The lesson I took from those stories is that it is not about men, nor women, but people and relationships. Because the stories of girlfriends who were crap sounded just like the stories about boyfriends who were crap.
And I took statistics. Kept abreast of studies, since sex in any form interests me. And that bell curve is important, because if I were to take the average man and the average woman, they would have more in common than either ends of the spectrum of women with other women, or men with other men. And if I am careful to chose a man on the feminine slide of the curve, match him with a woman on the male side, they will have more in common than most anyone of the same sex with someone else in the same sex. Hormones influence, they do not determine.
I took it upon myself, in a group of guy friends, to patiently correct sexist assumptions. Self importantly, I admit. The method being, to turn it around. "I want a cute girl." Well, what if all the girls you might date only want cute guys? Is that fair? I insisted on being listened to, when I had something to say. I never indulged in slighting men, always turning it around for myself as well. "Never argue with a man, he'll never listen anyway." Not ok, because the obverse certainly is not. I scoured my own unconscious anti-male bias as I went. There was not much there, since I never went through an I hate boys phase. Prejudice is prejudice, and I take everyone as an individual, including children.
To say "I like men" is just as suspect as "I love women." I don't want to be lumped in with anyone. I do prefer male politics, generally, the company of men is easier for me. But tough minded women, educated and interested in the world, are just as good. Better, if only for rarity sake.
I mind the women who think it is good to jokingly abuse men. Or want to sponge off them. Or use them in a way they would not want to be used.
Not ok, really not ok.
When I began to study the women's movement, I listened carefully to the most intelligent speakers. I began to form an understanding that privilege, accepting doors being opened, and going first, meant losing rights - to have one's own credit. I listened to all the voices that said, this is not about women being in power, just not being deprived of power over their own lives. This resonated, as my father, an idiot, had power over my life, that he abused. I did not want to chose for others, I wanted only to have the right to chose for myself. I called myself a dyed-in-the-wool feminist.
I have had a number of friends over the years, women who dated women. "Dated." I heard about the relationships, the dysfunction, the anguish, the love. The lesson I took from those stories is that it is not about men, nor women, but people and relationships. Because the stories of girlfriends who were crap sounded just like the stories about boyfriends who were crap.
And I took statistics. Kept abreast of studies, since sex in any form interests me. And that bell curve is important, because if I were to take the average man and the average woman, they would have more in common than either ends of the spectrum of women with other women, or men with other men. And if I am careful to chose a man on the feminine slide of the curve, match him with a woman on the male side, they will have more in common than most anyone of the same sex with someone else in the same sex. Hormones influence, they do not determine.
I took it upon myself, in a group of guy friends, to patiently correct sexist assumptions. Self importantly, I admit. The method being, to turn it around. "I want a cute girl." Well, what if all the girls you might date only want cute guys? Is that fair? I insisted on being listened to, when I had something to say. I never indulged in slighting men, always turning it around for myself as well. "Never argue with a man, he'll never listen anyway." Not ok, because the obverse certainly is not. I scoured my own unconscious anti-male bias as I went. There was not much there, since I never went through an I hate boys phase. Prejudice is prejudice, and I take everyone as an individual, including children.
To say "I like men" is just as suspect as "I love women." I don't want to be lumped in with anyone. I do prefer male politics, generally, the company of men is easier for me. But tough minded women, educated and interested in the world, are just as good. Better, if only for rarity sake.
I mind the women who think it is good to jokingly abuse men. Or want to sponge off them. Or use them in a way they would not want to be used.
Not ok, really not ok.
Hamster
I used to say I went to the library from before I was born. True enough, my mother certainly went to the Campbell Branch while expecting me. I cannot remember a time when I did not go there in a week.
The imposing brick edifice, the concrete steps though heavy dark doors into a pamphlet filled entryway. The floors were brown, a smooth, undulating surface that seemed to absorb noise. I loved it all, the racks of paperbacks in alluring temptation, the oaken desks where the director sat alone, and the checkout desk with towering librarians and their rolling date stamps. To the right, the heavy tables and lumbering armchairs with the kind of waxy surface that would take a fingernail impression, all the adult books without pictures. To the left was paradise. Colorful wooden benches to slide across while choosing picture books. Joke books back in the corner, the first Dewey number I memorized. The tall, narrow windows of innumerable panes of wavy glass, open for a wet breeze on humid summer days.
For a while, there was a habbitrail, with gerbils, or hamsters. A plastic world of tunnels and rooms, wheels and stairs. The children's librarian must have been an animal lover, because there was also a library cat, a aloof ginger creature. The hamster was allowed out in a hamster ball, and the cat would take an interest in the rolling phenomenon. I sat on the floor, back resting against books, and watched.
I got a job there, the summer I was 17, with one more year of high school to go. I loved having access to the bathroom key, even though it was to a dank toilet next to the mop closet in the tiny basement. I loved the staff lunch room, windows high in the wall, more heavy wood, an inner sanctum. Three Barbara's worked there at the time, the Clerk, and both librarians, which amused me. I shelved books, filed catalogue cards, checked books out and in, and took overdues, 20 hours a week. I can't say I always loved the work, but I never stopped loving the idea of working in a library.
I kept hoping they would get more hamsters, or a cat, so I could help take care of them.
The imposing brick edifice, the concrete steps though heavy dark doors into a pamphlet filled entryway. The floors were brown, a smooth, undulating surface that seemed to absorb noise. I loved it all, the racks of paperbacks in alluring temptation, the oaken desks where the director sat alone, and the checkout desk with towering librarians and their rolling date stamps. To the right, the heavy tables and lumbering armchairs with the kind of waxy surface that would take a fingernail impression, all the adult books without pictures. To the left was paradise. Colorful wooden benches to slide across while choosing picture books. Joke books back in the corner, the first Dewey number I memorized. The tall, narrow windows of innumerable panes of wavy glass, open for a wet breeze on humid summer days.
For a while, there was a habbitrail, with gerbils, or hamsters. A plastic world of tunnels and rooms, wheels and stairs. The children's librarian must have been an animal lover, because there was also a library cat, a aloof ginger creature. The hamster was allowed out in a hamster ball, and the cat would take an interest in the rolling phenomenon. I sat on the floor, back resting against books, and watched.
I got a job there, the summer I was 17, with one more year of high school to go. I loved having access to the bathroom key, even though it was to a dank toilet next to the mop closet in the tiny basement. I loved the staff lunch room, windows high in the wall, more heavy wood, an inner sanctum. Three Barbara's worked there at the time, the Clerk, and both librarians, which amused me. I shelved books, filed catalogue cards, checked books out and in, and took overdues, 20 hours a week. I can't say I always loved the work, but I never stopped loving the idea of working in a library.
I kept hoping they would get more hamsters, or a cat, so I could help take care of them.
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