There's a strange sense of intimacy in Photoshopping a person--not to change their appearance, but to remove smudges or scratches from the picture's surface. It feels like you're grooming them through real touch, even though you're only clicking on pixels. This can feel odd if you're fixing up a photo featuring someone you haven't seen in years, no longer have a relationship with, or have never met. There's a certain thrill in digitally primping someone you wish you had known, like a famous person or historical figure.
It's hard to divorce two-dimensional images of people from their tangible forms. For that reason, it's also eerie to find a photo of someone who is no longer alive and look into their eyes, even though they were alive in the picture. It's confusing to read a distraught message from a friend while seeing the userpic of their grinning face.
Time is never static, but photos give us the illusion of that. They really do seem to store an unchanging facet of a person. And maybe many of us present two-dimensional versions of ourselves in real life, because it feels safer than showing our fuller and unretouched selves.
Friday, July 22, 2016
The splitting of selves
Whether you still are
defensive about something you’ve done in the past, or you feel objective enough
to acknowledge the wrong of it without self-disgust, depends on how
disconnected you are from that version of yourself. It depends on if it’s
actually a past version of you. The transitory point is shame, when you no
longer defend what you once said/did but are still not comfortable
acknowledging it. That’s like when an amoeba is at the mid-point of separating
from itself but is not yet two distinct bodies. Once you become a different
version of yourself, you can look at some past actions with regret but not
shame because it’s like observing someone else altogether.
Then again, that might
be another self-deluding defense mechanism. I’m not really sure either way.
The Nazi room
Some
friends have said that they regret using Facebook because it makes them like
their peers less. That someone they would probably like in person becomes
someone they can’t stand because of the opinions they post. I understand this
sentiment, and at times I can relate to it. But at the same time, it’s hard to
believe that somebody’s defining beliefs and overall worldview would never be
expressed face to face if you know them well enough. And if they are hiding
certain values, I’m not sure I’d rather be unaware of what those values are.
In the past, I have written that there is no single “true” self. People are multifaceted, and we can be kinder and more complicated than our belief systems. I don’t believe that a human necessarily has only one set of values; they can have several at odds with one another. But even if their values aren’t a neatly matching set, others can still feel alienated by a particular belief they have—even with the awareness that it isn’t their only belief. I know I will distance myself from a person if they express specific beliefs, just as I know I’m not exempt from alienating others with mine.
The internet is a paradoxical place. It’s a space where humans are bolder and more confrontational about expressing themselves, and at the same time more cautious if their words are for public consumption. It’s a place where individuals can perform a one-dimensional version of themselves, and where they can also share sides of their psyche that are not usually seen. It’s a meeting ground where people dismiss each other more readily because it’s easier to see a human as a set of pixels or an algorithm, but people also might offer each other more time. Because the online world is us, an outgrowth of both space and time.
Just as the internet is people and the internet is a place, people are places. Some are homes. Some are locations we think are homes, but turn out to be stops along the way. Some are havens we visit routinely, but where we don’t ultimately live. That’s why I think of a personality as a house. Some houses have consistent themes throughout. Those homes are cozy and predictable. Some prefer that, others find it dull. Some houses are neat and affable in the rooms that are meant for showcasing, but complete chaos in the private quarters. And others don’t hide their mess.
This is the type of home I’d find most disconcerting: The social, guest-receiving rooms are open and embracing. The living room contains an MLK poster and books about environmentalism and civil rights. Then, somewhere tucked far down a hallway, there’s a study full of KKK propaganda and Nazi memorabilia. The resident is flustered upon guests discovering it, but insists it’s “not a racist thing.” They say they have no problem with (X minority group), they just “don’t want them in their country.” (So what does “having no problem with them” mean? Not objecting to their basic existence, provided that existence occurs far away and they never have to inhabit the same space?) The person who owns and maintains this house may not see the space dedicated to bigotry as their “true” room. They may see it as just one coexisting with all the others, no more of a core space than anywhere else. They may even like to have minority friends in the house; just not in that area. But the guests who liked the main quarters won’t feel comfortable there anymore, and it would be especially scary if the house was a place where they’d regularly enjoyed spending time.
That figurative house is who some people are. Some may not actually be aware that they contain that specific room. Others might know about it but blame others for putting the contents inside, not acknowledging that they choose to hold onto those things. And I know my definition of welcoming is subjective; some would feel a lot more embraced in the bigotry room than in the main socially presented areas. But that is how I see it, and I think the internet provides a window into rooms that might not otherwise be seen—even by those who live in the house. The difference lies in whether or not the homeowner justifies that room; whether they respond to its discovery by more carefully hiding the contents, by bringing them out into the open, or by trying to renovate.
In the past, I have written that there is no single “true” self. People are multifaceted, and we can be kinder and more complicated than our belief systems. I don’t believe that a human necessarily has only one set of values; they can have several at odds with one another. But even if their values aren’t a neatly matching set, others can still feel alienated by a particular belief they have—even with the awareness that it isn’t their only belief. I know I will distance myself from a person if they express specific beliefs, just as I know I’m not exempt from alienating others with mine.
The internet is a paradoxical place. It’s a space where humans are bolder and more confrontational about expressing themselves, and at the same time more cautious if their words are for public consumption. It’s a place where individuals can perform a one-dimensional version of themselves, and where they can also share sides of their psyche that are not usually seen. It’s a meeting ground where people dismiss each other more readily because it’s easier to see a human as a set of pixels or an algorithm, but people also might offer each other more time. Because the online world is us, an outgrowth of both space and time.
Just as the internet is people and the internet is a place, people are places. Some are homes. Some are locations we think are homes, but turn out to be stops along the way. Some are havens we visit routinely, but where we don’t ultimately live. That’s why I think of a personality as a house. Some houses have consistent themes throughout. Those homes are cozy and predictable. Some prefer that, others find it dull. Some houses are neat and affable in the rooms that are meant for showcasing, but complete chaos in the private quarters. And others don’t hide their mess.
This is the type of home I’d find most disconcerting: The social, guest-receiving rooms are open and embracing. The living room contains an MLK poster and books about environmentalism and civil rights. Then, somewhere tucked far down a hallway, there’s a study full of KKK propaganda and Nazi memorabilia. The resident is flustered upon guests discovering it, but insists it’s “not a racist thing.” They say they have no problem with (X minority group), they just “don’t want them in their country.” (So what does “having no problem with them” mean? Not objecting to their basic existence, provided that existence occurs far away and they never have to inhabit the same space?) The person who owns and maintains this house may not see the space dedicated to bigotry as their “true” room. They may see it as just one coexisting with all the others, no more of a core space than anywhere else. They may even like to have minority friends in the house; just not in that area. But the guests who liked the main quarters won’t feel comfortable there anymore, and it would be especially scary if the house was a place where they’d regularly enjoyed spending time.
That figurative house is who some people are. Some may not actually be aware that they contain that specific room. Others might know about it but blame others for putting the contents inside, not acknowledging that they choose to hold onto those things. And I know my definition of welcoming is subjective; some would feel a lot more embraced in the bigotry room than in the main socially presented areas. But that is how I see it, and I think the internet provides a window into rooms that might not otherwise be seen—even by those who live in the house. The difference lies in whether or not the homeowner justifies that room; whether they respond to its discovery by more carefully hiding the contents, by bringing them out into the open, or by trying to renovate.
The trickster archetype
Two famous characters which seem to share
certain parallels are Joker and the Cheshire Cat. It's not just because they
both wear unnatural, unsettling grins on their
faces. It's because they both represent order vs. chaos, but in different ways.
The Cheshire Cat acts as a guide among chaos,
providing advice and order at times--although he's capricious and only helps
when he feels like it. Rather than good or bad, he seems neutral and mainly
motivated by his own whims for amusement.
In the Batman universe, Joker is also motivated
by his own amusement and says perplexing things. But he wants to upend order
and create chaos, which is somewhat the opposite of Cheshire Cat. The latter
tries to provide balance between the two, whereas Joker just wants to destroy.
Also, both follow a motif of what they, in
their own words, call "madness." They're products of their
environments and arguably both well-adjusted to their surroundings, even if
others would see them as nonsensical or erratic. It reminds me of the aphorism
that it's no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a sick society. The Joker
has found a definite means of survival, living purely at the expense of others.
He's sustained himself, but not in a way that could ever be seen as healthy.
The Cheshire Cat seems better adapted because he accepts the inevitable
disorder but tempers it with organization, and he's far less malevolent.
Hipsters in Ugg boots
I
wonder how many things that aren't currently "cool" to enjoy will
become cool once they're vintage. My theory is that a lot of vintage stuff is only
cool because enough time has passed for people to forget why they originally
disliked them. Then when it becomes too generic the second time, it gets
abandoned because it's no longer ironic.
Prediction: In another twenty years (because it has to be at least twenty), hipsters will be wearing Ugg boots and listening to Bieber.
Prediction: In another twenty years (because it has to be at least twenty), hipsters will be wearing Ugg boots and listening to Bieber.
My inner emo child is showing
Watched Blink 182's new video for "Bored to Death" and
am currently torn in two directions like a Stretch Armstrong doll. The song is
repetitive and the lyric "Life is too short to last long" is one of
those maddening statements that's clearly meant to sound profound, but really
is just self-defining (it's like saying "Fire's too hot to be cold").
But at the same time, damned if the scene of the angsty punk boy scratching
messages into his desk and his bleach-haired girlfriend jumping around
listening to oversized headphones and them skating in the parking lot doesn't
leave my early 2000s mallcore heart screaming. I'm surprised I didn't combust
into a cloud of AIM icons featuring Sally the Ragdoll and skulls with little
pink bows on top.
I’ll
start out by saying that the recent cop killings are deplorable. People should
not have to fear being murdered because of their jobs. When an officer is shot
in vengeance after they did something unconscionable—such as Jackie Neal of San
Antonio, who was shot after raping a woman on the job—I have to admit there’s a
certain sense of compensation. But that doesn’t mean vigilante justice is right or that killing is an
acceptable response, especially when other cops are being shot for another’s
offense. So I’m sorry to hear about what happened in Baton Rouge, as well as
what happened in Dallas.
That being said, it's a dangerous assumption to claim that if a person is critical of police officers in general, or simply outspoken against police brutality, or even professedly anti-cop, that it means they must want the police to be murdered. There are people I can’t stand, cop and non-cop alike, but that doesn’t mean I want them killed. I might be petty and wish any number of irritations upon them. I might want them to spill hot coffee on their lap or never find a parking space or only ever step on Legos when they’re barefoot. I might hope they get fired or dumped or face failure, but I don’t wish for them to die. That may not be healthy or mature of me. However, it’s not the same as condoning murder.
To respond to criticisms of police with “Then you want all cops to die!” is to smother any dissenting opinion. Because then the person is not discussing their actual grievances with the police force or with police brutality; they’re stuck defending their right to voice those thoughts and assuring others that they’re not saying cops should be massacred. Some cops and police supporters might genuinely believe that to criticize a cop is to sign their death warrant, but others use this as a red herring.
Unfortunately, I have heard some on my side of the issue celebrating the murder of cops. I’ve seen statements like “No tears for dead cops,” which sounds more like a command than a personal sentiment. This disturbs me. But that perspective is not the norm coming from those who speak out against police brutality. Most have the mindset of, “We don’t want you to be killed. We want you to stop killing people.” Some have pointed out that if you believe being against police brutality is the same as being anti-cop, it’s like saying objection to child abuse makes you anti-parent.
I’ve heard the argument that speaking against the actions of specific police officers stirs up anti-cop hatred that leads to them getting murdered. The argument can be paraphrased as, “You understand that anti-gay hate speech leads to gay people getting murdered, but you don’t acknowledge the same about cops.” This would make sense, except that criticizing police brutality and racial profiling doesn’t amount to hate speech, and the people who target LGBT people often do so because they literally believe that "God" commanded them to.
It is true that hatred of some groups leads to them being killed, but that mainly happens to oppressed populations. For example, there are individual gay people who hate heterosexuals due to years of oppression, but gay people aren’t shooting up straight clubs in Orlando. There are women who hate men, but there’s no pandemic of women slaughtering men simply for being male (and there are examples of the reverse situation. Elliot Rodger and the Montreal massacre of 1989 are two examples). Police aren’t an oppressed class. They sometimes do get intentionally killed simply for the job they have, and that is horrific. That’s inexcusable. But while the ones who are murdered are in no way at fault for their own deaths, they chose the job with awareness of the risks. Being a police officer is a choice. Race, gender, and sexual orientation are not.
That being said, it's a dangerous assumption to claim that if a person is critical of police officers in general, or simply outspoken against police brutality, or even professedly anti-cop, that it means they must want the police to be murdered. There are people I can’t stand, cop and non-cop alike, but that doesn’t mean I want them killed. I might be petty and wish any number of irritations upon them. I might want them to spill hot coffee on their lap or never find a parking space or only ever step on Legos when they’re barefoot. I might hope they get fired or dumped or face failure, but I don’t wish for them to die. That may not be healthy or mature of me. However, it’s not the same as condoning murder.
To respond to criticisms of police with “Then you want all cops to die!” is to smother any dissenting opinion. Because then the person is not discussing their actual grievances with the police force or with police brutality; they’re stuck defending their right to voice those thoughts and assuring others that they’re not saying cops should be massacred. Some cops and police supporters might genuinely believe that to criticize a cop is to sign their death warrant, but others use this as a red herring.
Unfortunately, I have heard some on my side of the issue celebrating the murder of cops. I’ve seen statements like “No tears for dead cops,” which sounds more like a command than a personal sentiment. This disturbs me. But that perspective is not the norm coming from those who speak out against police brutality. Most have the mindset of, “We don’t want you to be killed. We want you to stop killing people.” Some have pointed out that if you believe being against police brutality is the same as being anti-cop, it’s like saying objection to child abuse makes you anti-parent.
I’ve heard the argument that speaking against the actions of specific police officers stirs up anti-cop hatred that leads to them getting murdered. The argument can be paraphrased as, “You understand that anti-gay hate speech leads to gay people getting murdered, but you don’t acknowledge the same about cops.” This would make sense, except that criticizing police brutality and racial profiling doesn’t amount to hate speech, and the people who target LGBT people often do so because they literally believe that "God" commanded them to.
It is true that hatred of some groups leads to them being killed, but that mainly happens to oppressed populations. For example, there are individual gay people who hate heterosexuals due to years of oppression, but gay people aren’t shooting up straight clubs in Orlando. There are women who hate men, but there’s no pandemic of women slaughtering men simply for being male (and there are examples of the reverse situation. Elliot Rodger and the Montreal massacre of 1989 are two examples). Police aren’t an oppressed class. They sometimes do get intentionally killed simply for the job they have, and that is horrific. That’s inexcusable. But while the ones who are murdered are in no way at fault for their own deaths, they chose the job with awareness of the risks. Being a police officer is a choice. Race, gender, and sexual orientation are not.
A peaceful protest is still a protest.
When
somebody says, "I'm all for peaceful
protests, but why do they have to block highways/interrupt airport
services/have marches/boycott things/perform sit-ins??", then they do not
know what "peaceful" or "protest" really means.
A peaceful protest doesn't mean the participants are quiet and docile. It doesn't mean they won't do or say anything that will make others feel uncomfortable. That's why it's a protest: It's an act of dissent meant to catch the public eye, and that has to be accomplished by disruption. That's how the status quo is challenged. "Peaceful" just means they're not going to murder, batter, or sexually assault anyone in the process. And a lot of people who complain about acts of public interruption, such as highway blockades, will also complain about protests that are fairly sedentary and self-contained, such as Occupy. Their issue isn't that they want protests to be "peaceful." They just don't want any to exist.
A peaceful protest doesn't mean the participants are quiet and docile. It doesn't mean they won't do or say anything that will make others feel uncomfortable. That's why it's a protest: It's an act of dissent meant to catch the public eye, and that has to be accomplished by disruption. That's how the status quo is challenged. "Peaceful" just means they're not going to murder, batter, or sexually assault anyone in the process. And a lot of people who complain about acts of public interruption, such as highway blockades, will also complain about protests that are fairly sedentary and self-contained, such as Occupy. Their issue isn't that they want protests to be "peaceful." They just don't want any to exist.
The Pokemon cult
When I was out catching Jigglypuffs at West Haven beach today, I passed by a public prayer circle and swore I heard one of them include the word "Pokemon".
Theories:
1) They were praying to catch more Pokemon
2) They have formed a religion around the Pokemon and were praying to a Squirtle
3) One of them may have been lamenting that "All these people are finding Pokemon, but can't find Jesus!" (In which case, I'd inform them you can catch him at Level 20.)
Theories:
1) They were praying to catch more Pokemon
2) They have formed a religion around the Pokemon and were praying to a Squirtle
3) One of them may have been lamenting that "All these people are finding Pokemon, but can't find Jesus!" (In which case, I'd inform them you can catch him at Level 20.)
Future nostalgia
If you're bored
or sad, it can help to remind yourself of all the things that have been
developed/invented in your lifetime which you've gotten so immersed in that you
wonder how you possibly could have ever gone without. Think of how many more
will come to exist in your future, and then you will look forward to things
you're not even aware of yet. The best part of that is you don't miss those
aspects or agonize over not having them, since you don't yet know what they
are--you just know they'll be a great surprise. And if you can imagine them,
you can make them.
Responsibilities
Continuously confused by the narrative that poor people "have no responsibilities". It probably derives from the idea that those living in poverty are naturally irresponsible, and therefore must not have things to be responsible for. Two thoughts: 1) Irresponsible people, by definition, actually have responsibilities. Being irresponsible means evading the ones you do have. 2.) Navigating one's way through poverty actually involves a lot of effort and work to survive. Many work multiple jobs. Many have kids and other relatives they need to attend to. And if you're on government assistance--which is frequently judged as the pinnacle of irresponsibility--there is a great deal of effort involved in both attaining and continuing to collect it. You have to show up to appointments and present armloads of files and wade through seemingly endless paperwork. If anyone's initial response is "Well, what if they put all that effort into trying to find a job?", please know those things are not mutually exclusive. The majority of benefits recipients are employed. Additionally, the common perception of those on welfare living in luxury doesn't even make sense. Saying poverty is privilege is like saying water is dry.
If anything, people with the least amount of responsibilities are rich ones living off an inheritance.
If anything, people with the least amount of responsibilities are rich ones living off an inheritance.
What defines something as childish?
I'm curious about why certain tastes and activities are
considered "childish". Things like Harry Potter or Pokemon or board
games or video games or cartoons are often called childish because they appeal
to kids, but it doesn't really make sense to exclusively label them "a kid
thing," since a lot of adults enjoy them. Maybe an entertainment product
is considered childish if it was designed and marketed specifically with kids
in mind. But all the same, it was invented and developed by adults who may have
been thinking of what they would still enjoy if they were socially permitted.
Certain types of entertainment are seen as kid stuff, but still acceptable for adults to partake in (Star Wars and comic books, for example). I wonder what makes some things more socially accepted as crossovers, while others are seen as exclusively the domain of kids. Maybe nostalgia is a factor. Because Star Wars has existed since the '70s, adults regard it as "acceptable" entertainment because it reminds them of their pasts. It also has a lot of philosophical/intellectual merit, as does Harry Potter, so that could be grasped as a reason to give it a pass for grown people.
There's also often an overlap between nerd culture and things that are judged as childish. Fantasy, sci fi, gaming, cosplay. But many of those things are increasingly embraced by adults, and the appeal is generally understood even by those who don't engage in them. This is part of the process of nerd culture moving to the mainstream.
Whenever a new entertainment trend pops up that relates to nerd culture, a lot of people denounce it as childish until gradually, it just comes to be seen as geeky (whether the person uses that term in a disparaging, affectionate, or neutral sense). I hope that will be the case with Pokemon Go. I hear a lot of surly sentiments along the lines of "I don't play because I'm an adult and I have responsibilities!" It's ridiculous to assume all adults who like the game have no responsibilities; many use it as a fun escape in their down time. Everyone who makes that complaint has a hobby, but they don't consider their own leisure activities to be immature. So it doesn't follow that every non-utilitarian act is seen as childish. I think it has to do with initial knee-jerk reactions to nerd culture. I hope to see this game assimilated into the menu of hobbies that are treated as valid for all ages.
Certain types of entertainment are seen as kid stuff, but still acceptable for adults to partake in (Star Wars and comic books, for example). I wonder what makes some things more socially accepted as crossovers, while others are seen as exclusively the domain of kids. Maybe nostalgia is a factor. Because Star Wars has existed since the '70s, adults regard it as "acceptable" entertainment because it reminds them of their pasts. It also has a lot of philosophical/intellectual merit, as does Harry Potter, so that could be grasped as a reason to give it a pass for grown people.
There's also often an overlap between nerd culture and things that are judged as childish. Fantasy, sci fi, gaming, cosplay. But many of those things are increasingly embraced by adults, and the appeal is generally understood even by those who don't engage in them. This is part of the process of nerd culture moving to the mainstream.
Whenever a new entertainment trend pops up that relates to nerd culture, a lot of people denounce it as childish until gradually, it just comes to be seen as geeky (whether the person uses that term in a disparaging, affectionate, or neutral sense). I hope that will be the case with Pokemon Go. I hear a lot of surly sentiments along the lines of "I don't play because I'm an adult and I have responsibilities!" It's ridiculous to assume all adults who like the game have no responsibilities; many use it as a fun escape in their down time. Everyone who makes that complaint has a hobby, but they don't consider their own leisure activities to be immature. So it doesn't follow that every non-utilitarian act is seen as childish. I think it has to do with initial knee-jerk reactions to nerd culture. I hope to see this game assimilated into the menu of hobbies that are treated as valid for all ages.
Blank spaces
Comic
characters can't see the blank spaces between panels as they travel from one to
another. If they could, they'd realize that's the space where they have the
freedom to draw themselves.
Punching Poseidon
If you can, at least once in your life, punch Poseidon.
When the tide is tall and choppy, curling into water cliffs, charge into the waves. They'll pummel you with salty fists. Stand against them at first. They will start thrashing you. Let them. Let them sweep and scrape you across the shore. Dig your hands and feet into the sand. Be seaweed, rooted down, swaying with the current. Let the foaming mouth swallow and spew you out. Then, when it thinks it's quelled you, run at the waves again. Crash in. Tangle. Switch between boxing with the water and dancing with it. Seize the frothing joy.
The ocean will learn it can move you, but can't claim you. You both belong to yourselves, and will always battle it out or carry each other. You'll return to each other in tides.
When the tide is tall and choppy, curling into water cliffs, charge into the waves. They'll pummel you with salty fists. Stand against them at first. They will start thrashing you. Let them. Let them sweep and scrape you across the shore. Dig your hands and feet into the sand. Be seaweed, rooted down, swaying with the current. Let the foaming mouth swallow and spew you out. Then, when it thinks it's quelled you, run at the waves again. Crash in. Tangle. Switch between boxing with the water and dancing with it. Seize the frothing joy.
The ocean will learn it can move you, but can't claim you. You both belong to yourselves, and will always battle it out or carry each other. You'll return to each other in tides.
Embryonic
Being
in the ocean is one of the most soothing experiences. It guides you back to an
embryonic lull and stirs with primordial echoes. The danger is that it's
indiscriminately nurturing. It cradles you while sustaining your predators. The
security and the perils are very much like gestation, because nothing is both
as welcoming and dangerous as becoming alive.
Vulnerability as a pejorative
I
may have figured out why “Tumblr” is often used as a disparaging adjective
(calling a person “so Tumblr”, etc). It’s not just because of associations with
far-left politics—although, despite the common perception, it’s not exclusively
so. There are Tumblr pages and communities all over the ideological spectrum.
The popular contempt for the website also may be because it’s an outlet for
emotional first-person confessionals. That kind of vulnerability
gets sneered at. Some entries may sound kind of exaggerated or theatrical, but
I think what it really boils down to is that the genuinely heartfelt narratives
make a lot of people uncomfortable. Readers don’t want to be raw, so they don’t
like seeing others that way. That reaction is a kind of non-empathetic empathy.
Such self-expression is dismissed as juvenile because the expectation is that adults talk “rationally” about work and money while teenagers talk about feelings. And honestly, I’m tired of that norm for adults.
There is something about openness that makes some see you as a receptacle. If you’re open, the jaded people want to reach into your space and either drain your substance or replace it with their own. I think there need to be communities where people can talk sincerely with friends or strangers or just a blank page, siphoning off their thoughts into the reflective a.m. hours. Tumblr isn’t perfect, but I’m glad it serves that need for so many.
Such self-expression is dismissed as juvenile because the expectation is that adults talk “rationally” about work and money while teenagers talk about feelings. And honestly, I’m tired of that norm for adults.
There is something about openness that makes some see you as a receptacle. If you’re open, the jaded people want to reach into your space and either drain your substance or replace it with their own. I think there need to be communities where people can talk sincerely with friends or strangers or just a blank page, siphoning off their thoughts into the reflective a.m. hours. Tumblr isn’t perfect, but I’m glad it serves that need for so many.
Economy of obsoletism
I
often hear that most jobs will be replaced by robots or mechanical functions
someday, and my first thought was that might be a lot more money and effort
than continuing to employ people. It would be expensive to create, install, and
maintain all that machinery. Mike said the initial cost would be high but that
it wouldn't expensive in the long run. That might be true. In that case, the
majority of human jobs would
be based on building and installing the technology, until machines can do that
too. Once that happens, I wonder if there would be a financial meltdown or if
the need for humans to have jobs would be obsolete--in the same way we see
outdated technology as obsolete? And if that's the case, would we reconfigure
our entire foundation of economics? Would there even be a purpose for money
anymore?
Crosses and crossroads
When
I was about sixteen, somebody from school asked me, “Why do you wear a cross
all the time if you’re not Christian?” I can’t remember my exact answer, but it
was something like “Contrast.” I saw it as an ironic juxtaposition against a
punk or goth-y outfit, and at that age, I didn’t grasp the callousness of using
others’ revered symbols as accessorized playthings. But there was another
reason behind it that I couldn’t yet articulate.
It was also because it’s a symbol of torture, both in its literal sense and in what the Church had done to many over the centuries, and I was very angsty at the time. Maybe the macabre element wasn’t all that contrasted with my black clothes and skull emblems. But it was also a symbol of rebirth and hope—not hope within a religious context, but in a general sense.
I’ve been fascinated by Christianity’s various forms throughout my life and had a visceral love/hate response to it since early childhood. I don’t talk a lot about the Christian chapter of my early twenties, partly because it may be hard for others to understand and partly because I don’t have much to say about it anymore. (I call it a chapter and not a “phase” because it wasn’t just a fad to me; an accessory cast off easily as a crucifix necklace. It was deeply felt at the time.)
I don’t call myself Christian anymore, and have not for years, for a few different reasons. One, because I neither see the Bible as a guidebook nor as divinely inspired. Two, because my social values don’t match the mainstream evangelical community’s at all. And three, because the word literally means “little Christ,” and I cannot with any humility compare myself to Jesus.
Although I no longer identify as Christian, I don’t regret that period. For me, it was a stepping stone to liberalism. Raised within secular political conservatism, it was an easy transition to Christianity because the religious right has co-opted the religion and painted their approach to it as the only true north. But within it, I saw social issues in a whole new light. I began to care about people I used to dismiss as lazy or entitled. It was a stopgap to the philosophy I now try to live by. I don’t do it perfectly by any means, and am still learning. But I’ll always be grateful to the more progressive side of Christianity for showing me a path I’d previously only heard of, and had never tried to walk until that time.
It was also because it’s a symbol of torture, both in its literal sense and in what the Church had done to many over the centuries, and I was very angsty at the time. Maybe the macabre element wasn’t all that contrasted with my black clothes and skull emblems. But it was also a symbol of rebirth and hope—not hope within a religious context, but in a general sense.
I’ve been fascinated by Christianity’s various forms throughout my life and had a visceral love/hate response to it since early childhood. I don’t talk a lot about the Christian chapter of my early twenties, partly because it may be hard for others to understand and partly because I don’t have much to say about it anymore. (I call it a chapter and not a “phase” because it wasn’t just a fad to me; an accessory cast off easily as a crucifix necklace. It was deeply felt at the time.)
I don’t call myself Christian anymore, and have not for years, for a few different reasons. One, because I neither see the Bible as a guidebook nor as divinely inspired. Two, because my social values don’t match the mainstream evangelical community’s at all. And three, because the word literally means “little Christ,” and I cannot with any humility compare myself to Jesus.
Although I no longer identify as Christian, I don’t regret that period. For me, it was a stepping stone to liberalism. Raised within secular political conservatism, it was an easy transition to Christianity because the religious right has co-opted the religion and painted their approach to it as the only true north. But within it, I saw social issues in a whole new light. I began to care about people I used to dismiss as lazy or entitled. It was a stopgap to the philosophy I now try to live by. I don’t do it perfectly by any means, and am still learning. But I’ll always be grateful to the more progressive side of Christianity for showing me a path I’d previously only heard of, and had never tried to walk until that time.
From June: Alarm clock haiku
Woke up thinking of an alarm clock haiku:
Over-ripe time fruit
Explodes, splattering loud noise
Onto the morning.
(Side note: I'm actually pretty glad that real fruit doesn't explode. Dream logic, though.)
Over-ripe time fruit
Explodes, splattering loud noise
Onto the morning.
(Side note: I'm actually pretty glad that real fruit doesn't explode. Dream logic, though.)
From June: "You Ripped the Colors Out of Me"
(Explanation--I've
been feeling progressively worse the past month and this afternoon I stayed in
bed for four hours and did nothing. But then I wrote this and really want to
get back on track.)
Spectrum: A Letter to Severe Depression
You ripped the colors out of me
Plunged your hand into my chest
Yanked out a fistful of rainbow,
beams of light
Left me split open, dripping grey
You took my red ambition
Rockets and capes, flight forward
Never a stop sign in sight
You took my orange fruits of labor
My yellow tipsy buzz from
sipping on the sun
(now I can only taste the burn)
You took my purple prose
Leaving only black and blues
Battered hues
and
A ghostly trace of green
Envy for another time
A more colorful self.
Spectrum: A Letter to Severe Depression
You ripped the colors out of me
Plunged your hand into my chest
Yanked out a fistful of rainbow,
beams of light
Left me split open, dripping grey
You took my red ambition
Rockets and capes, flight forward
Never a stop sign in sight
You took my orange fruits of labor
My yellow tipsy buzz from
sipping on the sun
(now I can only taste the burn)
You took my purple prose
Leaving only black and blues
Battered hues
and
A ghostly trace of green
Envy for another time
A more colorful self.
Art fights
I recently thought of a really funny fight that my brother and I
had when he was about seven years old and I was nine. He was chasing me, so I
locked myself in the bathroom and was taunting him from the inside.
Then a piece of paper and pencil were slipped to me under the door. It was a drawing of me being chased by bees.
I flipped it over and, in response, drew him dropping an ice cream cone and crying.
He got another piece of paper and drew me stubbing my toe.
In turn, I drew him surrounded by stink lines.
We kept this going wordlessly for a few minutes, each drawing images of each other that were either unflattering or depicted the other in an unpleasant scenario. It culminated in him drawing a picture of Bart Simpson mooning me, and then we both burst out laughing and I unlocked the door.
This is how siblings fought back in the mid '90s, in a house where everyone drew and religiously watched The Simpsons. And I still have that last drawing.
Then a piece of paper and pencil were slipped to me under the door. It was a drawing of me being chased by bees.
I flipped it over and, in response, drew him dropping an ice cream cone and crying.
He got another piece of paper and drew me stubbing my toe.
In turn, I drew him surrounded by stink lines.
We kept this going wordlessly for a few minutes, each drawing images of each other that were either unflattering or depicted the other in an unpleasant scenario. It culminated in him drawing a picture of Bart Simpson mooning me, and then we both burst out laughing and I unlocked the door.
This is how siblings fought back in the mid '90s, in a house where everyone drew and religiously watched The Simpsons. And I still have that last drawing.
Stretch
There's something calming about long shadows stretched across chain link fences and sidewalks. Maybe because it shows that even a flat facsimile of you can wrap itself around many surfaces at once and reach across the daylight. If you don't have the energy at the moment, it will fill in for you until you do.
Road maps II
Wires and veins and road maps are all similar visually, and
linked in concept. Technology connects people as part of a larger body and is
the highway we travel together.
Road maps
All my veins are road maps
Leading back to you.
You three: the vessels that once carried me
Now in vessels
Pulsating with paint and
never-dried ink.
All branch into heart and lungs
Coloring outside the lines of time
Filling in the space
between breaths.
Leading back to you.
You three: the vessels that once carried me
Now in vessels
Pulsating with paint and
never-dried ink.
All branch into heart and lungs
Coloring outside the lines of time
Filling in the space
between breaths.
Imaginary seats
Today
I was on the swing at the park and a 6-year-old girl was on the blue swing next
to me. She got off it for a moment, pushed the empty swing, and told me,
"I'm pushing nobody!"
I said, "You're pushing an invisible person."
She answered, "Well, I have an imaginary friend named Mickey, so let's say I'm pushing him."
Over the next few minutes, I guess Mickey became a little more real to her. Another girl from her kindergarten class came by and wanted that empty blue swing, but Morgan (the first girl) said, "No, Mickey's on it!"
They started to bicker. I offered my swing, but the other little girl specifically wanted "Mickey's". So I looked at the empty plastic seat and said, "Mickey, I think this girl wants a turn. Can you let her have it for a minute?"
Morgan immediately eased up and said, "Okay!". She and her invisible friend pushed the other girl together, and they both intermittently conversed with "Mickey."
I think it can help to meet little kids where they are. As funny as it is that she wanted her imaginary friend to stay on the swing, it wouldn't have worked to tell her Mickey wasn't real. Sometimes it's most effective to cooperate with their make-believe scenario and solve problems within it.
(Pictured: Mickey on the blue swing.)
I said, "You're pushing an invisible person."
She answered, "Well, I have an imaginary friend named Mickey, so let's say I'm pushing him."
Over the next few minutes, I guess Mickey became a little more real to her. Another girl from her kindergarten class came by and wanted that empty blue swing, but Morgan (the first girl) said, "No, Mickey's on it!"
They started to bicker. I offered my swing, but the other little girl specifically wanted "Mickey's". So I looked at the empty plastic seat and said, "Mickey, I think this girl wants a turn. Can you let her have it for a minute?"
Morgan immediately eased up and said, "Okay!". She and her invisible friend pushed the other girl together, and they both intermittently conversed with "Mickey."
I think it can help to meet little kids where they are. As funny as it is that she wanted her imaginary friend to stay on the swing, it wouldn't have worked to tell her Mickey wasn't real. Sometimes it's most effective to cooperate with their make-believe scenario and solve problems within it.
(Pictured: Mickey on the blue swing.)
Distrust of finite objects
For
a while, I've had a theory that people tend to be suspicious of something that
holds a lot of information if they can't see the entirety of where that
information is stored. It's why I prefer physical books to eBooks or Kindle; I
like to see all the pages together. It also seems to be why Arthur Weasley told
Ginny in the second Harry Potter book, "Don't trust something that thinks
if you can't see where it keeps its brain."
This may also extend, partly, to why so many humans are distrustful of one another. Among other reasons, it may be because we know that people have whole worlds of thoughts contained within a finite body part, and we can't see the thoughts from the outside.
This may also extend, partly, to why so many humans are distrustful of one another. Among other reasons, it may be because we know that people have whole worlds of thoughts contained within a finite body part, and we can't see the thoughts from the outside.
From what I've noticed, white supremacists often have conflicted
feelings about Jewish people. On one hand, they're quick to stereotype and
ostracize them. On the other, they love using the Jewish community as an
example of white people being oppressed based on race (never mind the fact that
Jewish people were oppressed for being Jewish, not for being white, and were
even considered an ethnic minority as a means to justify the persecution. Also,
they were attacked by other white Europeans, not POC). Additionally, racists
often assume that all Muslims are anti-Jewish and will cling to that as an
Islamophobic stereotype, even if they themselves feel hostile toward Jewish
people.
Another factor I've noticed is how they will either say that race isn't the same as nationality/religion or that it is, depending on whether that will further the "white people are oppressed" narrative. This is a pattern that occurs often:
Person: "White people are targeted. Look at what happened to the Irish and the Jews!"
Then the same person will rail against affirmative action, calling it "racism against whites." When told that Irish and Jewish scholarships exist and benefit a lot of white people, they'll backtrack and say, "Well, that doesn't count because those benefits are based on nationality/religion, not race."
Blather, rinse, repeat.
Another factor I've noticed is how they will either say that race isn't the same as nationality/religion or that it is, depending on whether that will further the "white people are oppressed" narrative. This is a pattern that occurs often:
Person: "White people are targeted. Look at what happened to the Irish and the Jews!"
Then the same person will rail against affirmative action, calling it "racism against whites." When told that Irish and Jewish scholarships exist and benefit a lot of white people, they'll backtrack and say, "Well, that doesn't count because those benefits are based on nationality/religion, not race."
Blather, rinse, repeat.
Mood music
I
don’t usually listen to purely instrumental music because I find lyrics more
relatable. But at the same time, I can see why instrumental might be even more
relatable because instead of including a storyline that might be specific, it
encompasses a mood that can be tailored to even more situations.
From June
When
my aunt Mary was in her early twenties, she wrote this description of her
parents in a journal: “Kiki and Harold: A mass of confused frustration, or a
kind of breakfast-out bargain kids who love to get up early! Their house is
full of their kids, dogs, and their guests for wok or spaghetti dinners. Their
house has so much flea market stuff, but they know that you can always add
another addition to their mass of
life.”
I’ve never heard a truer description of my grandparents. Kiki, Harold, and Mary were a trifecta of my young life, of my whole childhood. And now all three of them are dead.
I never met a person who disliked Kiki, but she was always my inner litmus test. If anybody didn’t like her, I knew I couldn’t like them.
When thinking of my grandma, I think of her love of African and Native American art. I think of the way she made jewelry and collected thousands of beads. I think of how she was the first woman in her family to go to college—and then went on to be a part of the school board, to become an art teacher, and to start her own business with her husband. I think of her Yiddish profanity, including an expression that literally translates to “Go shit in the ocean,” and an ancient curse of “May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits!” I think of how she built an enormous house out of wood and stone while pregnant. And I think of her as a violin virtuoso, and the day when, at 90 years old, she picked up a violin for the first time in decades and realized to her dismay that she could not play anymore.
Kiki’s dementia was especially difficult for her because she was used to being the family matriarch. She was used to always being in charge, and her whole life was defined by giving care to others. So when she was in the position of needing care, it distressed her. After Harold passed on in September, she started saying she wanted to go home. Even when she was at her house, she’d tug on the doorknob and start crying, begging her children to take her home. This was heartbreaking, and my husband had an astute insight about it. He thinks that even though her senility prevented her from processing Harold’s death, she understood something was missing. And so with her husband gone, it didn’t feel like home anymore.
Even in severe dementia, her will was astounding. In the hospice, she managed to live for over two weeks with no food or liquids. Most people can only live that way a few days.
Today, shortly before she passed away, her five surviving children gathered together at a beach by the hospice. They wrote her name in huge letters in the sand with a big heart and all danced around her name, shouting it into the sky and yelling, “You’re free!” When they returned to her room, she was still. She’d passed right as they were “releasing” her.
My aunts and uncles are going to donate her brain to the medical community in order to contribute to dementia research, and to learn more about the type she had. It makes perfect, harmonious sense that they would perform a spiritual ritual while also contributing to science. And I know that’s exactly what Kiki would want, because it means she can help people even in death.
Harold, Kiki, and Mary: you are my blood, my trio, my history. And for the rest of my life, you’ll show up in my Technicolor dreams.
I’ve never heard a truer description of my grandparents. Kiki, Harold, and Mary were a trifecta of my young life, of my whole childhood. And now all three of them are dead.
I never met a person who disliked Kiki, but she was always my inner litmus test. If anybody didn’t like her, I knew I couldn’t like them.
When thinking of my grandma, I think of her love of African and Native American art. I think of the way she made jewelry and collected thousands of beads. I think of how she was the first woman in her family to go to college—and then went on to be a part of the school board, to become an art teacher, and to start her own business with her husband. I think of her Yiddish profanity, including an expression that literally translates to “Go shit in the ocean,” and an ancient curse of “May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits!” I think of how she built an enormous house out of wood and stone while pregnant. And I think of her as a violin virtuoso, and the day when, at 90 years old, she picked up a violin for the first time in decades and realized to her dismay that she could not play anymore.
Kiki’s dementia was especially difficult for her because she was used to being the family matriarch. She was used to always being in charge, and her whole life was defined by giving care to others. So when she was in the position of needing care, it distressed her. After Harold passed on in September, she started saying she wanted to go home. Even when she was at her house, she’d tug on the doorknob and start crying, begging her children to take her home. This was heartbreaking, and my husband had an astute insight about it. He thinks that even though her senility prevented her from processing Harold’s death, she understood something was missing. And so with her husband gone, it didn’t feel like home anymore.
Even in severe dementia, her will was astounding. In the hospice, she managed to live for over two weeks with no food or liquids. Most people can only live that way a few days.
Today, shortly before she passed away, her five surviving children gathered together at a beach by the hospice. They wrote her name in huge letters in the sand with a big heart and all danced around her name, shouting it into the sky and yelling, “You’re free!” When they returned to her room, she was still. She’d passed right as they were “releasing” her.
My aunts and uncles are going to donate her brain to the medical community in order to contribute to dementia research, and to learn more about the type she had. It makes perfect, harmonious sense that they would perform a spiritual ritual while also contributing to science. And I know that’s exactly what Kiki would want, because it means she can help people even in death.
Harold, Kiki, and Mary: you are my blood, my trio, my history. And for the rest of my life, you’ll show up in my Technicolor dreams.
Remixing
Surgeons,
tailors, deejays, filmmakers, writers, and painters
all do the same thing
which is editing
Nip-tucking sentences
Operating on colors
Making musical patchwork
And remixing bodies
Fixing, making
Cutting and conjoining
all the different worlds
into one.
all do the same thing
which is editing
Nip-tucking sentences
Operating on colors
Making musical patchwork
And remixing bodies
Fixing, making
Cutting and conjoining
all the different worlds
into one.
The ethics of size
When
someone looks at a massive work of human effort, like architecture or a giant
mural, they feel a sense of awe because it reminds them of their own smallness
in proportion to the world. But what they’re looking at isn’t natural expanse;
it’s human bigness. Maybe it’s not a reminder of our insignificance, but the
opposite. We wonder if we also contain multitudes, or if we’ll always be
microscopic compared to the
neighboring giants.
I voiced this to Mike and he sees it differently. He thinks that when we look at human creations, we’re affected more by physical scale than by thoughts of psychological size/effort. He then showed me a game he’s been playing called Katamari Forever, in which the player starts out tiny and steadily grows bigger as they roll up their surroundings into a giant ball that eventually becomes a sacrifice to a god and is made into a star. When they’re smaller, they’re dominated by their surroundings and are easy prey. But then as they grow and start to absorb people, and then trees and buildings and eventually sea monsters and floating islands and planets, everything starts to look more abstract to the point where individuals don’t even register anymore. And then you’re reminded of your smallness again when you present the ball of everything to the deity, and he accepts or rejects it seemingly on a whim.
I’d like to believe that people, and living beings in general, interact on a more profound level than predator vs. prey, and that we can resist the urge to crush or absorb others once we reach enormity. And that it takes something other than intimidation to remind us of compassion. I like that game, but it seems to reduce consciousness to those binary terms, and I’m not sure I identify with that.
I voiced this to Mike and he sees it differently. He thinks that when we look at human creations, we’re affected more by physical scale than by thoughts of psychological size/effort. He then showed me a game he’s been playing called Katamari Forever, in which the player starts out tiny and steadily grows bigger as they roll up their surroundings into a giant ball that eventually becomes a sacrifice to a god and is made into a star. When they’re smaller, they’re dominated by their surroundings and are easy prey. But then as they grow and start to absorb people, and then trees and buildings and eventually sea monsters and floating islands and planets, everything starts to look more abstract to the point where individuals don’t even register anymore. And then you’re reminded of your smallness again when you present the ball of everything to the deity, and he accepts or rejects it seemingly on a whim.
I’d like to believe that people, and living beings in general, interact on a more profound level than predator vs. prey, and that we can resist the urge to crush or absorb others once we reach enormity. And that it takes something other than intimidation to remind us of compassion. I like that game, but it seems to reduce consciousness to those binary terms, and I’m not sure I identify with that.
Evil objects
I
dreamed there was an object that embodied all the evil in the world, and that
it kept being passed from person to person and was sometimes inherited through
families. It changed form once you either recognized or tried to destroy it. It
couldn't be destroyed completely, but could be rendered temporarily powerless
and could be contained.
First it was a teddy bear belonging to a little girl. The stuffed animal roused suspicion because it would suddenly have an angry expression on its face, or it would be hanging from a lamp and nobody had set it up that way, or the family would start getting threatening phone calls with no return number.
When they discovered it was the teddy bear, it morphed into a baby bunny that was so cute that nobody wanted to kill it. But someone threw a rock at it and then it turned into a telescope. If you looked into the telescope, it would show you a vision of how you would die. The trick was to avoid the temptation of looking, no matter how curious you were, and then you would win.
After it was a telescope, it transformed into a beautiful, enormous painting that almost covered a whole wall. That painting had to be slashed to ribbons. If anyone photographed or tried to replicate it, it would keep its power even if slashed up. That was a challenge for people because it was so gorgeous. But the family stabbed the painting and the canvas turned completely black.
Then it turned into a collection of clothing. That was more difficult because it had separated into multiple objects, but each had less power separately than they would together. So the family bagged them all up, stored them in the attic, and forbade anyone from ever putting on those clothes or opening the bags.
Then I woke up and was disappointed; I wanted to see how it would progress. I am probably going to look with suspicion at every inanimate object for the next 24 hours or so.
First it was a teddy bear belonging to a little girl. The stuffed animal roused suspicion because it would suddenly have an angry expression on its face, or it would be hanging from a lamp and nobody had set it up that way, or the family would start getting threatening phone calls with no return number.
When they discovered it was the teddy bear, it morphed into a baby bunny that was so cute that nobody wanted to kill it. But someone threw a rock at it and then it turned into a telescope. If you looked into the telescope, it would show you a vision of how you would die. The trick was to avoid the temptation of looking, no matter how curious you were, and then you would win.
After it was a telescope, it transformed into a beautiful, enormous painting that almost covered a whole wall. That painting had to be slashed to ribbons. If anyone photographed or tried to replicate it, it would keep its power even if slashed up. That was a challenge for people because it was so gorgeous. But the family stabbed the painting and the canvas turned completely black.
Then it turned into a collection of clothing. That was more difficult because it had separated into multiple objects, but each had less power separately than they would together. So the family bagged them all up, stored them in the attic, and forbade anyone from ever putting on those clothes or opening the bags.
Then I woke up and was disappointed; I wanted to see how it would progress. I am probably going to look with suspicion at every inanimate object for the next 24 hours or so.
GIF universe theory
The collapsing
universe theory, which states that the universe collapses and recreates itself
again and again, basically would confirm my suspicion that we're all living in
a giant gif.
Dream ideas
Last night I
dreamed about a class that was given a writing assignment involving notebooks
which were partially, sparsely filled in. Every ten pages or so, they included
a page which featured a doodle or an entry from a fictional character or a note
written by one of that character's friends. The entries were cryptic enough
that they could be interpreted in multiple ways, and never revealed the identity. The job of the writer was to flesh out that character
by using those entries as writing prompts; deciding what they meant and who the
person was, and creating a fictional story (or multiple stories) around them.
They were supposed to write in first person, taking on their identity.
I think that would actually be a cool project and those notebooks should exist in real life.
I think that would actually be a cool project and those notebooks should exist in real life.
Going to heck
Just
as Hades is separate from hell, Heck is also its own afterlife sphere. Heck is
an eternal Sunday potluck full of under-seasoned potato salad, where everyone
wears pastel polo shirts and titters nervously if somebody says the word
"lesbian" or "underwear". It's overseen by a middle-aged
Midwestern couple who have unexplained Minnesotan accents.
From May: My grandma's diaspora
Blank
spaces often scare us more than pain. This is why death is so daunting: because
our void of knowledge about it is a blank space. The possibilities are
infinite, and infinity stretches out past the horizon of our understanding,
spinning with so many colors that they all blur into white. This is why many
prefer suffering to nothingness; because at least there's still a self to
suffer.
When I think of my grandma, who doesn't have much time left, I wonder how much of her memory is buried under snow and how much has been uprooted altogether. Maybe it's like a page where the writing has been erased and she's trying to piece it back together by the ghostly traces. Her page was the first edition, but she's read it to so many people that it's no longer the only copy. The words have scattered from her page onto those of everyone she has loved.
The words aren't lost. Her family still knows her Yiddish and her made-up expressions like "cuckoopots" (meaning anything outrageous). We still know her winking innuendos and her puns; how sitting on a menu is "ass-essing" it. We know her spirited rants against bigotry, anti-Semitism, and bad customer service. We know her stories about how much she loved her students. We know the time the stock market crashed, her elementary school burned down, she caught the measles, and her widowed father remarried all within the same year. How she lay in bed as a sick five-year-old that year, clutching a little toy fire truck, and said to the ceiling, "Mommy, please make me better." How on the day WWII ended, she went to a party in a yellow dress and re-met my grandpa (they'd gone to school together, reconnected at the party, and started dating). How her first boyfriend had been gay, and she grew to care about gay rights before a lot of people did. How she had six children because she wanted one for every millionth Jew killed in the Holocaust.
We remember these things because she told us. Because her life has been a love letter to the world. Or sometimes a complaint letter. Or a bawdy, hilarious manifesto.
One moment a few weeks ago, in a fragment amid a word salad, she said "I want to be everywhere." And she is everywhere, just not in herself.
She has begun her own one-woman diaspora. She has found homes in everyone else.
When I think of my grandma, who doesn't have much time left, I wonder how much of her memory is buried under snow and how much has been uprooted altogether. Maybe it's like a page where the writing has been erased and she's trying to piece it back together by the ghostly traces. Her page was the first edition, but she's read it to so many people that it's no longer the only copy. The words have scattered from her page onto those of everyone she has loved.
The words aren't lost. Her family still knows her Yiddish and her made-up expressions like "cuckoopots" (meaning anything outrageous). We still know her winking innuendos and her puns; how sitting on a menu is "ass-essing" it. We know her spirited rants against bigotry, anti-Semitism, and bad customer service. We know her stories about how much she loved her students. We know the time the stock market crashed, her elementary school burned down, she caught the measles, and her widowed father remarried all within the same year. How she lay in bed as a sick five-year-old that year, clutching a little toy fire truck, and said to the ceiling, "Mommy, please make me better." How on the day WWII ended, she went to a party in a yellow dress and re-met my grandpa (they'd gone to school together, reconnected at the party, and started dating). How her first boyfriend had been gay, and she grew to care about gay rights before a lot of people did. How she had six children because she wanted one for every millionth Jew killed in the Holocaust.
We remember these things because she told us. Because her life has been a love letter to the world. Or sometimes a complaint letter. Or a bawdy, hilarious manifesto.
One moment a few weeks ago, in a fragment amid a word salad, she said "I want to be everywhere." And she is everywhere, just not in herself.
She has begun her own one-woman diaspora. She has found homes in everyone else.
Why the friend zone is a myth
When
I say that "the friend zone" doesn't exist, I don't mean that leading
people on doesn't exist. I don't mean that nobody deliberately flirts with
someone they know has unrequited feelings for them, aware it will hurt but not
caring because it feeds their own ego. And while that behavior is often
exclusively criticized in women, people of all genders do it. Anybody who
behaves that way is being selfish and dishonest, not a
friend. So I'd rather call it "leading people on" than
"friendzoning."
When I say there's no such thing as "the friend zone," what I mean is that people do not become friends with others out of spite. Nobody decides, "I'm going to be friends with somebody who likes me romantically in order to punish them. I'm going to relegate them to a confined 'zone.'" And if a person sees friendship as inherently manipulative or punitive, then the chances are high that they're a pretty sub-par friend.
Also, I suspect a lot of people think they're being led on when they may be interpreting friendly behavior as flirtatious. As I said, it's not that this never happens. It's just that there can be misunderstandings, sometimes due to wishful thinking and sometimes due to entitlement.
When I say there's no such thing as "the friend zone," what I mean is that people do not become friends with others out of spite. Nobody decides, "I'm going to be friends with somebody who likes me romantically in order to punish them. I'm going to relegate them to a confined 'zone.'" And if a person sees friendship as inherently manipulative or punitive, then the chances are high that they're a pretty sub-par friend.
Also, I suspect a lot of people think they're being led on when they may be interpreting friendly behavior as flirtatious. As I said, it's not that this never happens. It's just that there can be misunderstandings, sometimes due to wishful thinking and sometimes due to entitlement.
The US's relationship status: It's complicated.
There’s
a meme that says, “I don’t think America should elect any president in 2016. We
should be single for a few years and find ourselves.” I really love that
because not only is it hilarious, it can be an extended metaphor.
If the President is the US’s significant other, then the US is also polyamorous with Congress. The Constitution is basically a “terms and conditions” of the relationship, and they really need to write a prenup. Every four years it finds itself in a love triangle which gets voted on like a reality dating show. The US is finally reconsidering its bias toward exclusively dating rich white men, but it has a long way to go. And Republicans and Democrats are its “type”, even though there are plenty of other suitors who could be more compatible.
If the President is the US’s significant other, then the US is also polyamorous with Congress. The Constitution is basically a “terms and conditions” of the relationship, and they really need to write a prenup. Every four years it finds itself in a love triangle which gets voted on like a reality dating show. The US is finally reconsidering its bias toward exclusively dating rich white men, but it has a long way to go. And Republicans and Democrats are its “type”, even though there are plenty of other suitors who could be more compatible.
Life as a list
I've
been thinking about why people are inclined to make lists, both physically and
philosophically. This is my theory: Our lives are lists. They're catalogs of
people we've encountered, events we experienced passively, and events we
caused. A lot of these components are random, but we spend years trying to come
up with a title for the compilation in order to pull it all together and give
it a common theme.
I was going to add that we're often shaped by whether we try to make our lives into "things to do" or "things to obtain" lists. But for a lot of us, experiences and accomplishments *are* things to obtain. Also, a person whose primary goal is to amass things may not be materialistic; they may have very few resources and be concerned with survival. So being able to focus on non-survival based goals is a privilege.
The "life is a list" theory makes our smaller lists very meta. Daily goals and itinerary are lots of little collections inside a much larger one.
I was going to add that we're often shaped by whether we try to make our lives into "things to do" or "things to obtain" lists. But for a lot of us, experiences and accomplishments *are* things to obtain. Also, a person whose primary goal is to amass things may not be materialistic; they may have very few resources and be concerned with survival. So being able to focus on non-survival based goals is a privilege.
The "life is a list" theory makes our smaller lists very meta. Daily goals and itinerary are lots of little collections inside a much larger one.
Self conscious vs. self aware
I
wonder why "self-conscious" has come to mean self-critical or
embarrassed, when the words themselves just mean aware of the self--not
necessitating a judgmental eye. The usage implies that to be conscious of the
self is to be self-scolding, when it doesn't have to be that way. To me, self-consciousness
is recognition of one's own strengths as well as weaknesses. It could also
include neutral observations.
Animals and ego
I
spend a lot of time wondering what it's like to have the mind of another
animal. Not a species that exists in a completely different way than we do,
like fish or insects. More like the internal life of a cat, or dog, or horse,
or bird, or other species that humans are better able to relate to. They're
said to not exactly have an ego, because they don't have a sense of self. They
don't contemplate themselves or recognize their reflections in mirrors. But in
another way, they really do seem to have a sense of self because they have
distinct desires, fears, likes and dislikes. They form attachments and
aversions to other creatures. Those traits all seem rooted in ego because they
stem from the way the animal is treated, and what makes them feel good, and
what seems like a threat. If not an ego, that's definitely a will. So I wonder
what it's like to live with a will but no ego, and if that's even possible for
humans with the ways our brains are structured.
The structure of paranoia
I've
known a few people who always thought someone was plotting against them when
something unfortunate happened. If they lost a belonging, they'd immediately
say it was stolen and start blaming family and friends. If their pet got sick,
they'd say it must have been poisoned by their neighbor. One of these people
had been diagnosed with a mental health condition involving paranoia. But from
an emotional perspective, it makes
sense why a person might prefer to believe they're being attacked than to think
random circumstances are causing harm. Even though it's upsetting to believe
someone is out to get them, it provides a distinct reason for what happened and
a target to fault. It gives the person a sense of control, even if they think
somebody *else* was in control. And it stops self-blame or undirected blame,
which leads to sadness. Instead that is converted to anger, which feels more
organized by offering a goal.
I'm not saying this is a reasonable or productive way to respond to bad circumstances--it's not. But it's understandable why somebody might gravitate toward that reaction.
I'm not saying this is a reasonable or productive way to respond to bad circumstances--it's not. But it's understandable why somebody might gravitate toward that reaction.
Social media time travel
I
wish there was a social media network to connect us to people from different
times. And before anyone says "books", I mean in a reciprocal way. A
Facebook-like service to communicate with others from the future, or the far
distant past, or with relatives the way they were before we knew them. Or even
with a friend who completely changed; to talk to them when they were different.
It would ret-con the universe and completely screw up our timeline, but it
would be so damn interesting and cathartic before time starts to eat its own
tail and the aliens have to show up and fix everything.
Another playlist poem
Under the bridge, Jane says
“You don’t look back in anger
if
the nature of reality
is nothing to believe in.
I prefer wonder
the waiting for the good life
black snow
and
learning to fly
underground.”
Song titles: “Under the Bridge” and “Snow” by RHCP; “Jane Says” and “Underground” by Jane’s Addiction; “Don’t Look Back in Anger” and “The Nature of Reality” by Oasis; “Nothing to Believe In” and “The Good Life” by Cracker; “Wonder” by Natalie Merchant; “The Waiting” and “Learning to Fly” by Tom Petty; and “Black” by Pearl Jam.
“You don’t look back in anger
if
the nature of reality
is nothing to believe in.
I prefer wonder
the waiting for the good life
black snow
and
learning to fly
underground.”
Song titles: “Under the Bridge” and “Snow” by RHCP; “Jane Says” and “Underground” by Jane’s Addiction; “Don’t Look Back in Anger” and “The Nature of Reality” by Oasis; “Nothing to Believe In” and “The Good Life” by Cracker; “Wonder” by Natalie Merchant; “The Waiting” and “Learning to Fly” by Tom Petty; and “Black” by Pearl Jam.
Playlist poem #3
"I learn to fly with my alien girl
under Saturday's black hole sun.
A riptide of sweetness,
she's the phantom of the disco
with an audience of one."
(Written using song titles by Foo Fighters, Tacocat, Fallout Boy, Soundgarden, Vance Joy, Toadies, Glamour Assassins, and Rise Against.)
under Saturday's black hole sun.
A riptide of sweetness,
she's the phantom of the disco
with an audience of one."
(Written using song titles by Foo Fighters, Tacocat, Fallout Boy, Soundgarden, Vance Joy, Toadies, Glamour Assassins, and Rise Against.)
Playlist poetry
Today
I came up with a game: Writing poems made almost entirely out of existing song
titles.
It could be a poem, or a statement, or a short story. It can be as serious or as silly as you want. It's okay to use your own words to connect the song titles when you construct the sentences. Don't use the same title twice in one poem. If you don't keep playlists, just write a poem/short story/sentence using the names of whatever songs come to mind and would fit together.
Here's mine. I capitalized the first letters of the song names.
"Today, us New Years Saints
Stutter a Connection,
a Whirring Holy Touch.
Welcome to the Church of Rock & Roll."
(Titles: "Today" by Smashing Pumpkins; "New Years" and "Saints" by The Breeders; "Stutter" and "Connection" by Elastica; "Whirring" by The Joy Formidable; "Holy Touch" and "Welcome to the Church of Rock & Roll" by Foxy Shazam.)
Here's another, from the same playlist:
"Graveyard Girl, the Initiator
cordially invites you
to Come Join the Murder
of American Society."
(Titles: "Graveyard Girl" by M83; "The Initiator" by Fefe Dobson; "Come Join the Murder" by White Buffalo & The Forest Rangers; "American Society" by L7. Yeah, my musical taste is all over the place.)
Feel free to try this.
It could be a poem, or a statement, or a short story. It can be as serious or as silly as you want. It's okay to use your own words to connect the song titles when you construct the sentences. Don't use the same title twice in one poem. If you don't keep playlists, just write a poem/short story/sentence using the names of whatever songs come to mind and would fit together.
Here's mine. I capitalized the first letters of the song names.
"Today, us New Years Saints
Stutter a Connection,
a Whirring Holy Touch.
Welcome to the Church of Rock & Roll."
(Titles: "Today" by Smashing Pumpkins; "New Years" and "Saints" by The Breeders; "Stutter" and "Connection" by Elastica; "Whirring" by The Joy Formidable; "Holy Touch" and "Welcome to the Church of Rock & Roll" by Foxy Shazam.)
Here's another, from the same playlist:
"Graveyard Girl, the Initiator
cordially invites you
to Come Join the Murder
of American Society."
(Titles: "Graveyard Girl" by M83; "The Initiator" by Fefe Dobson; "Come Join the Murder" by White Buffalo & The Forest Rangers; "American Society" by L7. Yeah, my musical taste is all over the place.)
Feel free to try this.
The collective
For the
collective "they"
Life until adulthood
is a continuous string of "no"
Until they inherit the word,
Raise it tenderly as their own.
Who are "they"?
Never named
as anything but
"They think"
"They say"
"They won't let you"
Woven omnipresence.
Threads cinch when
You feel the "nos" seep into your pores,
and say them to yourself.
Fabric rips: a realization
As They say,
there is no "I" in team
but
There is a "me" in "them"
and the nos
are beginning to bleed through.
Pluck them out
Splinters sting, but
the "Yes" grows back
Healing
Stronger for anyone else
who still wears "no"
under their skin.
Life until adulthood
is a continuous string of "no"
Until they inherit the word,
Raise it tenderly as their own.
Who are "they"?
Never named
as anything but
"They think"
"They say"
"They won't let you"
Woven omnipresence.
Threads cinch when
You feel the "nos" seep into your pores,
and say them to yourself.
Fabric rips: a realization
As They say,
there is no "I" in team
but
There is a "me" in "them"
and the nos
are beginning to bleed through.
Pluck them out
Splinters sting, but
the "Yes" grows back
Healing
Stronger for anyone else
who still wears "no"
under their skin.
Lost and lucid
Lucid dreaming
is an awesome gift when you have no sense of navigational direction. Last night
I dreamed about getting lost, but it was okay because I just scrapped the whole
landscape and made a new one. That would be an amazing ability in real
life--but only for the person who had it. It would really suck for everyone
else.
Transmission
Suffering
is one of the only diseases
people think can be treated
by transmission.
Show them where your life hurts
and they'll tell you that you're cured
Because they have a bigger scar.
people think can be treated
by transmission.
Show them where your life hurts
and they'll tell you that you're cured
Because they have a bigger scar.
Online
conversations are unique in the way that so many of them can take place at
once, so your entire frame of mind can change by the second depending on who
you're talking to and what about. Sometimes this creates shallower emotions
during those exchanges, because it gets draining to become fully invested in
multiple intense discussions.
Written discourse in general is also unique in the sense that the words hang in the air, existing at all times. So you can be thinking or feeling something strongly, write about it, and then hear others respond once you're no longer so engaged. But to them, the time hasn't passed. This can result in fixating on something you might not otherwise; the opposite of what happens with multiple conversations. Online exchanges can do one or the other.
Both in-person and written communication have an important place, and I can't say one is superior. It just interests me how they bring about such different interactions and thought processes.
Written discourse in general is also unique in the sense that the words hang in the air, existing at all times. So you can be thinking or feeling something strongly, write about it, and then hear others respond once you're no longer so engaged. But to them, the time hasn't passed. This can result in fixating on something you might not otherwise; the opposite of what happens with multiple conversations. Online exchanges can do one or the other.
Both in-person and written communication have an important place, and I can't say one is superior. It just interests me how they bring about such different interactions and thought processes.
Tumblr has its problems, but the world isn’t Tumblr.
Ever notice how the people who constantly complain
that “we can’t say what we really think anymore because everyone is so
politically correct nowadays” actually have no problem saying whatever they
want, at any volume they want, and often seem to encounter a huge crowd of
like-minded peers?
The complaint that “everyone believes X” is one of those opinions that actually becomes less true depending on how many people believe it. Because if the majority is complaining about a supposedly omnipresent belief, then that belief cannot be as pervasive as they say.
This is why I can’t buy the whole “Oh no, the whole world is turning into Tumblr!” claim. Yes, there are communities on Tumblr that use social justice as a cover to bully people, or who misuse SJ theory for personal gain within their groups of friends, or who get angry at others for being genuinely uninformed. There are also those who expect a person to change their entire worldview within the course of a single conversation and then get upset when they don’t. Because I care about social justice, I think it’s important to acknowledge these problems that exist within some Tumblr communities. But the world is not Tumblr. Even the most seemingly polarizing SJ groups are a backlash against an opposing status quo. And yes, there are people who want to make the rest of the world like those aforementioned groups, but they generally don’t have influence beyond their specific social crowd. These are not the people who are running the world.
College campuses are used as examples of ways in which some negative approaches to social justice are gaining traction. While there are campuses in which students have done certain things I disagree with, a college campus is also not a microcosm of the larger world. It’s a sub-community, and a very small one at that. Also, we forget that college undergrads are usually young. They could likely change the way they are expressing themselves as time goes on, and adopt a more productive approach to social justice.
So yes, there are factions of the social justice sphere which are imperfect, and that needs to be recognized. But those factions are not even the entire social justice world, let alone the larger world in itself.
The complaint that “everyone believes X” is one of those opinions that actually becomes less true depending on how many people believe it. Because if the majority is complaining about a supposedly omnipresent belief, then that belief cannot be as pervasive as they say.
This is why I can’t buy the whole “Oh no, the whole world is turning into Tumblr!” claim. Yes, there are communities on Tumblr that use social justice as a cover to bully people, or who misuse SJ theory for personal gain within their groups of friends, or who get angry at others for being genuinely uninformed. There are also those who expect a person to change their entire worldview within the course of a single conversation and then get upset when they don’t. Because I care about social justice, I think it’s important to acknowledge these problems that exist within some Tumblr communities. But the world is not Tumblr. Even the most seemingly polarizing SJ groups are a backlash against an opposing status quo. And yes, there are people who want to make the rest of the world like those aforementioned groups, but they generally don’t have influence beyond their specific social crowd. These are not the people who are running the world.
College campuses are used as examples of ways in which some negative approaches to social justice are gaining traction. While there are campuses in which students have done certain things I disagree with, a college campus is also not a microcosm of the larger world. It’s a sub-community, and a very small one at that. Also, we forget that college undergrads are usually young. They could likely change the way they are expressing themselves as time goes on, and adopt a more productive approach to social justice.
So yes, there are factions of the social justice sphere which are imperfect, and that needs to be recognized. But those factions are not even the entire social justice world, let alone the larger world in itself.
Doodle 4 Google
Doodle
4 Google is a contest that kids can take part in, in which they draw pictures
made out of the Google logo and the winner has theirs featured for the day. I
wish they had one for all ages. The site's animators and artists take
suggestions from anyone, though. I want to suggest a logo made from illustrated
amoebas. Each would be splitting into the shape of the next letter, and their
mitosis could be animated. That way it shows Google is evolving.
From April
When
somebody you love has Alzheimers or progressing dementia, you miss them while
you are with them. You miss the self they had always been.
I've been thinking a lot about my grandma Kiki lately and the qualities that will be missed the most.
Her problem-solving was hilarious and tended to earn her standing ovations in public. There was a time when she was caught in a traffic jam because there was a giant snapping turtle sitting in the middle of the road and nobody knew what to do. So Kiki marched out of her car, grabbed a long stick off the side of the street, and brought it to the turtle. Said snapping turtle immediately latched on and Kiki led it into the woods with the stick. All the other drivers started cheering.
Her sense of humor was so lovable. After my aunt Mary was born, Kiki and my grandpa went back to visit the nurse who had delivered her. They brought her a watermelon wrapped in a baby blanket and said, "We're returning the baby. This one leaks."
She also used to approach other old women in the grocery store, align her shopping cart with theirs, and ask if they wanted to race. And there was the time when she and my grandpa were eating at a diner and he couldn't find the menu, then discovered he had been sitting on it the whole time. Kiki told him, "You were ass-essing the menu."
Even though those are qualities that are rapidly disappearing with the brain disease, and it's crushing to watch them go, they will always be a part of my life because they were a part of her. They're a part of everyone who knew her.
I've been thinking a lot about my grandma Kiki lately and the qualities that will be missed the most.
Her problem-solving was hilarious and tended to earn her standing ovations in public. There was a time when she was caught in a traffic jam because there was a giant snapping turtle sitting in the middle of the road and nobody knew what to do. So Kiki marched out of her car, grabbed a long stick off the side of the street, and brought it to the turtle. Said snapping turtle immediately latched on and Kiki led it into the woods with the stick. All the other drivers started cheering.
Her sense of humor was so lovable. After my aunt Mary was born, Kiki and my grandpa went back to visit the nurse who had delivered her. They brought her a watermelon wrapped in a baby blanket and said, "We're returning the baby. This one leaks."
She also used to approach other old women in the grocery store, align her shopping cart with theirs, and ask if they wanted to race. And there was the time when she and my grandpa were eating at a diner and he couldn't find the menu, then discovered he had been sitting on it the whole time. Kiki told him, "You were ass-essing the menu."
Even though those are qualities that are rapidly disappearing with the brain disease, and it's crushing to watch them go, they will always be a part of my life because they were a part of her. They're a part of everyone who knew her.
Facebook socialization
Liking/reacting: Acknowledgement.
Liking and then promptly "unliking": Ambivalence.
Commenting: Social engagement.
Messaging: Friendship.
Poking: A tepid sexual advance, not invested enough to comment with boner emoticons on all of someone's profile pics.
Liking and then promptly "unliking": Ambivalence.
Commenting: Social engagement.
Messaging: Friendship.
Poking: A tepid sexual advance, not invested enough to comment with boner emoticons on all of someone's profile pics.
Instrumental street harassment
After a precious week of no street harassment, I had to use my
foghorn today.
On my way to my apartment building, a voice called out to me from a car, "Daaaaamn girl! Yo!" I ignored him, so he repeated it. "Hey, you hear me? I said daaaamn, girl! Yooooo!" Elongating the "yo" so I was sure to not miss a syllable.
I blasted the foghorn at him, in unison with his repetition of "damn girl, yo." Come to think of it, I was actually providing orchestra to his vocals. If he'd honked his car horn at me, it would have been a duet.
On my way to my apartment building, a voice called out to me from a car, "Daaaaamn girl! Yo!" I ignored him, so he repeated it. "Hey, you hear me? I said daaaamn, girl! Yooooo!" Elongating the "yo" so I was sure to not miss a syllable.
I blasted the foghorn at him, in unison with his repetition of "damn girl, yo." Come to think of it, I was actually providing orchestra to his vocals. If he'd honked his car horn at me, it would have been a duet.
Awkward teleportation moments
Advantages
of teleportation: No more vehicular accidents, carsickness, or any other
drawbacks of taking a long trip. Also, no more gasoline.
Disadvantages: Can no longer use the "I was stuck in traffic" excuse. Also, might accidentally appear in somebody's bedroom, leading to a lot of "honey, it's not what it looks like!" moments. Could just as easily accidentally teleport to people's closets or bathrooms, which isn't much better.
Disadvantages: Can no longer use the "I was stuck in traffic" excuse. Also, might accidentally appear in somebody's bedroom, leading to a lot of "honey, it's not what it looks like!" moments. Could just as easily accidentally teleport to people's closets or bathrooms, which isn't much better.
Deer dream
I
dreamed I was keeping a pet deer in the laundry room and avoided suspicion by
putting a collar on it and telling everyone in the building that it was a dog.
No one should lease an apartment to my subconscious.
No one should lease an apartment to my subconscious.
I'm
intrigued by the common and immediate assumption that if a grown adult behaves
badly, they must have had bad parents. I can understand why someone might
believe that about a child--even though all children sometimes misbehave. But
while our upbringings do affect us a great deal in adult life, we can
consciously choose to be better or worse than how we were raised. The
assumption that shitty behavior is always an outgrowth of shitty parents offers a sense of control.
It placates us into believing that as long as we are good, we'll raise good
people. That line of thinking is interesting if you follow it into a family
timeline. According to its internal logic, a person is bad or good because of
their parents--and their parents would have learned those habits from their own
parents in turn. So nobody is fully accountable for their actions, but they are
fully accountable for the actions of others.
Split screen memory
I
wish that every time you walked into an abandoned house or building, you
developed split-screen vision. Half would show you what it looks like today,
and the other half would depict the place when it was busy and teeming with
life. That side would also show you who used to live and work there, and the
most important things that happened in the spot where you're standing.
From March
Yesterday I went to see my 92-year-old grandma.
She doesn't remember very much, and gets really confused and distressed at the
end of the day. It soothes her to see family, though. Even if she doesn't
remember who a lot of us are, she recognizes the familiarity and the affection.
When I came into her room, she was anxiously trying to pack bags. She has been doing this lately because she never feels like she's home. Some part of her brain is aware it's her house, but another part doesn't know where she is. So she always says that she's packing to go home. The way that she packs seems random and wouldn't make sense to others. She tries to stuff socks into books and places spoons with hairbrushes. On some level, though, the packing makes sense. My grandma was always a very organized and capable person. She was smart and a leader; someone who everyone respected. We all used to seek her advice. So it follows that, even in deep-set dementia, she's trying to sort things out and devise plans; to create order. The difference is that now, it's like trying to combine puzzle pieces that won't fit.
A lot of people will try to romanticize dementia. They'll describe it in ways that sound poetic, or act as though the process is somehow "cute." I really cannot do that. I can't assign any kind of fanciful metaphors to what is happening to my grandma. It's heartbreaking and she is frightened. She still finds pleasure in small things, though, in the moments where she's able to be present. She found a penny on her bed and didn't recognize what a penny was, but she thought it was pretty and gave it to me. She said, "Look at this neat little thing!" And, amazingly, she remembered her late daughter Mary when she saw a photo of her from the '80s, grinning mischievously in her tie-dye Grateful Dead shirt and patch-covered jacket.
At one point during the night, my grandma told me, "I think I should go away. And then someone else can take my place so it won't be lost." She may not be aware of very much right now, but I am certain of what she meant by that.
I took a photo of all the things she was organizing, but then deleted it from my phone. That's not the image I want to hold onto. Instead, here is this. It's her and my grandpa at some point in the early 1950s. The picture was hanging on her door. It may be grainy, but there's a look of shared adoration so palatable that it radiates from the page. This is what I want to come back to.
When I came into her room, she was anxiously trying to pack bags. She has been doing this lately because she never feels like she's home. Some part of her brain is aware it's her house, but another part doesn't know where she is. So she always says that she's packing to go home. The way that she packs seems random and wouldn't make sense to others. She tries to stuff socks into books and places spoons with hairbrushes. On some level, though, the packing makes sense. My grandma was always a very organized and capable person. She was smart and a leader; someone who everyone respected. We all used to seek her advice. So it follows that, even in deep-set dementia, she's trying to sort things out and devise plans; to create order. The difference is that now, it's like trying to combine puzzle pieces that won't fit.
A lot of people will try to romanticize dementia. They'll describe it in ways that sound poetic, or act as though the process is somehow "cute." I really cannot do that. I can't assign any kind of fanciful metaphors to what is happening to my grandma. It's heartbreaking and she is frightened. She still finds pleasure in small things, though, in the moments where she's able to be present. She found a penny on her bed and didn't recognize what a penny was, but she thought it was pretty and gave it to me. She said, "Look at this neat little thing!" And, amazingly, she remembered her late daughter Mary when she saw a photo of her from the '80s, grinning mischievously in her tie-dye Grateful Dead shirt and patch-covered jacket.
At one point during the night, my grandma told me, "I think I should go away. And then someone else can take my place so it won't be lost." She may not be aware of very much right now, but I am certain of what she meant by that.
I took a photo of all the things she was organizing, but then deleted it from my phone. That's not the image I want to hold onto. Instead, here is this. It's her and my grandpa at some point in the early 1950s. The picture was hanging on her door. It may be grainy, but there's a look of shared adoration so palatable that it radiates from the page. This is what I want to come back to.
Diagnosis
Let me curl up inside you
while you murmur
"Don't worry.
You don't have to do anything
No need to try
if you drop my name."
Let me drift off to sleep
to the hum of
symptoms listed,
A clinical lullaby.
Let me try to rip you off
and scream
because
I thought you were a label
but you are really my skin.
Let me step around you awkwardly,
A scarf too long
tripped over by others.
I wish you were an accessory
easily cast off, but
maybe we can live together
if you're a tattoo.
You are not all of my skin,
Just etched into it
Sometimes covered
and
always worn.
while you murmur
"Don't worry.
You don't have to do anything
No need to try
if you drop my name."
Let me drift off to sleep
to the hum of
symptoms listed,
A clinical lullaby.
Let me try to rip you off
and scream
because
I thought you were a label
but you are really my skin.
Let me step around you awkwardly,
A scarf too long
tripped over by others.
I wish you were an accessory
easily cast off, but
maybe we can live together
if you're a tattoo.
You are not all of my skin,
Just etched into it
Sometimes covered
and
always worn.
Advertising
Growing
up, I was always fascinated by the way that certain fashion brands printed
their logos onto their clothing in giant letters, and how a lot of people who
wore those clothes would shame others who didn't. I realized the companies came
up with a way to cheat their consumers which is so underhanded (and
unfortunately clever): They achieve more than free advertising. They actually
reach a point where their customers pay to advertise for them.
Expendable resources
Food is one of the only resources that's considered wasted if not used. Most other resources, from emotional ones like love to abstract
concepts like time to physical things like money, are called wasted if used on
the "wrong" outlets. Or, in the case of money and other tangible
objects, if consumed in great quantity very fast. Food is a rare exception.
An autobiography in stanzas
An autobiography
in stanzas:
Poetry at age three is
Repeating the same words
Repeating
Repeating
Until the big people think you're buffering, but
You're just making friends with the consonants
Petting the vowels
Tasting their texture
Finding rhythm nestled in noise.
Poetry at five is
Proudly wearing the verbal flow
because
you now dress yourself
in stanzas
and find words that match (rhyme)
Poetry at eleven is
Digging up riddles
and burying your own for others to find,
Like realizing you should compliment people
In all three tenses
Past, present, future
Because saying "you are"
Doesn't mean "you were" or "you will be"
Poetry at fifteen is
FEELINGS
An avalanche of
Humans as hyperbole
and
Why don't you love me
and
Longing for a home you haven't yet written
Stuck in caps lock all day
Poetry at twenty is
Calmer moments, fastidiously scheduled
Enfolded and hugged between parentheses
Poetry now is
Following train tracks of thought backwards
While waiting for the next to arrive
Sword fights with exclamation points
and
Facebook philosophy; ellipses footprints
at 3 a.m.
Poetry now
is sitting in your lungs
Filling every vessel,
Sometimes exhaled
in ink.
Poetry at age three is
Repeating the same words
Repeating
Repeating
Until the big people think you're buffering, but
You're just making friends with the consonants
Petting the vowels
Tasting their texture
Finding rhythm nestled in noise.
Poetry at five is
Proudly wearing the verbal flow
because
you now dress yourself
in stanzas
and find words that match (rhyme)
Poetry at eleven is
Digging up riddles
and burying your own for others to find,
Like realizing you should compliment people
In all three tenses
Past, present, future
Because saying "you are"
Doesn't mean "you were" or "you will be"
Poetry at fifteen is
FEELINGS
An avalanche of
Humans as hyperbole
and
Why don't you love me
and
Longing for a home you haven't yet written
Stuck in caps lock all day
Poetry at twenty is
Calmer moments, fastidiously scheduled
Enfolded and hugged between parentheses
Poetry now is
Following train tracks of thought backwards
While waiting for the next to arrive
Sword fights with exclamation points
and
Facebook philosophy; ellipses footprints
at 3 a.m.
Poetry now
is sitting in your lungs
Filling every vessel,
Sometimes exhaled
in ink.
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