Thursday, October 30, 2008
Clear Away in the Morning
A train of treatment centers and I'm certainly not in a position to explain here. Suffice to say that the seas were rough and I wasn't faring well and I sought help. Tonight, seeking help looks like taking myself on a date with a book out to dinner at Sabatino's in Newport Beach. I have a feeling it'll be a far cry from my darling Full Moon, but tonight it will do. It's time to spend some time by myself. With myself.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
One Voice
Jessica played this for me and it's been on my playlist for the past two weeks. I have yet to listen to this without tears this is the sound of all of us. That's family. Permanent and unison. There's so much more to say about it, but that'll suffice. Either you get it or you don't.
Rise
ace in the hole...
Jessica played this for me and it's been on my playlist for the past two weeks. I have yet to listen to this without tears this is the sound of all of us. That's family. Permanent and unison. There's so much more to say about it, but that'll suffice. Either you get it or you don't.
Rise
ace in the hole...
and everything else is small
Well, this is last minute, but it looks like I've been accepted into a summer program for Kodaly (pronounced Koh-dye) Music Certification course. There are two major approaches as to how to teach music to children (that's what this is, by the way, a course on how to teach children music), each using different approaches. For example the Orff approach utilizes rhythm instruments and xylaphones to draw out a child's inherent affinities for rhythm and melody. The Kodaly approach, which I much prefer and you'll soon see why, is less intent on the rhythmic aspect of things (though it doesn't go overlooked, it's where all that ta-ta-ti-ti-ti-ti comes from) but rather attends to a child's vocal capabilities, asking them to recognize their own voice by encouraging pitch-matching, and an introduction to the western scale based on solfege (yayyyy solfege, no longer my enemy!) What I like about the Kodaly method (from what little I know of it) is that it puts music right inside the kid, gives them ownership of their own voice and a name for each pitch. It's singing-based, see? Anyhow there are three levels of certification, and it looks like I'm going to be going for level I. I hear great things about the program! It's taught all over the globe but I'll be taking it at the Kodaly Institute at the New England Conservatory. Essentially, I'm told it's a bunch of extremely eager music teachers in a room learning and then applying these techniques, there are activities at the crux of the Kodaly method which I imagine we'll all learn, and nearly everyone I've talked to said there's a whole lotta singing, a whole lotta hands-on conducting technique critique, and basically how to teach kids music at any level. I can't wait! And, it'll give me something to do from 8:30-4:30 for the next three weeks while I'm jobless!
Here is the course I'll be taking:
http://www.newenglandconservatory.edu/summer/institutes/KodalyMusicInstitute.html#levels
And here's a little more detail on the Kodaly method:
http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.com/index.cfm?PgNm=TCE&Params=U1ARTU0001864
Now I just need to figure out how to get pictures of Thisbe up here...
Here is the course I'll be taking:
http://www.newenglandconservatory.edu/summer/institutes/KodalyMusicInstitute.html#levels
And here's a little more detail on the Kodaly method:
http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.com/index.cfm?PgNm=TCE&Params=U1ARTU0001864
Now I just need to figure out how to get pictures of Thisbe up here...
chopin- nocturne in F minor
I'm sitting on the futon in Medford with my kitten Thisbe taking swats at my fingers as I type. I've spent the morning doing push-ups, nuzzling Thisbe and emailing my resume to any job opening that vaguely resembles something I can do. Proofreading for a geology textbook? Sure. Receptionist for the hospital where Jessica works? Mmmmmokay. Laying brick? Think I could learn. I put in my two weeks at the restaurant on saturday so I've got only a few shifts remaining in my waitressing career, but I haven't anything lined up for myself...aaaand the anxiety steps in. The BCC breaks for the summer, and this means I actually have no job at all. This seems like the perfect time to take advantage of one of those 3 week sleep studies at Brigham and Women's where they pay you $2,000 to sleep in their research ward with the lights on for 21 days.
Hm, not much to update right now I suppose, I'll get back into the habit slowly. Probly this evening :)
Hm, not much to update right now I suppose, I'll get back into the habit slowly. Probly this evening :)
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Friday, May 09, 2008
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
a little rest and then the world is full of work to do
Sometimes it startles me how much like my Dad I am. I'd just gotten back from yoga, I was a sweaty nasty wreck so I clicked on a playlist and took a quick shower and came out with a blue towel around me and my stripy red towel around my head and I walked into my room and this was the song that was playing
and I had to sit down on the end of my bed amidst the pile of (clean) laundry I'd dumped there earlier, and as if in prayer bowed my head and listened. And I heard Tommy Makem's voice, and Dad's voice, and even Peters voice move in and out of it. I've heard the song a thousand times, it always confused me because it was sung as an Irish ballad but they mention "back home to Australia..." It's the simplest chord progression right through it, based around I-IV-I also known as the "Amen cadence" it's a progression that moves me quickly to tears. I remember Dad singing this, picking at his guitar as he'd sing the verses while staring out at the beach as though lost, he'd never make eye contact when singing this. I don't think he could. and thanked Christ there was no one there waiting for me I always felt like I was watching his heart break when he sang it, as though it took him into a world from which he couldn't be retrieved. I think he identifies less with the weary old heroes and more with the young man who goes to war, instilled with patriotism and the hope for glory, handed a tin hat and a gun and returning in this silent, unspeakable horror of what they've seen; how different from what they'd imagined. So I sat and I listened and I bit my lip and felt this sadness move through me imagining my father as a young man, surrounded men who felt that bright optimism of heroic pursuit, and him stranded among them, knowing in a way that I think I grew up knowing as well, that there is a piece to this life that our humanity wasn't designed to experience; we cannot withstand it, we cannot process it, we can only weep.
The song that came up next was this
as though I hadn't been wrung out enough. This is an Irish lullaby performed by the Clancy Brothers that I've heard since I was very, very little but only understood within the last few years. It's another one that pulls my father out of the room when he plays it, the poetry, I think, is so gentle. What I love about this recording is how the voices treat the consonants, really leaning on them, singing through them, but cleanly the October winnnnds lammmennnnt arounnndit's really a beautiful technique because it allows the phrase to continue, uninterrupted by consonants which can sometimes be so percussive that it stops the phrase, the musicality of the piece. It's a technique we practice with the bcc kids often so their syllables set together fluidly. This piece has always broken my heart. Always. It's also based on that I-IV progression but it's the move to iv (minor six) and is so achingly beautiful- for example what the music does under the words yet peace is in her lofty halls. I can't wait to sing this to my children.
Sing hushabai lú lá lú ló lán, sing hushabai lú ló lán
and I had to sit down on the end of my bed amidst the pile of (clean) laundry I'd dumped there earlier, and as if in prayer bowed my head and listened. And I heard Tommy Makem's voice, and Dad's voice, and even Peters voice move in and out of it. I've heard the song a thousand times, it always confused me because it was sung as an Irish ballad but they mention "back home to Australia..." It's the simplest chord progression right through it, based around I-IV-I also known as the "Amen cadence" it's a progression that moves me quickly to tears. I remember Dad singing this, picking at his guitar as he'd sing the verses while staring out at the beach as though lost, he'd never make eye contact when singing this. I don't think he could. and thanked Christ there was no one there waiting for me I always felt like I was watching his heart break when he sang it, as though it took him into a world from which he couldn't be retrieved. I think he identifies less with the weary old heroes and more with the young man who goes to war, instilled with patriotism and the hope for glory, handed a tin hat and a gun and returning in this silent, unspeakable horror of what they've seen; how different from what they'd imagined. So I sat and I listened and I bit my lip and felt this sadness move through me imagining my father as a young man, surrounded men who felt that bright optimism of heroic pursuit, and him stranded among them, knowing in a way that I think I grew up knowing as well, that there is a piece to this life that our humanity wasn't designed to experience; we cannot withstand it, we cannot process it, we can only weep.
The song that came up next was this
as though I hadn't been wrung out enough. This is an Irish lullaby performed by the Clancy Brothers that I've heard since I was very, very little but only understood within the last few years. It's another one that pulls my father out of the room when he plays it, the poetry, I think, is so gentle. What I love about this recording is how the voices treat the consonants, really leaning on them, singing through them, but cleanly the October winnnnds lammmennnnt arounnndit's really a beautiful technique because it allows the phrase to continue, uninterrupted by consonants which can sometimes be so percussive that it stops the phrase, the musicality of the piece. It's a technique we practice with the bcc kids often so their syllables set together fluidly. This piece has always broken my heart. Always. It's also based on that I-IV progression but it's the move to iv (minor six) and is so achingly beautiful- for example what the music does under the words yet peace is in her lofty halls. I can't wait to sing this to my children.
Sing hushabai lú lá lú ló lán, sing hushabai lú ló lán
Monday, May 05, 2008
Crooked Still - Orphan Girl
I'm adoring this song, that light playful but so well-articulated plucking and how assertive that percussive cello is throughout. God I want to sing this stuff.
put all the blame on VCR
I woke up this morning having intended to sleep in but only making it to 8:30 and that's after waking up three times before. It was disappointing because I really wanted to relish the morning in bed, today is the first day where I haven't been scheduled for anything. And as much as I was looking forward to it I guess something in me couldn't handle the thought of a day all to myself, so on round one of my wake-ups this morning I called in to Physical Therapy and made an appointment.
So now I'm back from that, I hit the gym while I was there, and now I'm out of the shower puttering around not really motivated to do laundry or the house-keeping that needs doing. While I was in physical therapy I got a call from this girl Chloe from program who I've known for a couple years, she went to Tufts, we're not close but I'd call her in a pinch if I was hurting. Turns out Chloe is the speaker booker for the big monday night women's meeting I go to, and she was calling to ask me to speak. Honestly the first thought I had was "finally someone who recognizes I have brilliant things to share" and my second thought was "oh...shit" realizing that my brilliant things all come from ego, and I have to sit there and deliver my story without it for somebody else. Rather, a whole room full of somebody elses. Okay not a room full, more like fifteen ladies or something like it. I'm now afraid that maybe I don't qualify as a bulimic anymore, or that because food isn't as terrifying as it once was that I don't deserve to be there anymore (says the girl who mowed through 14 oz. bag of peanut m&ms without meaning to yesterday). Then again I guess that stuff is actual progress. Actually no 'i guess' about it, it's progress. I don't feel much of an internal shift yet, so my "what it's like now" I'm afraid won't yet be as inspiring as others have been, but what I do have to bring to the table is six years of ass-kicking bulimia from which I now have a year and almost three months reprieve. The internal recovery is a different animal, one I can't talk about yet with any authority. Workin' on it.
Time to hit Full Moon with a book and then wander over to the meeting super super early. I just don't know what to make of all this time on my hands today. Thank god I've got an 8:40 appointment and an exam tomorrow.
So now I'm back from that, I hit the gym while I was there, and now I'm out of the shower puttering around not really motivated to do laundry or the house-keeping that needs doing. While I was in physical therapy I got a call from this girl Chloe from program who I've known for a couple years, she went to Tufts, we're not close but I'd call her in a pinch if I was hurting. Turns out Chloe is the speaker booker for the big monday night women's meeting I go to, and she was calling to ask me to speak. Honestly the first thought I had was "finally someone who recognizes I have brilliant things to share" and my second thought was "oh...shit" realizing that my brilliant things all come from ego, and I have to sit there and deliver my story without it for somebody else. Rather, a whole room full of somebody elses. Okay not a room full, more like fifteen ladies or something like it. I'm now afraid that maybe I don't qualify as a bulimic anymore, or that because food isn't as terrifying as it once was that I don't deserve to be there anymore (says the girl who mowed through 14 oz. bag of peanut m&ms without meaning to yesterday). Then again I guess that stuff is actual progress. Actually no 'i guess' about it, it's progress. I don't feel much of an internal shift yet, so my "what it's like now" I'm afraid won't yet be as inspiring as others have been, but what I do have to bring to the table is six years of ass-kicking bulimia from which I now have a year and almost three months reprieve. The internal recovery is a different animal, one I can't talk about yet with any authority. Workin' on it.
Time to hit Full Moon with a book and then wander over to the meeting super super early. I just don't know what to make of all this time on my hands today. Thank god I've got an 8:40 appointment and an exam tomorrow.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
When he calls me I will be able to meet my family at God's table
For the past two nights at the restaurant there has been this dessert special that I've had quite a romance with. It's a lemon sponge cake (although it's a little bit denser than sponge but the pastry chefs have called it sponge so so should we) with a lemon curt filling, vanilla ice cream, and cherries that have been dehydrated and re-hydrated in a little bit of cherry liquor. As they often do, the pastry chefs try to create some incentive for the servers to sell as many as possible, usually offering a bottle of wine to the person who has the most sales. Sooooo that would be me. I like to think it's because of how I swoon and get all hot and bothered when I describe dessert to my tables and they feel compelled to order it just to calm me the hell down. Anyhow, I'm apparently the first server in the history of Upstairs on the Square to have turned down the bottle of wine, and requested a batch of cookies. And the pastry department complied! So last night there was a little box of still warm cookies, peanut butter, chocolate chip lumps, sesame cookies, snickerdoodles, an lemon thingys waiting for me. I was so happy I even shared with everyone else. Now that's progress.
There's a server named Maggie there whom I like very much- she's going to get her Masters in Linguistics at Emerson starting in the fall, she's very easy going but I get the sense she's pretty morally strict. She's the kind of person who doesn't stress if her food is late or if something goes wrong during service, which I really like about her, but she's pretty quick to say "that's not nice" when someone says something, well, not nice. That kind of bugs me, but overall I think she's pretty great. Anyway, I mention her because for the past two nights she's been preparing for a fast she says she usually does in the spring, beginning with raw foods only and then dwindling down to herb teas with some sort of vitamin infusion. Watching her last night made me crazy in six hundred ways. First of all there I was with my box of cookies happily munching (and sharing, I want points for sharing), and she was eating raw snow peas. We were siting having the equivalent of family meal, though there wasn't really was one because the soiree room chefs don't cook on monday nights so we were all just eating anything we had. In Ketrin's case, a burrito she'd brought, in Maggies snow peas, in my case, cookies. I'd forgotten there was non family meal. Anyway, I was having a really hard time watching her eat these snow peas, and hearing her go on about the fast she was about to begin. Granted the reason she was going on about it was because I was asking her, I tend to get really fascinated by people who can do such things and not have it be a personal disaster, so I wanted to know doesn't she get starving, weak, doesn't she start to crave things she wouldn't ordinarily crave? No, apparently she does alright with it, and it doesn't mess with her head, and she doesn't do it for weight-loss purposes (then why the fuck else would anybody fast??) and she doesn't pinch and pull at her body in the process. The couple of times I've fasted I've discovered that it makes me want to eat anything and everything - other people's leftovers, the yogurt off a discarded lid, a lonely skittle on a bathroom floor- it's all I can think about if the rule is 'no nothing'. I admit, food is often all I can think about, but it's rarely in this panicked way anymore. I found myself getting anxious while talking to her about this; part of it was jealousy, I'm sure, at her self control and cool-headedness around something that is apparently not a huge deal to other people. I also found myself offering her a cookie at every break in conversation. The first two times were accidental - I'd offered them to other people, they usually partook, and I handed them her way as well, but after the first couple of times I began to consciously offer them to her, knowing she'd say no...I think I was teasing. But it didn't seem to bother her at all, and that made me crazy! I went into this maddening, quiet little spiral of angst and self-derision, ruminating on of the strength of her willpower and my hopeless gluttony and lack of self-control, I began to get stuck on this image of her insides like the inside of a straw- white and clean and clear all the way through, imagining mine like some cavernous pipe filled with anything and everything (chocolate pudding cake, fuji and peanut butter lavash, mulch from kate's garden, an old mattress). I was really feeling bad about myself and had to go outside for a little while to put myself back on even keel. This is one of those times when I find it difficult to say 'hey, I guess I'm not like other people when it comes to food, I guess I still have this thing, in whatever shape it's in now'. When I was in LA, I ordered this MASSIVE piece of carrot cake when I was at Coral Tree with Clint, and was delighted to find that I only actually wanted about half of it (though in this case, half of this particular slice amounted to probably a piece and a half of your average slice, but still). It's easy for me to get so excited over progress like that, that I then decide 'hey, I can eat anything, anytime, I can play with my food and its timing and its portions and and and.....' ummmm no. It's not as simple as I just got lucky with the cake, I really do think that's progress, but I don't think it's indicative of being all better. I hadn't wanted to be all better in a while, but hearing her talk about the fast, man that made me wish I could eat like normal people. Or fast like normal people. Or have food just be food just be food.
Went to office hours for Symmetry, gonna have some breakfast, jump in the shower, go prepare the audition piece for Anthony's private group, hit a noon meeting, hang out with Jess, and then go work the dinner shift. And in the meantime, I hafta pee.
There's a server named Maggie there whom I like very much- she's going to get her Masters in Linguistics at Emerson starting in the fall, she's very easy going but I get the sense she's pretty morally strict. She's the kind of person who doesn't stress if her food is late or if something goes wrong during service, which I really like about her, but she's pretty quick to say "that's not nice" when someone says something, well, not nice. That kind of bugs me, but overall I think she's pretty great. Anyway, I mention her because for the past two nights she's been preparing for a fast she says she usually does in the spring, beginning with raw foods only and then dwindling down to herb teas with some sort of vitamin infusion. Watching her last night made me crazy in six hundred ways. First of all there I was with my box of cookies happily munching (and sharing, I want points for sharing), and she was eating raw snow peas. We were siting having the equivalent of family meal, though there wasn't really was one because the soiree room chefs don't cook on monday nights so we were all just eating anything we had. In Ketrin's case, a burrito she'd brought, in Maggies snow peas, in my case, cookies. I'd forgotten there was non family meal. Anyway, I was having a really hard time watching her eat these snow peas, and hearing her go on about the fast she was about to begin. Granted the reason she was going on about it was because I was asking her, I tend to get really fascinated by people who can do such things and not have it be a personal disaster, so I wanted to know doesn't she get starving, weak, doesn't she start to crave things she wouldn't ordinarily crave? No, apparently she does alright with it, and it doesn't mess with her head, and she doesn't do it for weight-loss purposes (then why the fuck else would anybody fast??) and she doesn't pinch and pull at her body in the process. The couple of times I've fasted I've discovered that it makes me want to eat anything and everything - other people's leftovers, the yogurt off a discarded lid, a lonely skittle on a bathroom floor- it's all I can think about if the rule is 'no nothing'. I admit, food is often all I can think about, but it's rarely in this panicked way anymore. I found myself getting anxious while talking to her about this; part of it was jealousy, I'm sure, at her self control and cool-headedness around something that is apparently not a huge deal to other people. I also found myself offering her a cookie at every break in conversation. The first two times were accidental - I'd offered them to other people, they usually partook, and I handed them her way as well, but after the first couple of times I began to consciously offer them to her, knowing she'd say no...I think I was teasing. But it didn't seem to bother her at all, and that made me crazy! I went into this maddening, quiet little spiral of angst and self-derision, ruminating on of the strength of her willpower and my hopeless gluttony and lack of self-control, I began to get stuck on this image of her insides like the inside of a straw- white and clean and clear all the way through, imagining mine like some cavernous pipe filled with anything and everything (chocolate pudding cake, fuji and peanut butter lavash, mulch from kate's garden, an old mattress). I was really feeling bad about myself and had to go outside for a little while to put myself back on even keel. This is one of those times when I find it difficult to say 'hey, I guess I'm not like other people when it comes to food, I guess I still have this thing, in whatever shape it's in now'. When I was in LA, I ordered this MASSIVE piece of carrot cake when I was at Coral Tree with Clint, and was delighted to find that I only actually wanted about half of it (though in this case, half of this particular slice amounted to probably a piece and a half of your average slice, but still). It's easy for me to get so excited over progress like that, that I then decide 'hey, I can eat anything, anytime, I can play with my food and its timing and its portions and and and.....' ummmm no. It's not as simple as I just got lucky with the cake, I really do think that's progress, but I don't think it's indicative of being all better. I hadn't wanted to be all better in a while, but hearing her talk about the fast, man that made me wish I could eat like normal people. Or fast like normal people. Or have food just be food just be food.
Went to office hours for Symmetry, gonna have some breakfast, jump in the shower, go prepare the audition piece for Anthony's private group, hit a noon meeting, hang out with Jess, and then go work the dinner shift. And in the meantime, I hafta pee.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
and we'll have our pearls
Helped Kate mulch her garden all of yesterday afternoon (mulch mulch mulch), then we went to tea followed by a yoga class (not a solid idea to do heated yoga when you have a sunburn...never felt so near suffocation). Then home to shower and out to have dinner with Jessica! Yayyyy dinner with a friend. Wow I'm a nerd. We went to this deli called Zaftig's which is like a Jewish diner but oh so much better than typical diner food. We split a burger and then this awesome salad she raved about, and we split noodle kugel for dessert which neither of us really wanted but we ordered because we thought the other one wanted it and didn't wanna make them feel bad. So. Yeah. Did I mention that I know her from OA?
I woke up around 10 and made myself a lavash wrap with fuji apple and peanut butter for breakfast, and I'm gonna go try out my rollerblades on Boston soil. I return to Upstairs to work dinner tonight which I'm not exactly looking forward to but I know I really need the money, and though that's rarely a motivation it's working for me right now. Off to the Charles with my ipod!
I woke up around 10 and made myself a lavash wrap with fuji apple and peanut butter for breakfast, and I'm gonna go try out my rollerblades on Boston soil. I return to Upstairs to work dinner tonight which I'm not exactly looking forward to but I know I really need the money, and though that's rarely a motivation it's working for me right now. Off to the Charles with my ipod!
Friday, April 25, 2008
he's a little man in an old cat's body
Today I had one of the nicest days I've had in Boston in a long time. It began with my very, very last Symmetry Class (also known as my very, very last math class...ever), during which we prepped a little for the final exam which is weighted just as much as any other test we've had yet. The great thing about her system is that, of the many grades earned over the course of the course (heh) consisting of three exams worth two grades each (including the final), our single section grade (essentially our homework grade), and the term project worth four grades, she averages the best 10 of those 11 grades. First exam was a B+, second is an A (a 98% to be exact), my section grade will definitely be in the A range, and my project is entirely accurate and creative enough to earn a solid grade (B or higher) so what I'm saying is my final exam isn't all that important. So. That felt awesome to realize. After Symmetry I grabbed a turkey bacon subway sammich with Emma and drove her to South Station so she could get a bus to visit her friend, and then drove promptly to Physical Therapy for my knee which was pronounced very healthy and only in need of a few flexibility exercises. Finally, a great prognosis! He said I'd even be alright to run starting today- that I wouldn't do any damage it just might get a little inflamed. I won't, but it was so encouraging to hear that news. I worked a crossword puzzle while we went through the routine. I worked out a little afterwards on the elliptical, after which I raced home to nab a shower, and then rush back out the door to pick up Jessica (my new awesome OA friend who may or may not have been in utero with peter and I). We ended up going to the Chestnut Hill Mall and doing some shopping for a dress for her Masters Degree ceremony; we've got very similar taste in clothing, and share the same distaste for shopping and people who like shopping. She's cynical and talks program but from an experiential place rather than just a literary place; I love how utterly screwed she is with her relationships (very familiar), how self-deprecating she is in darkly witty way I appreciate, and how her blatant honesty about what's going on in her head makes it very welcome for me to share honestly what's going on in mine. We share the food obsession, the body image crazy, the desperate desire to make people see us for the intellectuals we think we are, and the very much recognized character defect of craving validation, and needing to be the center of someone's world in order for getting out of bed in the morning to look worthwhile. That, and she's reading Eat, Pray, Love and she's weeping and underlining the same parts I had. Maybe that books written in such a way that everyone is gripped by those parts no matter what your damage is, but I don't really care. I'm loving spending time with this new friend. When we were getting tea at this luxury tea shoppe we agreed that it was kind of ridiculous how excited we were about each other's friendship. Like, giddy. It was a great feeling. After shopping I dragged her to a Barnes and Noble for a new book where I picked out A Prayer for Owen Meany and then I dropped her off at her meeting. THEN I went to Full Moon, my favorite favorite restaurant to take my book on a date http://www.fullmoonrestaurant.com/
I love it because their food is fabulous- love the salad of roasted beets,arugula and goat cheese crostini. It's gourmet quality foods like polenta, italian sausage, handmade raviolis, soups, beets etc prepared in uncomplicated ways at reasonable prices. I like being in that atmosphere because it's anything but pompous. As you can tell from their website it's meant to be a family restaurant- and it is; they've got a kids play area, crayons and butcher paper over the tables, good quality wines written in colorful chalk on the walls, and a handful of silverware in a mug on each table. There are always families with young kids there, little ones toddling around and the occasional baby screeching, but to me that just makes it feel like a really safe place to be. And the food is so much more delicious and interesting than any restaurant with that kind of atmosphere. I love taking my book in there and eating slowly and looking around me and reading. I especially love their chocolate pudding cake that I almost always get at the end because it's served with killer homemade whipped cream (not over-sweet, in fact almost perfectly unsweetened). I love it. I love treating myself to dinner there. I always feel good when I leave. And I happily tip very well.
After dinner there I shot by Hollywood Video and picked up a dvd called 'You Kill Me' in which Ben Kingsley plays an alcoholic hit-man who has just joined AA, and now I'm sitting at my desk, wondering whether I should watch that, or this weeks episode of The Office that was just put up on NBC.com. I think I'm gonna go with the movie. Also, I did something today that was almost as out of character as when I decided to take a Dance 1 class and found myself on stage in front of the entire school in blue spandex. I disabled my text messaging. Dad always makes comments about my constant attachment to my phone, and how apparent my anxiety to be in contact is. Mom remarked when I was home this last week about ho much less present I am when I've got my phone near me. Terri's endorsed me throwing my phone in the river on more than one occasion, and Jessica's agreed to drown her phone with me should I ever be so bold. She wasn't, however, ready to give up her text messaging and I admit I felt pretty proud when I told her I'd done so. I've been reaching for my phone all day, feeling that anxious rush of 'did anyone want to reach me? is anybody thinking about me?' only to realize that my anxiety was unfixable by phone, and that there were ways to attend to it that were right in front of me, that involved my actual life that's happening right now, like actually talking to Jessica while she was in front of me, or finding a swing set, or actually tasting the chocolate pudding cake rather than trying to carry on a typed conversation while I scarfed it. And I liked knowing that I couldn't medicate with instant validation, and had to slowly think through my impulse to get in touch with anyone just out of my own discomfort. I felt much more present today. Hope that lasts.
Tomorrow I've got plans to help Kate mulch her garden in the morning (I dunno if that's a verb but I also don't really know what it means so I'm gonna drop it) make some muffins, and then we're gonna see how her kayak and canoe hold up on the river. Then I'm gonna hit up a yoga class. Maybe I'll even try Full Moon for lunch. Though it's more likely I'll just buy some fuji apples make myself a peanut butter and fuji apple lavash wrap and watch the episode of The Office I'm foregoing tonight. Okay. I'm wearin the blue plaid PJ's mum got me, gonna make a quick call to Terri, flop into bed, and flick on this movie.
I love it because their food is fabulous- love the salad of roasted beets,arugula and goat cheese crostini. It's gourmet quality foods like polenta, italian sausage, handmade raviolis, soups, beets etc prepared in uncomplicated ways at reasonable prices. I like being in that atmosphere because it's anything but pompous. As you can tell from their website it's meant to be a family restaurant- and it is; they've got a kids play area, crayons and butcher paper over the tables, good quality wines written in colorful chalk on the walls, and a handful of silverware in a mug on each table. There are always families with young kids there, little ones toddling around and the occasional baby screeching, but to me that just makes it feel like a really safe place to be. And the food is so much more delicious and interesting than any restaurant with that kind of atmosphere. I love taking my book in there and eating slowly and looking around me and reading. I especially love their chocolate pudding cake that I almost always get at the end because it's served with killer homemade whipped cream (not over-sweet, in fact almost perfectly unsweetened). I love it. I love treating myself to dinner there. I always feel good when I leave. And I happily tip very well.
After dinner there I shot by Hollywood Video and picked up a dvd called 'You Kill Me' in which Ben Kingsley plays an alcoholic hit-man who has just joined AA, and now I'm sitting at my desk, wondering whether I should watch that, or this weeks episode of The Office that was just put up on NBC.com. I think I'm gonna go with the movie. Also, I did something today that was almost as out of character as when I decided to take a Dance 1 class and found myself on stage in front of the entire school in blue spandex. I disabled my text messaging. Dad always makes comments about my constant attachment to my phone, and how apparent my anxiety to be in contact is. Mom remarked when I was home this last week about ho much less present I am when I've got my phone near me. Terri's endorsed me throwing my phone in the river on more than one occasion, and Jessica's agreed to drown her phone with me should I ever be so bold. She wasn't, however, ready to give up her text messaging and I admit I felt pretty proud when I told her I'd done so. I've been reaching for my phone all day, feeling that anxious rush of 'did anyone want to reach me? is anybody thinking about me?' only to realize that my anxiety was unfixable by phone, and that there were ways to attend to it that were right in front of me, that involved my actual life that's happening right now, like actually talking to Jessica while she was in front of me, or finding a swing set, or actually tasting the chocolate pudding cake rather than trying to carry on a typed conversation while I scarfed it. And I liked knowing that I couldn't medicate with instant validation, and had to slowly think through my impulse to get in touch with anyone just out of my own discomfort. I felt much more present today. Hope that lasts.
Tomorrow I've got plans to help Kate mulch her garden in the morning (I dunno if that's a verb but I also don't really know what it means so I'm gonna drop it) make some muffins, and then we're gonna see how her kayak and canoe hold up on the river. Then I'm gonna hit up a yoga class. Maybe I'll even try Full Moon for lunch. Though it's more likely I'll just buy some fuji apples make myself a peanut butter and fuji apple lavash wrap and watch the episode of The Office I'm foregoing tonight. Okay. I'm wearin the blue plaid PJ's mum got me, gonna make a quick call to Terri, flop into bed, and flick on this movie.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Bouncing back and forth between the healing and the hollering
god loves ugly
It's been a little under a month since I last posted, and as much as I'd love to pass it off as my life just getting away from me and not having time to write, it's really much more that I haven't had enough of a handle on what I'm thinking or feeling to want to put it into words, let alone to have the language to do so. And I wasn't much interested in doing a basic day-to-day on my schedule. That's kinda dull. Heh. Though it's quite possible my thoughts and feelings are equally dull.
I've still been working with the children's chorus; I'm working with the West End House training choir (those are my little guys, slightly older than the Villa Victoria kids), and with the Premier Choir (much older, much more fabulous), and I'm starting to reap the benefits of the work I've been doing with them all year. By which you'd think I mean that they've improved dramatically and are better musically educated and have an enriched appreciation for what their singing. I like to think that's there too -- in fact I know that's there, only I can't see it as clearly because I've been growing with them. What I mean when I speak of the benefits of working with them is
how it's bolstered my shaky spots musically; things like complex rhythm used to be daunting, even a measure of quarter note eight note pairings would sometimes trip me up (dah-ah dit dah-ah dit). That may be unclear. Or stoopid. Lemme try to explain myself really quick, that's where the first beat of the measure is held over into the first part of the SECOND beat of the measure, then the second part of the second beat is articulated. Okay, that sounded like baby poop I'm sure, lemme do a very rudimentary rhythm lesson (this'll be a really hard exercise for me too)
Each 'beat' represents a quarter note. And a quarter note gets one beat. Here's a regular measure of quarter notes in 4/4 time:
[ beat beat beat beat ] (bears, beats, battlestar gallactica. sorry.)
we would count that measure of quarter notes like this:
[ 1 2 3 4 ]
I can't draw notes here, so I'm going to use the Q symbol for quarter note.
[ Q Q Q Q ]
say it aloud:
[ ta ta ta ta ]
Each quarter can be divided into two eighth notes (there are also sixteenth notes, thirty-second notes, and so on, but, um, not right now), so one eighth note (E, here) takes up half as much time as one quarter note. Thus idea being that two eighth notes can make up one beat, but you articulate the beats inside the beat. If that makes sense. I promise I'm not this confusing with the kids. Below is a measure that still has 4 beats in it, but each beat is composed of eighth notes:
[ EE EE EE EE ]
So we'd count that measure aloud like this:
[ 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and ]
Yes, we need the last 'and'. It's the second part of beat 4. This is called subdivision, where you articulate two pulses within one beat. If you prefer, maybe this is clearer:
[ tee-tee tee-tee tee-tee tee-tee ] the kids giggle their asses off at that.
Each syllable is an 8th note. Man this is difficult without a chalk board. If anyone's still following this I'm stunned. This is now just for my own deranged pleasure to see if I can explain basic rhythm without music symbols.
'Scuse me, can I have your attention back? Up here please? Chyanne feet down please. Yasmine put it away. I need your eyes up here please and I want to see your finger on your music following the measure we're looking at. I like how Kevin is sitting quietly in position 1, he's ready to sing. Raise your hand when you've found where we are.
So what used to really trip me up (not conceptually but when I was doing rapid sight-reading) was when I saw a measure that went something like this
[ DOTTED quarter - eighth - dotted quarter - eighth ]
I emphasized the first dotted just cause it's new, it's not different from the second dotted. So what the dot does to a note is divide it in half, and add that half beat to the original value of the note. So with a quarter note, the dot cuts it in half (again half a quarter note is an eighth note) and adds the value of the eighth note to the quarter note. This means that a dotted quarter note takes up the value of 3 eighth notes.
So lets say you had an empty measure subdivided thus:
[ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ] Each of those spaces can hold one eighth note.
[ 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + ]
There are supposed to be really clear spaces between each of these so you can see how the beats would line up with the counts, but blogger's not helping me out here.
A Dotted quarter note would take up the space of 3 eighth notes, which would be ALL of the first beat (the first two spaces) and HALF of the second beat. So you hold a dotted quarter note for 3 eighth notes. This means you would say "1" and then think "and 2" This means the second half of the eighth note in beat 2 would still be hangin' there, unfilled. I'm gonna fill it in with an eighth note. Make sense? (if not email me)...(if you still care).
So here's the measure I was talkin' about in the first place, the kind of thing that would often trip me up when sight-reading:
[ Q. E Q. E ]
So you'd speak that like this:
[ ta-ah-ah ti ta-ah-ah ti ] See? Each syllable is an eighth note? Say it aloud.
Or as I so feebly attempted to describe it to you at the beginning-
[ dah-ah DIT dah-ah DIT ]
1 (and 2) AND 3 (and 4) AND
When you count it right you can't help but emphasize the hanging eighth note.
Man, I really didn't mean to devolve into a lesson there, I got kind of excited to see if I could explain it using basic terminology and without actual music visuals. I'd kinda curious to know if that was clear at all. Just re-read it. Heh. Not so much.
******
Yesterday I had a small bit in a Chamber Singers concert. I haven't sung with them this year (not an option as I'm only enrolled in the one symmetry class which makes me a part time student and not eligible for the choir), but for this concert Andy invited back some of last years seniors to sing two pieces from last years repertoire, one of which was the Ave Maria I'd conducted. So I conducted it yesterday. We alums were supposed to gather with choir members we sang with last year who haven't yet graduated, but I was the first alum there, everyone else was late, and we decided to start the run-through without them. There's something about singing with a choir that makes you family, especially the older members. Incredible bonding. I didn't develop life-long friendships with these people, but this group of seniors I sang with formed a tight intimacy around the experience of the music itself. We'd done pieces together where it was just the 7 of us and we'd found an internal tactus among us and we were anticipating each other's cadences, shared common breaths without preparation, gave and took where the music begged it and knew one another's voices inside and out.
They hadn't showed up yet, and I stood in front of the rest of last year's choir, gave pitches, and began the Nathanial Dett Ave Maria. There are moments in that piece where I cue individual exposed parts because the rubato gets so flexible, the tenors here, the basses after the alto's pick-up, and so on, and this strange magical thing happened. I'd been totally focused on my sheet music as we sung the first few pages, unsure of myself and reacquainting myself with the piece, that when I looked up to cue in the bass, Andrew was suddenly there, turned to the Sopranos for their lofty entrance and there was Diana, and so on with Daniel and Brett and the rest, as though they'd materialized like ghosts to sing, and the moment I looked for their voices there they were - the first time I'd seen any of them in quite awhile and it was just right that our reunion would be this piece, and that our first reconnection was their cue to sing. I grin when I conduct. And I cry a little. We shared moments of contact in their entrances where I swear fell in love with each of them as we acknowledged and appreciated each other for what we had done and what we were doing now. Relief to be back in the music like that, in the thick of it not just on the sidelines assistant coaching the team. And the concert went beautifully.
****
At the moment I'm in Ted's office in Hanover hangin' out with him while he works. Last night we read a story to Eli about a chick that loves to sing, and then gets eaten by a fox, who then discovers he can't stop singing, fox gets eaten by a wolf who finds he has the same affliction, and so on. Then Ted and I played Mario Kart until late at night.
Things aren't perfect, I'm still wrestling the same Boston - LA decision, and my personal life could be better managed by an autistic child, perhaps even Paris Hilton.
But I prayed this morning and felt some connection that I'd been missing for awhile, that hadn't come when I was just going through the motions of prayer. I'm alone and I meant it and it's out of my hands.
It's been a little under a month since I last posted, and as much as I'd love to pass it off as my life just getting away from me and not having time to write, it's really much more that I haven't had enough of a handle on what I'm thinking or feeling to want to put it into words, let alone to have the language to do so. And I wasn't much interested in doing a basic day-to-day on my schedule. That's kinda dull. Heh. Though it's quite possible my thoughts and feelings are equally dull.
I've still been working with the children's chorus; I'm working with the West End House training choir (those are my little guys, slightly older than the Villa Victoria kids), and with the Premier Choir (much older, much more fabulous), and I'm starting to reap the benefits of the work I've been doing with them all year. By which you'd think I mean that they've improved dramatically and are better musically educated and have an enriched appreciation for what their singing. I like to think that's there too -- in fact I know that's there, only I can't see it as clearly because I've been growing with them. What I mean when I speak of the benefits of working with them is
how it's bolstered my shaky spots musically; things like complex rhythm used to be daunting, even a measure of quarter note eight note pairings would sometimes trip me up (dah-ah dit dah-ah dit). That may be unclear. Or stoopid. Lemme try to explain myself really quick, that's where the first beat of the measure is held over into the first part of the SECOND beat of the measure, then the second part of the second beat is articulated. Okay, that sounded like baby poop I'm sure, lemme do a very rudimentary rhythm lesson (this'll be a really hard exercise for me too)
Each 'beat' represents a quarter note. And a quarter note gets one beat. Here's a regular measure of quarter notes in 4/4 time:
[ beat beat beat beat ] (bears, beats, battlestar gallactica. sorry.)
we would count that measure of quarter notes like this:
[ 1 2 3 4 ]
I can't draw notes here, so I'm going to use the Q symbol for quarter note.
[ Q Q Q Q ]
say it aloud:
[ ta ta ta ta ]
Each quarter can be divided into two eighth notes (there are also sixteenth notes, thirty-second notes, and so on, but, um, not right now), so one eighth note (E, here) takes up half as much time as one quarter note. Thus idea being that two eighth notes can make up one beat, but you articulate the beats inside the beat. If that makes sense. I promise I'm not this confusing with the kids. Below is a measure that still has 4 beats in it, but each beat is composed of eighth notes:
[ EE EE EE EE ]
So we'd count that measure aloud like this:
[ 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and ]
Yes, we need the last 'and'. It's the second part of beat 4. This is called subdivision, where you articulate two pulses within one beat. If you prefer, maybe this is clearer:
[ tee-tee tee-tee tee-tee tee-tee ] the kids giggle their asses off at that.
Each syllable is an 8th note. Man this is difficult without a chalk board. If anyone's still following this I'm stunned. This is now just for my own deranged pleasure to see if I can explain basic rhythm without music symbols.
'Scuse me, can I have your attention back? Up here please? Chyanne feet down please. Yasmine put it away. I need your eyes up here please and I want to see your finger on your music following the measure we're looking at. I like how Kevin is sitting quietly in position 1, he's ready to sing. Raise your hand when you've found where we are.
So what used to really trip me up (not conceptually but when I was doing rapid sight-reading) was when I saw a measure that went something like this
[ DOTTED quarter - eighth - dotted quarter - eighth ]
I emphasized the first dotted just cause it's new, it's not different from the second dotted. So what the dot does to a note is divide it in half, and add that half beat to the original value of the note. So with a quarter note, the dot cuts it in half (again half a quarter note is an eighth note) and adds the value of the eighth note to the quarter note. This means that a dotted quarter note takes up the value of 3 eighth notes.
So lets say you had an empty measure subdivided thus:
[ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ] Each of those spaces can hold one eighth note.
[ 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + ]
There are supposed to be really clear spaces between each of these so you can see how the beats would line up with the counts, but blogger's not helping me out here.
A Dotted quarter note would take up the space of 3 eighth notes, which would be ALL of the first beat (the first two spaces) and HALF of the second beat. So you hold a dotted quarter note for 3 eighth notes. This means you would say "1" and then think "and 2" This means the second half of the eighth note in beat 2 would still be hangin' there, unfilled. I'm gonna fill it in with an eighth note. Make sense? (if not email me)...(if you still care).
So here's the measure I was talkin' about in the first place, the kind of thing that would often trip me up when sight-reading:
[ Q. E Q. E ]
So you'd speak that like this:
[ ta-ah-ah ti ta-ah-ah ti ] See? Each syllable is an eighth note? Say it aloud.
Or as I so feebly attempted to describe it to you at the beginning-
[ dah-ah DIT dah-ah DIT ]
1 (and 2) AND 3 (and 4) AND
When you count it right you can't help but emphasize the hanging eighth note.
Man, I really didn't mean to devolve into a lesson there, I got kind of excited to see if I could explain it using basic terminology and without actual music visuals. I'd kinda curious to know if that was clear at all. Just re-read it. Heh. Not so much.
******
Yesterday I had a small bit in a Chamber Singers concert. I haven't sung with them this year (not an option as I'm only enrolled in the one symmetry class which makes me a part time student and not eligible for the choir), but for this concert Andy invited back some of last years seniors to sing two pieces from last years repertoire, one of which was the Ave Maria I'd conducted. So I conducted it yesterday. We alums were supposed to gather with choir members we sang with last year who haven't yet graduated, but I was the first alum there, everyone else was late, and we decided to start the run-through without them. There's something about singing with a choir that makes you family, especially the older members. Incredible bonding. I didn't develop life-long friendships with these people, but this group of seniors I sang with formed a tight intimacy around the experience of the music itself. We'd done pieces together where it was just the 7 of us and we'd found an internal tactus among us and we were anticipating each other's cadences, shared common breaths without preparation, gave and took where the music begged it and knew one another's voices inside and out.
They hadn't showed up yet, and I stood in front of the rest of last year's choir, gave pitches, and began the Nathanial Dett Ave Maria. There are moments in that piece where I cue individual exposed parts because the rubato gets so flexible, the tenors here, the basses after the alto's pick-up, and so on, and this strange magical thing happened. I'd been totally focused on my sheet music as we sung the first few pages, unsure of myself and reacquainting myself with the piece, that when I looked up to cue in the bass, Andrew was suddenly there, turned to the Sopranos for their lofty entrance and there was Diana, and so on with Daniel and Brett and the rest, as though they'd materialized like ghosts to sing, and the moment I looked for their voices there they were - the first time I'd seen any of them in quite awhile and it was just right that our reunion would be this piece, and that our first reconnection was their cue to sing. I grin when I conduct. And I cry a little. We shared moments of contact in their entrances where I swear fell in love with each of them as we acknowledged and appreciated each other for what we had done and what we were doing now. Relief to be back in the music like that, in the thick of it not just on the sidelines assistant coaching the team. And the concert went beautifully.
****
At the moment I'm in Ted's office in Hanover hangin' out with him while he works. Last night we read a story to Eli about a chick that loves to sing, and then gets eaten by a fox, who then discovers he can't stop singing, fox gets eaten by a wolf who finds he has the same affliction, and so on. Then Ted and I played Mario Kart until late at night.
Things aren't perfect, I'm still wrestling the same Boston - LA decision, and my personal life could be better managed by an autistic child, perhaps even Paris Hilton.
But I prayed this morning and felt some connection that I'd been missing for awhile, that hadn't come when I was just going through the motions of prayer. I'm alone and I meant it and it's out of my hands.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
a pair of dull scissors in the yellow light
I wish Blogger knew how to post music, it's a kind of fantasy of mine that I could write a post while listening to a piece and then post the piece so the entry could be read to that soundtrack. Right now it's Regina Spektor's "Samson".
I spent most of today alone. I went to Symmetry, took Sid (my lil honda) into Honda Village where I played with blocks and did downward facing dog while I waited. They replaced the thermostat and the tire that had gone flat. I was surprised to find how expensive my life is. $117 for the tire and labor, $33 to fill up my tank, $50 for groceries on the way home, $25 for medford car tax (whatever that is it arrived in the mail today), $40 to refill my prescription...I'm an expensive girl.
I can't imagine how I'm ever going to make enough money to pay to live. And I don't think I live an extravegant life, I mean, I guess buying fresh ground peanut butter is expensive, but I mean my life doesn't consist of a series of splurges, and I'm having a hard time seeing how I'll be able to make enough money to cover myself. As is, Mum and Dad pay my rent and heating and electric, and I take care of the rest. I can barely handle the rest! Okay that's not entirely true, it's not like I'm in danger of going broke or like my bank account is steadily dwindling- it's not- but it tends to stay pretty steady- how is one supposed to save anything, especially when I'll be paying rent? I guess I'm overlooking the fact that, although I work to some capacity every single day, it's in spurts, and not like a steady 9-5. Monday I'll have a day off, Tuesday I'll work dinner, Wednesday and Thursday BCC, Friday and Saturday I'll work dinner, lunch, and tea, and Sunday usually the Church, or a BCC performance if there is one. I don't know how adults do it, I don't know how adults who don't work for Behr Sterns make it, especially ones with useless degrees like mine. I'm scared I'll be forever cobbling together a meager income and won't ever be able to feel relief like I've made it to adulthood.
I suppose I haven't had much to say lately...I've done so much writing that I feel pretty scraped out.
I decided not to come home for spring break. Which makes me sad, and solid. I was really looking forward to the roller blading, the Sunday meeting, the carrot cake at the coral tree cafe, and seeing everyone, but for my own sanity it makes more sense for me to stay. I would have found it too easy to come home and stay home if I went, I would've left myself in Los Angeles whether I intended to or not, and wouldn't have been able to come back to Boston and live independently, without momentum. Static fish.
Hey, check it out, stumbled across this...amazing what this blasted internet can find us. I think this song is so lovely. I like that she's not indulged in glamor like every other goddamn music video, and I like her chosen articulation:
Regina Spektor - Samson lyrics
And here's my contribution to the art world- I found this while sorting through old poetry drafts from junior year at Marlborough. It only serves to prove to me that as I've grow up (hah!) I've only become more dramatic, unnecessarily elaborate, and irrelevant. Guess that's why they say "oh to be seventeen again". Whoever they is.
grow, legs.
let the moist skin at the backs of my knees
expand, convex with muscle
when I flex my feet.
arch, my back.
so I may set my fingers between the vertebrae
sparse-spaced
as spine sighs
into a stiff curve.
yawn, own mouth.
make me a cathedral:
rest the globe atop my tongue,
against my cheeks,
tightening the tissue,
and the rivets,
and the roof.
shut up. i like it.
I spent most of today alone. I went to Symmetry, took Sid (my lil honda) into Honda Village where I played with blocks and did downward facing dog while I waited. They replaced the thermostat and the tire that had gone flat. I was surprised to find how expensive my life is. $117 for the tire and labor, $33 to fill up my tank, $50 for groceries on the way home, $25 for medford car tax (whatever that is it arrived in the mail today), $40 to refill my prescription...I'm an expensive girl.
I can't imagine how I'm ever going to make enough money to pay to live. And I don't think I live an extravegant life, I mean, I guess buying fresh ground peanut butter is expensive, but I mean my life doesn't consist of a series of splurges, and I'm having a hard time seeing how I'll be able to make enough money to cover myself. As is, Mum and Dad pay my rent and heating and electric, and I take care of the rest. I can barely handle the rest! Okay that's not entirely true, it's not like I'm in danger of going broke or like my bank account is steadily dwindling- it's not- but it tends to stay pretty steady- how is one supposed to save anything, especially when I'll be paying rent? I guess I'm overlooking the fact that, although I work to some capacity every single day, it's in spurts, and not like a steady 9-5. Monday I'll have a day off, Tuesday I'll work dinner, Wednesday and Thursday BCC, Friday and Saturday I'll work dinner, lunch, and tea, and Sunday usually the Church, or a BCC performance if there is one. I don't know how adults do it, I don't know how adults who don't work for Behr Sterns make it, especially ones with useless degrees like mine. I'm scared I'll be forever cobbling together a meager income and won't ever be able to feel relief like I've made it to adulthood.
I suppose I haven't had much to say lately...I've done so much writing that I feel pretty scraped out.
I decided not to come home for spring break. Which makes me sad, and solid. I was really looking forward to the roller blading, the Sunday meeting, the carrot cake at the coral tree cafe, and seeing everyone, but for my own sanity it makes more sense for me to stay. I would have found it too easy to come home and stay home if I went, I would've left myself in Los Angeles whether I intended to or not, and wouldn't have been able to come back to Boston and live independently, without momentum. Static fish.
Hey, check it out, stumbled across this...amazing what this blasted internet can find us. I think this song is so lovely. I like that she's not indulged in glamor like every other goddamn music video, and I like her chosen articulation:
Regina Spektor - Samson lyrics
And here's my contribution to the art world- I found this while sorting through old poetry drafts from junior year at Marlborough. It only serves to prove to me that as I've grow up (hah!) I've only become more dramatic, unnecessarily elaborate, and irrelevant. Guess that's why they say "oh to be seventeen again". Whoever they is.
grow, legs.
let the moist skin at the backs of my knees
expand, convex with muscle
when I flex my feet.
arch, my back.
so I may set my fingers between the vertebrae
sparse-spaced
as spine sighs
into a stiff curve.
yawn, own mouth.
make me a cathedral:
rest the globe atop my tongue,
against my cheeks,
tightening the tissue,
and the rivets,
and the roof.
shut up. i like it.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
I just got lost and slept right through the dawn
Well first of all this is just too cool for words:
this is the extent of science's relevance to my life
I'm just home from work, Dinner shift at the restaurant (I kind of feel like all my posts begin this way). It wasn't regular service, some law firm had rented out the place to hold a recruiting event and all these posh people with their pinned on name tags swarmed the room with the open bar and us among them passing out things like duck ravioli with sweet and sour dipping sauce, hot dates wrapped in bacon, scallops wrapped in bacon and a few others, many of which were also wrapped in bacon. Chef Tony has a fondness for bacon-wrapped comestibles. My knee is really hurting from all the walking though. To do a brief sum-up of the whole knee fiasco, I went into the ER on Saturday night mostly just to get an x-ray of what was going on to cause all this pain that's been on the rise since october, not to mention the growing mass right under the scar from the August incision. No, it wasn't an emergency, but the pain was intense, and my appointment with the surgeon isn't for another week so I figured better to get it checked out and at least have some x-rays taken now, and maybe be prescribed something for the pain. X-ray showed that a cyst had developed on the edge of my tibia (heh, my tibia sounds weird...so used to hearing the tibia, but this one's mine) right around the area where the screw was put in to anchor the bottom part of my ACL. They said it was also possible that the bone cyst had developed because the screw may be coming loose, or that my body was having a reaction to it...something along those lines, but all they could confirm is that I definitely had the bone cyst. Great. They gave me some motrin and some vicodin and sent me home and offered that I'd likely be recommended surgery in which they remove the cyst from my tibia, replacing the piece with a bone graft. So...that's the idea. I'll see Dr. Karlson next monday and hopefully he'll have a better idea of what the FUCK one does when their body is inspired to build a cyst on the bit of metal that's holding yer knee together. Brilliant cells, thanks much. Bad call for the morale and physical (and financial?) stability of Mollie Inc. We're gonna add this to the agenda of the next staff meeting cause this is poop. You're all being demoted to the mail room. Okay I giggled my ass off writing that so clearly the vicodin is kicking in. Anyhow that's the knee situation. Looks like surgery but I'm doing my best not to think about it.
What was neat about the ER trip was the perspective I got walking out. All along the hallway as I was leaving were beds and stretchers, all containing people who were in neck braces and moaning, or on their sides and moaning, or very old heavily sedated people with thin thin hair who gazed through me as I walked by. The amount of pain in that hallway was palpable, not to mention audible. These poor hurting people waiting in bed, in line to be treated or tested or moved and it struck me that they'd be staying the night if not longer, and I was walking out of there- walking- and in minimal pain, that I'd be at work tomorrow, that I'd be singing on Sunday, that I'd get to make my peanut butter and fuji wrap or oatmeal with extra roasty peanuts for breakfast. I felt lucky that my biggest physical malady was a bone cyst, with which I could still do yoga, rock climb, waitress (uncomfortably) and sing- my life isn't all that interrupted by it. There was a time when my body was so rocked by the bulimia that I couldn't sing- I physically couldn't produce the sound- and even that (thank God) could be mended. And I felt so fortunate and so grateful to be walking out of there with health. Nothing relative about it. Certifiably insane, possibly, but that's not the point; my body's okay, and I'm not working against it.
That said, I'm going to make better time for my meals, and eat them sitting down rather than on the fly. I eat better that way, I make better food choices that way, I feel fuller that way, and it means I'll actually have the meal rather than putting it off or getting distracted.
Other than the dinner shift tonight it's been a pretty blah day...I got full credit on a symmetry homework (woot!) and it was nice to look at it and not have it be totally marked up, but really I've felt pretty gray. The weather has been hinting at spring, aall coy sunshine and full warmish breezes but the temperature plummets at night and the rain has been interrupting these attempts at rebirth. I find the breaths I take these days are deeper, that my hope is higher. My belief in self tends to respond to spring- I remember this from Skidmore, I remember this from all the way back to Mirman, how my body and brain respond to the slow softening of the weather (or in LA just the cold in the morning). I haven't made great choices lately (this self-deception thing is a bitch) but I can feel these tiny clicks happening in my brain, these little shifts that aren't yet showing up outside of me but that I can feel as real as an apple in my hand. Things like lack of clarity and shame and oh god these lonely fears make for a lot of house cleaning to do. I've not liked me much lately. Like a pack rat suddenly trying to sort through her belongings and being appalled at what she's kept and deranged she must be, what a mistake she must be to have lived like this for so long. It's hard to sort through these things and keep self esteem alive, but what I'm finding is that when I'm feeling dark about me that I have the belief now that it will change, that I can- and will- feel differently, that there's hope for this self. I'm working my way out of habits and impulses like the immediate lie or my critical eye or responding with what I actually think or feel rather than what I think you'd like me better for thinking or feeling. Honesty. Again. Relentless. And I'm actually bad at it. Really bad. When I was little Mum would ask us if we'd washed our hands for dinner, and I got into a habit for awhile where even if I had, I would tell her I hadn't- that was about power, or something, I'm sure, about having something that she didn't, some bit of knowledge about me and control over a situation that she didn't. If that makes sense. That reasoning isn't relevant to me today, it's never about power, it's about being loved. Or liked. But usually loved. What if what I have to say means that you'll think less of me or want to spend less time with me or will reveal that I think differently than you thought...god even just writing this is making me anxious. And it's strange because I'm usually pretty outspoken, I usually have no problem saying what I think whether it's at work or in the classroom (heh, I meant as a student but I like that I can be considered on the teaching side of that as well) or socially, I can usually say what I think. I'm finding that when it comes to how I feel (or how choices I've made as a result of how I feel) I'm very, very hesitant to say what I think when it's to somebody that I love because I don't want to risk saying something that will make you love me less or go away from me. I read that sentence back and the thought sounds childish. That's not a judgment, it's just what it sounds like to me. Like a child feels it. The panic that I feel when presented with a question that I could potentially answer "wrong" feels equally childish. Maybe childish isn't the right word, I think I just mean that I feel powerless over it, that the panic owns me and the fear of not continuing to be loved as I have been is pretty consuming.
I went to a meeting Monday night and it very much re-geared my thinking (for the rest of the evening at least), it was wonderful. I suppose it's pretty stupid that I can acknowledge that there's something that can make me feel better, that there is a remedy, and yet the thought of it sounds exhausting and like the last thing I want to do. I exerted a tremendous amount of energy to search out food or a place to purge when I needed it; over the years I've spent exhaustive late nights in a panic on the phone and holding hearts together, and yet the thought of putting that same amount of energy into my recovery sometimes sounds beyond me. I guess that's the whole opposite action thing. At the moment I don't feel lonely, but I don't feel attached either...kind of at sea but not a stormy one. Homeless, homeless.
It's just quiet and I'm being alone.
***
e.e. cummings 58
a total stranger one black day
knocked living the hell out of me--
who found forgiveness hard because
my(as it happened)self he was
--but now that fiend and i are such
immortal friends the other's each
this is the extent of science's relevance to my life
I'm just home from work, Dinner shift at the restaurant (I kind of feel like all my posts begin this way). It wasn't regular service, some law firm had rented out the place to hold a recruiting event and all these posh people with their pinned on name tags swarmed the room with the open bar and us among them passing out things like duck ravioli with sweet and sour dipping sauce, hot dates wrapped in bacon, scallops wrapped in bacon and a few others, many of which were also wrapped in bacon. Chef Tony has a fondness for bacon-wrapped comestibles. My knee is really hurting from all the walking though. To do a brief sum-up of the whole knee fiasco, I went into the ER on Saturday night mostly just to get an x-ray of what was going on to cause all this pain that's been on the rise since october, not to mention the growing mass right under the scar from the August incision. No, it wasn't an emergency, but the pain was intense, and my appointment with the surgeon isn't for another week so I figured better to get it checked out and at least have some x-rays taken now, and maybe be prescribed something for the pain. X-ray showed that a cyst had developed on the edge of my tibia (heh, my tibia sounds weird...so used to hearing the tibia, but this one's mine) right around the area where the screw was put in to anchor the bottom part of my ACL. They said it was also possible that the bone cyst had developed because the screw may be coming loose, or that my body was having a reaction to it...something along those lines, but all they could confirm is that I definitely had the bone cyst. Great. They gave me some motrin and some vicodin and sent me home and offered that I'd likely be recommended surgery in which they remove the cyst from my tibia, replacing the piece with a bone graft. So...that's the idea. I'll see Dr. Karlson next monday and hopefully he'll have a better idea of what the FUCK one does when their body is inspired to build a cyst on the bit of metal that's holding yer knee together. Brilliant cells, thanks much. Bad call for the morale and physical (and financial?) stability of Mollie Inc. We're gonna add this to the agenda of the next staff meeting cause this is poop. You're all being demoted to the mail room. Okay I giggled my ass off writing that so clearly the vicodin is kicking in. Anyhow that's the knee situation. Looks like surgery but I'm doing my best not to think about it.
What was neat about the ER trip was the perspective I got walking out. All along the hallway as I was leaving were beds and stretchers, all containing people who were in neck braces and moaning, or on their sides and moaning, or very old heavily sedated people with thin thin hair who gazed through me as I walked by. The amount of pain in that hallway was palpable, not to mention audible. These poor hurting people waiting in bed, in line to be treated or tested or moved and it struck me that they'd be staying the night if not longer, and I was walking out of there- walking- and in minimal pain, that I'd be at work tomorrow, that I'd be singing on Sunday, that I'd get to make my peanut butter and fuji wrap or oatmeal with extra roasty peanuts for breakfast. I felt lucky that my biggest physical malady was a bone cyst, with which I could still do yoga, rock climb, waitress (uncomfortably) and sing- my life isn't all that interrupted by it. There was a time when my body was so rocked by the bulimia that I couldn't sing- I physically couldn't produce the sound- and even that (thank God) could be mended. And I felt so fortunate and so grateful to be walking out of there with health. Nothing relative about it. Certifiably insane, possibly, but that's not the point; my body's okay, and I'm not working against it.
That said, I'm going to make better time for my meals, and eat them sitting down rather than on the fly. I eat better that way, I make better food choices that way, I feel fuller that way, and it means I'll actually have the meal rather than putting it off or getting distracted.
Other than the dinner shift tonight it's been a pretty blah day...I got full credit on a symmetry homework (woot!) and it was nice to look at it and not have it be totally marked up, but really I've felt pretty gray. The weather has been hinting at spring, aall coy sunshine and full warmish breezes but the temperature plummets at night and the rain has been interrupting these attempts at rebirth. I find the breaths I take these days are deeper, that my hope is higher. My belief in self tends to respond to spring- I remember this from Skidmore, I remember this from all the way back to Mirman, how my body and brain respond to the slow softening of the weather (or in LA just the cold in the morning). I haven't made great choices lately (this self-deception thing is a bitch) but I can feel these tiny clicks happening in my brain, these little shifts that aren't yet showing up outside of me but that I can feel as real as an apple in my hand. Things like lack of clarity and shame and oh god these lonely fears make for a lot of house cleaning to do. I've not liked me much lately. Like a pack rat suddenly trying to sort through her belongings and being appalled at what she's kept and deranged she must be, what a mistake she must be to have lived like this for so long. It's hard to sort through these things and keep self esteem alive, but what I'm finding is that when I'm feeling dark about me that I have the belief now that it will change, that I can- and will- feel differently, that there's hope for this self. I'm working my way out of habits and impulses like the immediate lie or my critical eye or responding with what I actually think or feel rather than what I think you'd like me better for thinking or feeling. Honesty. Again. Relentless. And I'm actually bad at it. Really bad. When I was little Mum would ask us if we'd washed our hands for dinner, and I got into a habit for awhile where even if I had, I would tell her I hadn't- that was about power, or something, I'm sure, about having something that she didn't, some bit of knowledge about me and control over a situation that she didn't. If that makes sense. That reasoning isn't relevant to me today, it's never about power, it's about being loved. Or liked. But usually loved. What if what I have to say means that you'll think less of me or want to spend less time with me or will reveal that I think differently than you thought...god even just writing this is making me anxious. And it's strange because I'm usually pretty outspoken, I usually have no problem saying what I think whether it's at work or in the classroom (heh, I meant as a student but I like that I can be considered on the teaching side of that as well) or socially, I can usually say what I think. I'm finding that when it comes to how I feel (or how choices I've made as a result of how I feel) I'm very, very hesitant to say what I think when it's to somebody that I love because I don't want to risk saying something that will make you love me less or go away from me. I read that sentence back and the thought sounds childish. That's not a judgment, it's just what it sounds like to me. Like a child feels it. The panic that I feel when presented with a question that I could potentially answer "wrong" feels equally childish. Maybe childish isn't the right word, I think I just mean that I feel powerless over it, that the panic owns me and the fear of not continuing to be loved as I have been is pretty consuming.
I went to a meeting Monday night and it very much re-geared my thinking (for the rest of the evening at least), it was wonderful. I suppose it's pretty stupid that I can acknowledge that there's something that can make me feel better, that there is a remedy, and yet the thought of it sounds exhausting and like the last thing I want to do. I exerted a tremendous amount of energy to search out food or a place to purge when I needed it; over the years I've spent exhaustive late nights in a panic on the phone and holding hearts together, and yet the thought of putting that same amount of energy into my recovery sometimes sounds beyond me. I guess that's the whole opposite action thing. At the moment I don't feel lonely, but I don't feel attached either...kind of at sea but not a stormy one. Homeless, homeless.
It's just quiet and I'm being alone.
***
e.e. cummings 58
a total stranger one black day
knocked living the hell out of me--
who found forgiveness hard because
my(as it happened)self he was
--but now that fiend and i are such
immortal friends the other's each
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Amadeus Amadeus
I've been sitting in Starbucks with Kate for the last 3 hours (yummy white chocolate mocha) during which time I've attempted my Symmetry homework which I've since abandoned after two problems because I definitely need to go into the review section before I can go any further (it's also possible that she has yet to cover the material the question asks and will do so at Friday's class, but the fact that I can't discern whether she's covered this stuff or not probably speaks volumes as to how above water my head is. The vocabulary the question is using is familiar, but there are unfamiliar variables and references to figures and diagrams I haven't learned to read yet. All this is only exacerbated by the fact that the directions to each of these isometries (translation, rotation, reflection, and glide reflection) are represented with greek symbols (Tau, Rho, Mu, and Gamma respectively) so on the page what's being asked of me (or even the way that I'm answering) doesn't translate immediately. It's like having to answer a trig question that's being posed to you in Gaelic and having to translate it so you can answer it, and then translate your answer back into Gaelic. My potential for error is tremendous when I'm working in English. This is leaving me flailing a little bit.
After giving up on the homework I've been poking around looking for jobs, teaching jobs mostly, but the kind of jobs where I wouldn't be responsible for a lesson plan or a group right off the bat. I emailed a bunch of private schools with the same warm, bold, yet appropriately humble email introducing myself and explaining my credentials (or those I'll have in June), explaining what I'm looking for, and then signing off that I'd be happy to send along a resume "if you feel there might be a place for me in the [name of school] family." I thought playing into the communityness thing might make me more appealing. Or something.
Alright, I'm going to a yoga class now, tonight I think the plan is to watch Singing in the Rain at Kate's, and then I'm home early to do laundry for work tomorrow so I'll look presentable for the lunch shift. Although nothing I wear is ever ironed. Or starched.
One nice thing: after avowing at that monday night meeting that I was lonely, and a little isolating, I got three phone calls yesterday from people just calling to say hi. Two of whom ended up really needing to talk to somebody, and I think I had things to say that were helpful. I forget that I have experiences that are applicable, with food, with early recovery relationships, with shame. I have great words of wisdom sometimes, and I fully intend to act upon them myself, slowly by slowly.
Still in the 7th step prayer, kind of wishing I were 10 years old and sitting on the balcony at dads house wrapped in blankets eating cereal and watching the morning glories and the people walking dogs and the sun come up. Pretty safe place to be. Guess the prayer is too.
After giving up on the homework I've been poking around looking for jobs, teaching jobs mostly, but the kind of jobs where I wouldn't be responsible for a lesson plan or a group right off the bat. I emailed a bunch of private schools with the same warm, bold, yet appropriately humble email introducing myself and explaining my credentials (or those I'll have in June), explaining what I'm looking for, and then signing off that I'd be happy to send along a resume "if you feel there might be a place for me in the [name of school] family." I thought playing into the communityness thing might make me more appealing. Or something.
Alright, I'm going to a yoga class now, tonight I think the plan is to watch Singing in the Rain at Kate's, and then I'm home early to do laundry for work tomorrow so I'll look presentable for the lunch shift. Although nothing I wear is ever ironed. Or starched.
One nice thing: after avowing at that monday night meeting that I was lonely, and a little isolating, I got three phone calls yesterday from people just calling to say hi. Two of whom ended up really needing to talk to somebody, and I think I had things to say that were helpful. I forget that I have experiences that are applicable, with food, with early recovery relationships, with shame. I have great words of wisdom sometimes, and I fully intend to act upon them myself, slowly by slowly.
Still in the 7th step prayer, kind of wishing I were 10 years old and sitting on the balcony at dads house wrapped in blankets eating cereal and watching the morning glories and the people walking dogs and the sun come up. Pretty safe place to be. Guess the prayer is too.
Monday, February 25, 2008
for letting you Live Out The String a little longer
You took the wind out of my socks!
Well this is odd to watch. Dad is so pretty and charming and well-spoken (and talks over the host a lot) and Mum is a total babe, jittery and awkward and adorable (and far too self deprecating). And I want to know what my shirt said that Dad mentioned! And the windmill that's mentioned, that's the beach where Peter and I ate all that sand, right? I liked seeing Dad make classic Dad gestures like at 5:22 in the clip, or mom's sweet laughter. It's SO strange to realize there was a time when you guys loved each other. Or could enjoy each other's company. Or had nice things to say about the other. It makes me uncomfortable, as though I'm waiting for it to erupt. This clip is telling though, each of you have moments in which what's going on at home shines right through (mom's look at 6:11 makes me so sad).
I'm glad they got divorced.
***
I went to a meeting tonight and got my one year coin, and outed myself about some intense loneliness that I've been wallowing in without reaching out. So now people have my phone number and it's my job to pick up the phone when they call. Harumph.
I spent the weekend plowing through steps 6, 7 and 8, and am now teetering on the edge of 9. It's been extremely productive, and an arduous, painful process that's taken up many pages of writing and many hours on the phone with Terri. And I've absorbed reading that I've only skimmed before. I wrote in my literature, I underlined, I responded, I made it applicable to me and I asked myself questions in the margins. I made it mine. It's the first time that I've felt that I'm not static and whining about how desperate and unhappy I feel, but am making this program mine by owning how deperate and unhappy I've felt, and my part in it. This year is not something that's happened to me. I wrestled through a full Sunday of completing, avowing to another human being, and turning over my inventory and character defects, an experience that lasted from about 1pm into the night. I took breaks to pray, to read recommended selections from the OA 12&12 and the big book that were applicable, and to eat a peanut butter and apple wrap on lavash bread. I woke up this morning feeling unrested and melancholy, but not in the dramatic sense that I usually make melancholy into. I felt it in the "things are going to be okay but they're just in transition now" sense. It wasn't total weightlessness, but it wasn't the bogged feeling of being rotten at my center that I've felt lately.
Last night the thought kept returning to me that this admission of character defects was an odd process; I feel like I've spent my entire life in the process of learning the right vocabulary to talk about them. They're things I've been aware of since I was very, very little, and I've always known exactly what my rap was on them; my vanity, my need for attention, selfishness (which takes the form of gluttony when it's with food, and neediness when it's with people), my affection for drama whether it's seeking it out in a situation or magnifying a feeling (good or bad) when I'm by myself by listening to the appropriate music. I've always had a kind of fixed speech on all of these things, and writing about them without spin or psychobabble, and with more honesty than I was used has been extremely difficult.
One of the things I really pulled apart last night was how I use music to feel. I think it's supposed to be the other way around, that music is supposed to be the catalyst, is supposed to inspire in you an organic emotion or a response, but more often than not I'm listening music as a method of intensifying an already existing emotion within me. I've essentially used music to enrich my emotions, whether I'm feeling lonely (Ray LaMontagne, Patty Griffin, Alison Krauss, Nickel Creek, James Taylor), detached (Marc Cohn, Chopin, selective Paul Simon, Liturgical Chant), empowered (Nikki Costa, SR71, Pat Benetar, Handel), or just like myself, comfortable with me (Barenaked Ladies, Bonnie Raitt, Des'ree, Mike Doughty, Bach). I've used it to solidify feelings for people, to indulge in my feelings for them more deeply, or to help detach from them by listening to music that belongs to someone else. And it WORKS- it actively changes the things that I'm feeling and how I behave as a result, or can move me deeper into the ones I'm feeling. The problem with this is that as this music intensifies whatever emotion I'm riding, I'm less and less in control of myself- I'm entirely owned by my feelings, which means I'm even more likely to shoot from the hip in responding to what I'm feeling. If I'm lonely this means I'll more anxiously seek out an instant cure for the loneliness, numbing with eating or another quick fix. If I'm feeling joyful the music I choose will further propel me into that joy, making it bigger, grander, brighter, higher than it would otherwise have been, which means that joy isn't as organic, and it also means that when it begins to melt, I have an unnaturally far distance to fall. If I'm feeling rejected or bitter or depressive, the music I have to hear dramatizes those feelings, puts me into a music video where I'm watching myself cry, makes my outlook even bleaker than it was without the music. It allows me an unnaturally large spectrum of emotion where everything I feel, even apathy, is more consuming. Every emotion is better with the music, there's a high that comes from feeling that deeply, even if it's a negative feeling. It's like emotional masturbation. I react to every feeling in an immediate way (that's usually selfish), and this is how using music like I do can get me in trouble. The feelings become so big that I'm actually owned by them and, they to act for me. I'm sure music isn't supposed to be used like this (yeah yeah there's no 'supposed to' with music, but for me there are definitely contexts in which it can be destructive to me. Seeing that sentence in print makes me sad.) Wow that was quite a rant. Perhaps it didn't make sense at all, but that's the best I can do. That's just an example of the kind of unraveling of my behavior and my defects that I've done this weekend. And there was so much more, I just chose this one to explain because it's one I have less shame about and feel I can talk about publicly like this.
It was neat to recognize that my defects serve one of two purposes. Either their about increasing or maintaining my self-esteem (which I consider to be the same thing as my comfort level with myself), or their about seeking an emotional thrill...a high. I'm quite head-first in the 7th step prayer. The fact that it begins with "My Creator" moves me very much. It's more humbling than "God", and also more affectionate.
***
I worked lunch today, a longish shift, made solid tips and was exhausted by the end because my ACL knee is in a whole lot of pain- not the ACL itself or the muscles around it, but the part of my shin bone that's near my knee that they had to drill through to actually get to the inside of my knee is swollen and very, very painful to the touch. Not like the skin is infected or anything, but it's something inside; there's a large mass on the bone, and it's looking very strange. So that's worrying me, and I'm gonna make an appointment with my orthopedic guy to take a look at it. Tonight when I got home from the meeting I did laundry, I finished my Symmetry homework, and I brushed my teeth. And now I'm going to fish my work laundry out of the washer to put in the dryer (yes, I often leave non work laundry wet in the laundry machine for longer than I should). Tomorrow I have symmetry, then I'm going rock climbing with some people from Upstairs, and then I'm going in to work the dinner shift. Go fish!
Well this is odd to watch. Dad is so pretty and charming and well-spoken (and talks over the host a lot) and Mum is a total babe, jittery and awkward and adorable (and far too self deprecating). And I want to know what my shirt said that Dad mentioned! And the windmill that's mentioned, that's the beach where Peter and I ate all that sand, right? I liked seeing Dad make classic Dad gestures like at 5:22 in the clip, or mom's sweet laughter. It's SO strange to realize there was a time when you guys loved each other. Or could enjoy each other's company. Or had nice things to say about the other. It makes me uncomfortable, as though I'm waiting for it to erupt. This clip is telling though, each of you have moments in which what's going on at home shines right through (mom's look at 6:11 makes me so sad).
I'm glad they got divorced.
***
I went to a meeting tonight and got my one year coin, and outed myself about some intense loneliness that I've been wallowing in without reaching out. So now people have my phone number and it's my job to pick up the phone when they call. Harumph.
I spent the weekend plowing through steps 6, 7 and 8, and am now teetering on the edge of 9. It's been extremely productive, and an arduous, painful process that's taken up many pages of writing and many hours on the phone with Terri. And I've absorbed reading that I've only skimmed before. I wrote in my literature, I underlined, I responded, I made it applicable to me and I asked myself questions in the margins. I made it mine. It's the first time that I've felt that I'm not static and whining about how desperate and unhappy I feel, but am making this program mine by owning how deperate and unhappy I've felt, and my part in it. This year is not something that's happened to me. I wrestled through a full Sunday of completing, avowing to another human being, and turning over my inventory and character defects, an experience that lasted from about 1pm into the night. I took breaks to pray, to read recommended selections from the OA 12&12 and the big book that were applicable, and to eat a peanut butter and apple wrap on lavash bread. I woke up this morning feeling unrested and melancholy, but not in the dramatic sense that I usually make melancholy into. I felt it in the "things are going to be okay but they're just in transition now" sense. It wasn't total weightlessness, but it wasn't the bogged feeling of being rotten at my center that I've felt lately.
Last night the thought kept returning to me that this admission of character defects was an odd process; I feel like I've spent my entire life in the process of learning the right vocabulary to talk about them. They're things I've been aware of since I was very, very little, and I've always known exactly what my rap was on them; my vanity, my need for attention, selfishness (which takes the form of gluttony when it's with food, and neediness when it's with people), my affection for drama whether it's seeking it out in a situation or magnifying a feeling (good or bad) when I'm by myself by listening to the appropriate music. I've always had a kind of fixed speech on all of these things, and writing about them without spin or psychobabble, and with more honesty than I was used has been extremely difficult.
One of the things I really pulled apart last night was how I use music to feel. I think it's supposed to be the other way around, that music is supposed to be the catalyst, is supposed to inspire in you an organic emotion or a response, but more often than not I'm listening music as a method of intensifying an already existing emotion within me. I've essentially used music to enrich my emotions, whether I'm feeling lonely (Ray LaMontagne, Patty Griffin, Alison Krauss, Nickel Creek, James Taylor), detached (Marc Cohn, Chopin, selective Paul Simon, Liturgical Chant), empowered (Nikki Costa, SR71, Pat Benetar, Handel), or just like myself, comfortable with me (Barenaked Ladies, Bonnie Raitt, Des'ree, Mike Doughty, Bach). I've used it to solidify feelings for people, to indulge in my feelings for them more deeply, or to help detach from them by listening to music that belongs to someone else. And it WORKS- it actively changes the things that I'm feeling and how I behave as a result, or can move me deeper into the ones I'm feeling. The problem with this is that as this music intensifies whatever emotion I'm riding, I'm less and less in control of myself- I'm entirely owned by my feelings, which means I'm even more likely to shoot from the hip in responding to what I'm feeling. If I'm lonely this means I'll more anxiously seek out an instant cure for the loneliness, numbing with eating or another quick fix. If I'm feeling joyful the music I choose will further propel me into that joy, making it bigger, grander, brighter, higher than it would otherwise have been, which means that joy isn't as organic, and it also means that when it begins to melt, I have an unnaturally far distance to fall. If I'm feeling rejected or bitter or depressive, the music I have to hear dramatizes those feelings, puts me into a music video where I'm watching myself cry, makes my outlook even bleaker than it was without the music. It allows me an unnaturally large spectrum of emotion where everything I feel, even apathy, is more consuming. Every emotion is better with the music, there's a high that comes from feeling that deeply, even if it's a negative feeling. It's like emotional masturbation. I react to every feeling in an immediate way (that's usually selfish), and this is how using music like I do can get me in trouble. The feelings become so big that I'm actually owned by them and, they to act for me. I'm sure music isn't supposed to be used like this (yeah yeah there's no 'supposed to' with music, but for me there are definitely contexts in which it can be destructive to me. Seeing that sentence in print makes me sad.) Wow that was quite a rant. Perhaps it didn't make sense at all, but that's the best I can do. That's just an example of the kind of unraveling of my behavior and my defects that I've done this weekend. And there was so much more, I just chose this one to explain because it's one I have less shame about and feel I can talk about publicly like this.
It was neat to recognize that my defects serve one of two purposes. Either their about increasing or maintaining my self-esteem (which I consider to be the same thing as my comfort level with myself), or their about seeking an emotional thrill...a high. I'm quite head-first in the 7th step prayer. The fact that it begins with "My Creator" moves me very much. It's more humbling than "God", and also more affectionate.
***
I worked lunch today, a longish shift, made solid tips and was exhausted by the end because my ACL knee is in a whole lot of pain- not the ACL itself or the muscles around it, but the part of my shin bone that's near my knee that they had to drill through to actually get to the inside of my knee is swollen and very, very painful to the touch. Not like the skin is infected or anything, but it's something inside; there's a large mass on the bone, and it's looking very strange. So that's worrying me, and I'm gonna make an appointment with my orthopedic guy to take a look at it. Tonight when I got home from the meeting I did laundry, I finished my Symmetry homework, and I brushed my teeth. And now I'm going to fish my work laundry out of the washer to put in the dryer (yes, I often leave non work laundry wet in the laundry machine for longer than I should). Tomorrow I have symmetry, then I'm going rock climbing with some people from Upstairs, and then I'm going in to work the dinner shift. Go fish!
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
I hear the bells
I'm 1 today. One year out of bulimia. I have really mixed feelings about it, some shame, some relief, but pride comes through once I stop over analyzing.
That said, here's my latest romance: http://ricetoriches.com/
Feel free to skip the intro. Do notice, however, that they ship. Anywhere in the country. Like 221 Boston Ave for example.
I have much more to say on all this, both the rice pudding and my one year, but I'm running out the door to yoga and it's slushy out so...anon!
That said, here's my latest romance: http://ricetoriches.com/
Feel free to skip the intro. Do notice, however, that they ship. Anywhere in the country. Like 221 Boston Ave for example.
I have much more to say on all this, both the rice pudding and my one year, but I'm running out the door to yoga and it's slushy out so...anon!
Friday, February 08, 2008
CNN
Mum, Kate and I have just returned from a faaabulous David Mamet play called November featuring Nathan Lane who, thankfully, didn't play Nathan Lane. It was terribly funny and topical and cutting, and we all agreed on the walk home that it was one Grandpa Allan had to get himself to as soon as possible.
The three of us caught an early flight this morning, landing around 11, we suffered the hour and twenty minute taxi ride to the Hotel London where we dropped our bags and went out in search of a deli to grab a bite. Our big plan was Afternoon tea, so we only had to stave off hungar till 4 or so. Then we walked. I usually have a pretty decent sense of direction, notice landmarks, have enough of an internal compass to orient myself with where we are respective to where we began...I must have left this compass at home because I was totally turned around. Which doesn't make a whole lot of sense because New York is a pretty straight-forward grid, but I spent so much time people-watching or billboard gawking and navigating throught the people around me (who constantly bump into eachother and don't apologize...I got weird looks when I did) that by the time we got to Central Park the only thing I could remember was how far we were from the nearest establishment that boasted their "famous cheesecake". It was across the street. We strolled through the park briskly, we did some shopping in Esprit (I now own another pair of work pants), Kate and I gave eachother agreeing judgemental looks when we saw any woman with extremely high heels, animal fur, and massive sun glasses (or any combination thereof), and Mum fondled every colorful pashmina within a three mile radius of us.
Then we got to tea; we'd originally planned to go to the Pierre, where we'd gone with Michael when we were last here, however it turned out to be closed for rennovation for the next sixteen months, so we settled for the St. Regis. Delicate and very satisfying little tea sandwiches, decent scones that came with an array of jams and lemon curd and of course clotted cream of which we had to order more, and pasterie, each bite of which Kate and I disected with critical tongues. I love how often we both choose the same adjective to describe a flavor, orange zest as 'rounder' than grapefruit zest, or half-joking about how one would make a line graph of a flavor from the moment it hit your tongue till the moment it died. We fantasized about starting our own bakery, what we'd specialize in, how to keep out the riff-raff who only came in for coffee and muffins and had no explorative taste buds. Its funny to hear her talk about it, because it's something we joke about alot, and Kate's introduction of the subject is never serious and is often apologized for, but we end up discussing it in such detail and excitement that I can't help but feel it's something she'd really be happy doing but feels guilty about her educational investments and doesn't want to squander them without at first trying to land a job in academia. I think I could be happy running a bakery as long as I could do it in addition to conducting or singing...the thought doesn't satisfy me entirely- no thought really does- unless it includes the music somehow. I'm excited at the prospect of searching for a more solid job once I'm out of Tufts, poking around the Los Angeles Children's Choir, asking Anthony what his experience has been like, reading the job descriptions for any music job anywhere. It feels strange to say this, but I'm a little afraid to look for a teaching job; I don't really feel qualified to teach due to my entire lack of experience, and I also feel like a bit of a fake. As though I'm not a real musician, as though I don't know enough to actually teach beyond a certain level. I was sitting in a RAP session with the premier choir (BCC's highest level group, all high school students) and helping them with a worksheet one of the other TF's had assigned them, and realized that I was unable to answer their questions as easily as I should be. The worksheet had intervals notated on it, and you were simply asked to identify the interval, Perfect Fifth, Diminished 7th, Augmented 3rd, etc. And of course my response to each of those questions is to say "listen to it in your head - what does it sound like?" which is not so helpful to them because this group isn't particularly strong with their ear training. So they do it using theory, either counting half steps, or simply identifying how the note is spelled on the staff, for example E to A# (Augmented Fourth) and recognize if it was major, minor, augmented or diminished. Simple, right?. I realized as I was answering these questions that my method of doing it by ear alone wasn't always useful...because I was answering what it sounded like as opposed to how it was written. Doing it my way meant that it was often right, but not always. For example, the interval of D to F# and the interval of D to Gb (G flat) would sound the same, but because there are three steps from D to F when it's notated as such, and D to Gb is four steps, they are actually named as different intervals. This is because (and here's the wonder of the freekin' piano) F# and Gb are the same key...they're called enharmonic equivelants. Anyway, this is when I had actual proof that I wasn't completely equipt to teach. I've done myself a great disservice with relying upon my ears constantly. I often rationalized to myself that I didn't need to attend to the details of the theory because ultimately I could hear it correctly, which meant I could sing it correctly. However if someone asks me to speak about it as opposed to sing, I'm often slow, and sometimes wrong. So. I'm actually looking forward to reviewing some of my theory books (and the teaching books we sometimes use for lesson plans) just so I can feel more secure in my knowledge about the music itself, as opposed to relying solely on my knowledge as a musician.
Whew! That was exhausting to write. Sorry if it was confusing. The point is I have work to do, and I'm excited to do it. And even more excited to feel that I can back up my degree with something other than experience.
Tomorrow Mum and I are going to an 8am meeting, then she and I will meet Kate for yoga, then Dim Sum, then the Museum of Modern Art, then a musical called Spring Awakening. And now I'm going to crash. Because I'm wiped out.
The three of us caught an early flight this morning, landing around 11, we suffered the hour and twenty minute taxi ride to the Hotel London where we dropped our bags and went out in search of a deli to grab a bite. Our big plan was Afternoon tea, so we only had to stave off hungar till 4 or so. Then we walked. I usually have a pretty decent sense of direction, notice landmarks, have enough of an internal compass to orient myself with where we are respective to where we began...I must have left this compass at home because I was totally turned around. Which doesn't make a whole lot of sense because New York is a pretty straight-forward grid, but I spent so much time people-watching or billboard gawking and navigating throught the people around me (who constantly bump into eachother and don't apologize...I got weird looks when I did) that by the time we got to Central Park the only thing I could remember was how far we were from the nearest establishment that boasted their "famous cheesecake". It was across the street. We strolled through the park briskly, we did some shopping in Esprit (I now own another pair of work pants), Kate and I gave eachother agreeing judgemental looks when we saw any woman with extremely high heels, animal fur, and massive sun glasses (or any combination thereof), and Mum fondled every colorful pashmina within a three mile radius of us.
Then we got to tea; we'd originally planned to go to the Pierre, where we'd gone with Michael when we were last here, however it turned out to be closed for rennovation for the next sixteen months, so we settled for the St. Regis. Delicate and very satisfying little tea sandwiches, decent scones that came with an array of jams and lemon curd and of course clotted cream of which we had to order more, and pasterie, each bite of which Kate and I disected with critical tongues. I love how often we both choose the same adjective to describe a flavor, orange zest as 'rounder' than grapefruit zest, or half-joking about how one would make a line graph of a flavor from the moment it hit your tongue till the moment it died. We fantasized about starting our own bakery, what we'd specialize in, how to keep out the riff-raff who only came in for coffee and muffins and had no explorative taste buds. Its funny to hear her talk about it, because it's something we joke about alot, and Kate's introduction of the subject is never serious and is often apologized for, but we end up discussing it in such detail and excitement that I can't help but feel it's something she'd really be happy doing but feels guilty about her educational investments and doesn't want to squander them without at first trying to land a job in academia. I think I could be happy running a bakery as long as I could do it in addition to conducting or singing...the thought doesn't satisfy me entirely- no thought really does- unless it includes the music somehow. I'm excited at the prospect of searching for a more solid job once I'm out of Tufts, poking around the Los Angeles Children's Choir, asking Anthony what his experience has been like, reading the job descriptions for any music job anywhere. It feels strange to say this, but I'm a little afraid to look for a teaching job; I don't really feel qualified to teach due to my entire lack of experience, and I also feel like a bit of a fake. As though I'm not a real musician, as though I don't know enough to actually teach beyond a certain level. I was sitting in a RAP session with the premier choir (BCC's highest level group, all high school students) and helping them with a worksheet one of the other TF's had assigned them, and realized that I was unable to answer their questions as easily as I should be. The worksheet had intervals notated on it, and you were simply asked to identify the interval, Perfect Fifth, Diminished 7th, Augmented 3rd, etc. And of course my response to each of those questions is to say "listen to it in your head - what does it sound like?" which is not so helpful to them because this group isn't particularly strong with their ear training. So they do it using theory, either counting half steps, or simply identifying how the note is spelled on the staff, for example E to A# (Augmented Fourth) and recognize if it was major, minor, augmented or diminished. Simple, right?. I realized as I was answering these questions that my method of doing it by ear alone wasn't always useful...because I was answering what it sounded like as opposed to how it was written. Doing it my way meant that it was often right, but not always. For example, the interval of D to F# and the interval of D to Gb (G flat) would sound the same, but because there are three steps from D to F when it's notated as such, and D to Gb is four steps, they are actually named as different intervals. This is because (and here's the wonder of the freekin' piano) F# and Gb are the same key...they're called enharmonic equivelants. Anyway, this is when I had actual proof that I wasn't completely equipt to teach. I've done myself a great disservice with relying upon my ears constantly. I often rationalized to myself that I didn't need to attend to the details of the theory because ultimately I could hear it correctly, which meant I could sing it correctly. However if someone asks me to speak about it as opposed to sing, I'm often slow, and sometimes wrong. So. I'm actually looking forward to reviewing some of my theory books (and the teaching books we sometimes use for lesson plans) just so I can feel more secure in my knowledge about the music itself, as opposed to relying solely on my knowledge as a musician.
Whew! That was exhausting to write. Sorry if it was confusing. The point is I have work to do, and I'm excited to do it. And even more excited to feel that I can back up my degree with something other than experience.
Tomorrow Mum and I are going to an 8am meeting, then she and I will meet Kate for yoga, then Dim Sum, then the Museum of Modern Art, then a musical called Spring Awakening. And now I'm going to crash. Because I'm wiped out.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
on the porch drinkin' ice cold cherry coke, where everything is black and white
Boston's pouring with rain; I am lonely today. I guess the semicolon would suggest they're connected, they're not, I just like proving that I went to college.
I realized when I sat down just now that I haven't said a face-to-face word with anybody today with the exception of Kelly, who is paid to listen to the things I say. Just read that sentence back and now I'm thinking maybe that's not so unusual, maybe many people go through their days solo and stay connected solely through the phone, maybe that's not so odd. Heh. Maybe I'm just looking for a reason to feel sorry for myself (I'm so very good at that). I had Symmetry this morning, then Kelly, then this hour and a half Yoga class from which my shoulders and wrists are pretty sore; there- that's a good reason! And one I can't complain about but once.
I'm still in my totally sweaty yoga clothes, and this isn't gym sweaty, this is wring-out-my-pants-into-a-bucket sweaty. The kind of sweaty where, as I'm driving home, I'm trying to support all my weight in my feet and my hands on the steering wheel thereby assuring my butt doesn't actually touch the seat and leave this massive ass mark. That usually lasts about two blocks.
So now I'm home, I'm eating some yogurt and honey, I'm finished with the first part of this week's Symmetry homework, and I've got two hours before I need to be at work for the dinner shift. I've got the big book that I bought at the meeting monday morning sitting atop the shelf to my left. This is my first experience with feeling as though an inanimate object is actively staring at me. Even text books and unfamiliar music for approaching concerts never gave me the eye like this. Big voice says shower, download music, catch up on dear abby. Little voice says do the reading Terri asked me to do. First three chapters, then some writing. I feel stupid being told this. Stupid because I've grown up hearing this damn book read, I've read the first three chapters myself before, and stupid because after all that I still need to do it again. Also because I remember telling Lucy once when we were all at the Sunday meeting (and mind you, I was 11), that we'd never have to worry about needing to come to these meetings because we'd already know what to do. I guess that means the lesson I got from going was simply 'don't develop a thinking problem'. And a whole bunch of nifty catch phrases. I don't think I ever listened closely enough to get the message of 'don't develop a thinking problem. Or a feeling problem. Or an eating disorder while you're at it'.
Hm. Just fear. I'm afraid. I am lonely.
So now that I've procrastinated thoroughly by writing here, I'm gonna sit on the floor next to my teeny space heater and read chapters 1-3 for the next half hour, or however long it takes. I won't die of being sweaty a little longer.
Then shower, then to Upstairs for the dinner shift.
I realized when I sat down just now that I haven't said a face-to-face word with anybody today with the exception of Kelly, who is paid to listen to the things I say. Just read that sentence back and now I'm thinking maybe that's not so unusual, maybe many people go through their days solo and stay connected solely through the phone, maybe that's not so odd. Heh. Maybe I'm just looking for a reason to feel sorry for myself (I'm so very good at that). I had Symmetry this morning, then Kelly, then this hour and a half Yoga class from which my shoulders and wrists are pretty sore; there- that's a good reason! And one I can't complain about but once.
I'm still in my totally sweaty yoga clothes, and this isn't gym sweaty, this is wring-out-my-pants-into-a-bucket sweaty. The kind of sweaty where, as I'm driving home, I'm trying to support all my weight in my feet and my hands on the steering wheel thereby assuring my butt doesn't actually touch the seat and leave this massive ass mark. That usually lasts about two blocks.
So now I'm home, I'm eating some yogurt and honey, I'm finished with the first part of this week's Symmetry homework, and I've got two hours before I need to be at work for the dinner shift. I've got the big book that I bought at the meeting monday morning sitting atop the shelf to my left. This is my first experience with feeling as though an inanimate object is actively staring at me. Even text books and unfamiliar music for approaching concerts never gave me the eye like this. Big voice says shower, download music, catch up on dear abby. Little voice says do the reading Terri asked me to do. First three chapters, then some writing. I feel stupid being told this. Stupid because I've grown up hearing this damn book read, I've read the first three chapters myself before, and stupid because after all that I still need to do it again. Also because I remember telling Lucy once when we were all at the Sunday meeting (and mind you, I was 11), that we'd never have to worry about needing to come to these meetings because we'd already know what to do. I guess that means the lesson I got from going was simply 'don't develop a thinking problem'. And a whole bunch of nifty catch phrases. I don't think I ever listened closely enough to get the message of 'don't develop a thinking problem. Or a feeling problem. Or an eating disorder while you're at it'.
Hm. Just fear. I'm afraid. I am lonely.
So now that I've procrastinated thoroughly by writing here, I'm gonna sit on the floor next to my teeny space heater and read chapters 1-3 for the next half hour, or however long it takes. I won't die of being sweaty a little longer.
Then shower, then to Upstairs for the dinner shift.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Dona Nobis Pacem (bach b-minor, not the chairlift)
I'm up, it's still dark out, I'm cranky, I'm unbelievably tired, I've just had a bowl of cereal and I'm gonna grab a piece of string cheese when I get in the car, but first to the shower. I'm supposed to call Terri after the meeting so this is my in-writing reminder to do so. Morning folks. Today feels new.
Oh! And Mum and Nancy fly east today! Wooohoooo! I think we should all do dinner at Upstairs Thursday night when I'm not workin.
Oh! And Mum and Nancy fly east today! Wooohoooo! I think we should all do dinner at Upstairs Thursday night when I'm not workin.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
the breath that blows these cool winds round
Mailing off my W-2 forms to Renee, and feeling like a big girl. For the first day in eons. Today I talked to Clint, I talked to Emma, I talked to Mum, I left messages with Terri, I prayed constantly. I prayed for the willingness to let go of all the control I was imagining I could have over everything around me. And then prayed for the panic that arose immediately at the thought of relinquishing that control to be lifted, or at least eased. I prayed for the willingness to be honest. Which came. It all came.
I've found a 7am meeting tomorrow, it's AA and it's big book but I'm going to go anyway. I hope that's alright. I'll go into work lunch from there (likely spending the time in between reading at Starbucks).
Today I ate one whole butterscotch pudding, many little mint chocolates, some eggs, breakfast breads, bites of salad, bits of all things pastry, an onion ring, a lady finger...no actual real meal. I'm not taking care of my food. I had plenty of calories I'm sure, but no nutrients to speak of. I'll have an actual breakfast tomorrow before the meeting. Which means I should pretty much just get up now.
Just remembered I'm supposed to conduct a Tufts rehearsal tomorrow and I haven't looked at the music. Tomorrow's a busier day than I'd expected...I'm looking forward to this weekend in New York. I really, really need the break. Really.
I have no inspiring observations about the day, no quirky things to mention, just relief and exhaustion and hope.
Oh wait I do have one funny thing- the printers went down at work tonight, the ones in the kitchen that print the orders we ring in, and so we had to do it all manually. It was rather slow, so Tony instituted a rule that he would ignore all tickets that weren't illustrated. It became pictionary on the ticket. When a woman requested the pork chop with no potatoes and extra broccoli raab, I drew a very unhappy piggy with an ax above it's head, next to it a potato (that was a lumpy mass upon which I drew tiny eyes) with an X through it. Next to the potato was a plus sign, and then I drew a piece of broccoli and one of those old-timey thieves with a black eye mask sneaking away with a "loot" bag with a big dollar sign on it...then I wrote "verb" under his picture, indicating that it was not "Robber" that I was looking for, but "Rob". So. I got my pork chop, no potatoes, extra broccoli raab. I love that I can leave my crap at the door when I come to work.
Oh! This is big news- they asked me to sing at Upstairs! Like a night of me and a piano and a mic! I get to pick the night and they'll advertise and everything! I'm terrified. And thrilled. And the restaurant owners are gonna set me up with an accompanist- a guy who plays jazz there some nights - everything! I'm hoping I'm courageous enough to follow up, this is right there on the table for me. I'm wickedly excited.
Okay, just talked to Terri, to bed I go. It's been a very, very long day.
(by the way, Blogger's spell check is down, so now it's officially revealed how truly hopeless I am with spelling. Feel free to point and laugh.)
I've found a 7am meeting tomorrow, it's AA and it's big book but I'm going to go anyway. I hope that's alright. I'll go into work lunch from there (likely spending the time in between reading at Starbucks).
Today I ate one whole butterscotch pudding, many little mint chocolates, some eggs, breakfast breads, bites of salad, bits of all things pastry, an onion ring, a lady finger...no actual real meal. I'm not taking care of my food. I had plenty of calories I'm sure, but no nutrients to speak of. I'll have an actual breakfast tomorrow before the meeting. Which means I should pretty much just get up now.
Just remembered I'm supposed to conduct a Tufts rehearsal tomorrow and I haven't looked at the music. Tomorrow's a busier day than I'd expected...I'm looking forward to this weekend in New York. I really, really need the break. Really.
I have no inspiring observations about the day, no quirky things to mention, just relief and exhaustion and hope.
Oh wait I do have one funny thing- the printers went down at work tonight, the ones in the kitchen that print the orders we ring in, and so we had to do it all manually. It was rather slow, so Tony instituted a rule that he would ignore all tickets that weren't illustrated. It became pictionary on the ticket. When a woman requested the pork chop with no potatoes and extra broccoli raab, I drew a very unhappy piggy with an ax above it's head, next to it a potato (that was a lumpy mass upon which I drew tiny eyes) with an X through it. Next to the potato was a plus sign, and then I drew a piece of broccoli and one of those old-timey thieves with a black eye mask sneaking away with a "loot" bag with a big dollar sign on it...then I wrote "verb" under his picture, indicating that it was not "Robber" that I was looking for, but "Rob". So. I got my pork chop, no potatoes, extra broccoli raab. I love that I can leave my crap at the door when I come to work.
Oh! This is big news- they asked me to sing at Upstairs! Like a night of me and a piano and a mic! I get to pick the night and they'll advertise and everything! I'm terrified. And thrilled. And the restaurant owners are gonna set me up with an accompanist- a guy who plays jazz there some nights - everything! I'm hoping I'm courageous enough to follow up, this is right there on the table for me. I'm wickedly excited.
Okay, just talked to Terri, to bed I go. It's been a very, very long day.
(by the way, Blogger's spell check is down, so now it's officially revealed how truly hopeless I am with spelling. Feel free to point and laugh.)
Saturday, February 02, 2008
washing machine noises
A tiresome day at the restaurant, beginning with lunch shift at 10am, continuing through tea, and then hostessing at dinner which I've discovered I really don't like as much as I thought I might. It's a lot of waiting around and running up and down stairs between the Monday Club and the Soiree Room upstairs and organizing reservations and...it's not as mindless as making tubs full of roll-ups, as physical as balancing plates and racing from the kitchen out to the floor and back, and there's not nearly as much interaction with people as there is when you're waiting tables. And that's what I missed. On the bright side I did get to wear something other than black slacks, white button-down and a tie, but that was little compensation.
After work I felt numb, exhausted, and viciously under-slept. I had an unbelievably difficult and unproductive conversation with Emma (that I'm certain was my fault, most things are), but then unraveled it all with Terri on the way home, and felt much much calmer. She was talking about the difference between shame and guilt. I definitely remember hearing about this at Sierra Tucson, I know it was the topic of a number of workshops and group sessions, but I don't think I paid much attention to it because I didn't think it applied to me. I understand a little better now that it really does. Terri explained that guilt was when I feel badly about something I've done, a mistake I've made. Shame is when I am the mistake. How quickly I go from "things are going badly" to "I am bad". Or maybe less drastically "this situation isn't right" to "somethings not right with me". Hearing her talk about this was a relief, so much so that I cried. When I heard her say "I am the mistake", that's what really did it. Since I was 14 at the Sunday meeting I've wondered if I am one of those "such unfortunates", because I felt within me this gnawing thing that told me something wasn't wired right. I can't imagine that anyone is able to hear that phrase about the constitutionally incapable without for a moment wondering in fear that it might apply to them. After all, they're in this room, in this meeting, are they not? The people around them have written them off as a lost cause, they're morally and emotionally and spiritually at the bottom of most barrels, why not here too? Certainly it's not far-fetched to think that would apply to any of us, but I wonder sometimes if "constitutionally incapable" is a cop-out. This topic of shame and punishment and retribution has been really haunting me lately. I don't know what I have to say about it yet but I'm sure more will come soon.
I've just opened up a BCC check. The MLK weekend stipend was supposed to be for $250 but it's been knocked down to $150. Which averages roughly to about 5 bucks an hour. I want to complain given that we all basically worked 3 days straight before that concert, wrangling singers and running rehearsals in preparation but I know it's not a particularly wealthy organization and I'm so grateful that I'm even being paid to do it in the first place that I feel like I should just shut the hell up and deposit the damn thing.
I have no music playing because I don't think I can really handle anything right now. (Did I mention that the background music at the TF's dinner last night was Best of James Taylor?). So I'm listening to the tak tak of my keyboard and the wumwumwumwum of my washing machine that's running because I need to wash my shirts for work tomorrow. I like how when it goes on spin cycle I can feel my whole third floor shake. I've agreed to work brunch and dinner tomorrow, which will have a special menu in honor of the Superbowl. That's right. Our gourmet restaurant serving chili, homemade chips and guac, and hot dogs with cheese. Classy. I trust it'll be upscale versions of them all; we have to be pompous about everything. As for the game itself, I know the patriots are playing but I don't know who the other team is. Here's how much I care about the Superbowl:
I care about it this much- from here --> <-- to here. That's not even an inch.
I'm a little bitter about the game. Tom Petty and all the rest. It's really rough to think about. I'm not well there. I'm grateful I'll be running around the restaurant, hopefully without much time to stop and watch much more than a commercial or two.
My shoulders ache. I need to get myself to bed. Miles and miles and miles to go before I sleep.
After work I felt numb, exhausted, and viciously under-slept. I had an unbelievably difficult and unproductive conversation with Emma (that I'm certain was my fault, most things are), but then unraveled it all with Terri on the way home, and felt much much calmer. She was talking about the difference between shame and guilt. I definitely remember hearing about this at Sierra Tucson, I know it was the topic of a number of workshops and group sessions, but I don't think I paid much attention to it because I didn't think it applied to me. I understand a little better now that it really does. Terri explained that guilt was when I feel badly about something I've done, a mistake I've made. Shame is when I am the mistake. How quickly I go from "things are going badly" to "I am bad". Or maybe less drastically "this situation isn't right" to "somethings not right with me". Hearing her talk about this was a relief, so much so that I cried. When I heard her say "I am the mistake", that's what really did it. Since I was 14 at the Sunday meeting I've wondered if I am one of those "such unfortunates", because I felt within me this gnawing thing that told me something wasn't wired right. I can't imagine that anyone is able to hear that phrase about the constitutionally incapable without for a moment wondering in fear that it might apply to them. After all, they're in this room, in this meeting, are they not? The people around them have written them off as a lost cause, they're morally and emotionally and spiritually at the bottom of most barrels, why not here too? Certainly it's not far-fetched to think that would apply to any of us, but I wonder sometimes if "constitutionally incapable" is a cop-out. This topic of shame and punishment and retribution has been really haunting me lately. I don't know what I have to say about it yet but I'm sure more will come soon.
I've just opened up a BCC check. The MLK weekend stipend was supposed to be for $250 but it's been knocked down to $150. Which averages roughly to about 5 bucks an hour. I want to complain given that we all basically worked 3 days straight before that concert, wrangling singers and running rehearsals in preparation but I know it's not a particularly wealthy organization and I'm so grateful that I'm even being paid to do it in the first place that I feel like I should just shut the hell up and deposit the damn thing.
I have no music playing because I don't think I can really handle anything right now. (Did I mention that the background music at the TF's dinner last night was Best of James Taylor?). So I'm listening to the tak tak of my keyboard and the wumwumwumwum of my washing machine that's running because I need to wash my shirts for work tomorrow. I like how when it goes on spin cycle I can feel my whole third floor shake. I've agreed to work brunch and dinner tomorrow, which will have a special menu in honor of the Superbowl. That's right. Our gourmet restaurant serving chili, homemade chips and guac, and hot dogs with cheese. Classy. I trust it'll be upscale versions of them all; we have to be pompous about everything. As for the game itself, I know the patriots are playing but I don't know who the other team is. Here's how much I care about the Superbowl:
I care about it this much- from here --> <-- to here. That's not even an inch.
I'm a little bitter about the game. Tom Petty and all the rest. It's really rough to think about. I'm not well there. I'm grateful I'll be running around the restaurant, hopefully without much time to stop and watch much more than a commercial or two.
My shoulders ache. I need to get myself to bed. Miles and miles and miles to go before I sleep.
Friday, February 01, 2008
It's up to your knees out there
I've just returned from rock climbing with some people from work and there's still chalk in the crevices of my hands and my forearms are achy and I can feel my heart beat in my shoulders. It was really nice to do something purely physical but that doesn't require any internal vision or personal peace. Cause I have none of that. What I do have is the ability to belay up to speed (that's when, in top roping, you're the person on the ground locking the line to your harness as the person you're attached to climbs so if they slip they don't fall), and to ascend a 5.8 level without even a smidgeon of grace. I climbed like I wrestle, I'm all scrappy and without form and I certainly don't look good doing it (my sweats were all bunched in my harness like a giant diaper and the waistband had snuck up into my armpits) but I got up there.
It's raining like crazy here, has been all day, even sleeting some, and I'm going to brave the traffic tonight to go to a dinner that Michele (Assistant Director of the BCC) is holding at her house for the teaching fellows. It'll be nice to have a meal that comes out of the oven rather than the microwave, or one that's not an mistake dish at the restaurant that everyone has had their forks in. So I'll battle traffic as soon as I'm dressed and out of the shower. Or out of the shower and dressed, whatever works.
Also, I got my first Symmetry assignment back this morning and I got a B. It's not whopping, it's not fantastic, and I know it's only the first bit of homework but it's passing and that pleases me...it's a bit of hope suggesting that, at some point, I'll get a diploma and I won't live in Medford any more.
I'm really grateful to have had plenty to do today, and to have somewhere to be tonight. I feel like shit and I'm being plagued by the wrong music at every turn. All Tom Petty, all James Taylor, all Rascal Flats, India Arie, Ben Folds, even Barenaked Ladies aren't safe. Songs that have no affiliation to me but sound remotely mournful or longing or self-indulgent, no, I'm just gonna make the blanket statement that anything that begins with the chord progression I - vi - V is entirely unsafe and likely to throw me into my wallow. By the way Wallow is a noun now. I've had to make a playlist consisting of only Paul Simon and Bonnie Raitt and even then not all of their stuff is okay, so I've had to supplement with stuff that makes me laugh out loud, like Eric Cartman singing "Come Sail Away" and the audio recording of each of the Harry Potter books! Anything to get out of my head, anything to pull my head out of ...well ...my head. I was talking with Terri yesterday, Mum's sponsor (and, I hesitate to say it, mine?) and she was talking about living from the neck down, letting the head go off on it's own balloon ride - which is fine - as long as the body doesn't decide to react to it, or worse, go take the actual balloon ride (that's my crappy metaphor not hers). Let the head go, don't pay it any mind, just do something physical like a shower or yoga or teeth brushing. To me, the thought of living in my body is really not comfortable either, but lately it's preferable to the circus that's trying to calm down in my head.
I'm going to go take the shower and un-numb a little and then get dressed to go to dinner with the other teaching fellows.
Oh, and add Alison Krauss to the above list of unsafe artists. "Stay" especially.
What I wouldn't give to be 9 again.
It's raining like crazy here, has been all day, even sleeting some, and I'm going to brave the traffic tonight to go to a dinner that Michele (Assistant Director of the BCC) is holding at her house for the teaching fellows. It'll be nice to have a meal that comes out of the oven rather than the microwave, or one that's not an mistake dish at the restaurant that everyone has had their forks in. So I'll battle traffic as soon as I'm dressed and out of the shower. Or out of the shower and dressed, whatever works.
Also, I got my first Symmetry assignment back this morning and I got a B. It's not whopping, it's not fantastic, and I know it's only the first bit of homework but it's passing and that pleases me...it's a bit of hope suggesting that, at some point, I'll get a diploma and I won't live in Medford any more.
I'm really grateful to have had plenty to do today, and to have somewhere to be tonight. I feel like shit and I'm being plagued by the wrong music at every turn. All Tom Petty, all James Taylor, all Rascal Flats, India Arie, Ben Folds, even Barenaked Ladies aren't safe. Songs that have no affiliation to me but sound remotely mournful or longing or self-indulgent, no, I'm just gonna make the blanket statement that anything that begins with the chord progression I - vi - V is entirely unsafe and likely to throw me into my wallow. By the way Wallow is a noun now. I've had to make a playlist consisting of only Paul Simon and Bonnie Raitt and even then not all of their stuff is okay, so I've had to supplement with stuff that makes me laugh out loud, like Eric Cartman singing "Come Sail Away" and the audio recording of each of the Harry Potter books! Anything to get out of my head, anything to pull my head out of ...well ...my head. I was talking with Terri yesterday, Mum's sponsor (and, I hesitate to say it, mine?) and she was talking about living from the neck down, letting the head go off on it's own balloon ride - which is fine - as long as the body doesn't decide to react to it, or worse, go take the actual balloon ride (that's my crappy metaphor not hers). Let the head go, don't pay it any mind, just do something physical like a shower or yoga or teeth brushing. To me, the thought of living in my body is really not comfortable either, but lately it's preferable to the circus that's trying to calm down in my head.
I'm going to go take the shower and un-numb a little and then get dressed to go to dinner with the other teaching fellows.
Oh, and add Alison Krauss to the above list of unsafe artists. "Stay" especially.
What I wouldn't give to be 9 again.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
you can shine like silver all you want but you're just aluminum
I just got back from Symmetry class...wow that sounds pretty dorky. I got up at 9, made myself a peanut butter and apple wrap for breakfast and took it with me up to campus. It's one of those gray days where it's timidly rainy and the trees on the horizon are gray with fog and distance. This day reminds me of early spring at Skidmore, only then I didn't feel so condemed to be me. I listened to a lot of Marc Cohn then, his songs Ghost Train and Strangers In a Car felt melancholy but filled with hope and carried me up the hill to campus every day. Winter was just melting away from Saratoga, some snow lingered and it was strange to see it with those licks of warmer wind. I had sent in my application to Tufts and was waiting to hear back but felt so positive I'd be accepted. Where I was felt comfortable, I had friends, I felt content with who I was, how I was, the music I was doing, but I knew I could do better. That's mostly what Tufts was about. What stands out to me so vividly from those days is the way the North Woods looked from the top of the tower dorm, green and expansive, mysterious yet undangerous, my own feeling of empowerment and invicibility, self esteem, and this reliable momentum that I was going somewhere better. That I really deserved to.
I can't help but feeling as though I catapulted myself right into Medford, hitting the ground so hard I fused with it. It's like anticipating a great vacation and finding out you're actually going to squat a storm cellar in Omaha. Only I've been here almost 5 years and I think I've been truly happy only 30% of the time.
I'm writing, and inventorying, and feeling generally miserable (self made! atta girl!) and I'm not feeling like I'm fitting into any meetings and I haven't heard back from the woman I'd really like to sponsor me (yes, it's been a day, but I'm getting something out of feeling shitty here, so lemme run with it). I had a really funny encounter at the Children's Choir yesterday when I went in for a quick meeting, and realized when I got out that I had only my parents to tell about it. I don't have anyone I can call up out of the blue and relay this incident to without a full fifteen minutes of awkward catching up. I don't know anybody. I'm really ashamed to know anybody. The thought of making enough of a friend out of someone where I'm obligated to tell them who I am and what I've done and what I want to do sounds truly impossible, and yet it's exactly what I need.
In addition to a time machine. And a sponsor. And to be institutionalized. And to go rollerblading on the beach and come home and have my entire world be okay.
I'm going to try and shake this very productive thinking with a yoga class. I've got Kelly at 2, then the children's choir at 5. Throughout all that I'll do my lesson plan for tonight and whatever writing I can manage. I'm grateful I'm busy.
Wish I lived in the black and white Walking In Memphis music video
Also wish blogger knew how to embed music. Pity.
I can't help but feeling as though I catapulted myself right into Medford, hitting the ground so hard I fused with it. It's like anticipating a great vacation and finding out you're actually going to squat a storm cellar in Omaha. Only I've been here almost 5 years and I think I've been truly happy only 30% of the time.
I'm writing, and inventorying, and feeling generally miserable (self made! atta girl!) and I'm not feeling like I'm fitting into any meetings and I haven't heard back from the woman I'd really like to sponsor me (yes, it's been a day, but I'm getting something out of feeling shitty here, so lemme run with it). I had a really funny encounter at the Children's Choir yesterday when I went in for a quick meeting, and realized when I got out that I had only my parents to tell about it. I don't have anyone I can call up out of the blue and relay this incident to without a full fifteen minutes of awkward catching up. I don't know anybody. I'm really ashamed to know anybody. The thought of making enough of a friend out of someone where I'm obligated to tell them who I am and what I've done and what I want to do sounds truly impossible, and yet it's exactly what I need.
In addition to a time machine. And a sponsor. And to be institutionalized. And to go rollerblading on the beach and come home and have my entire world be okay.
I'm going to try and shake this very productive thinking with a yoga class. I've got Kelly at 2, then the children's choir at 5. Throughout all that I'll do my lesson plan for tonight and whatever writing I can manage. I'm grateful I'm busy.
Wish I lived in the black and white Walking In Memphis music video
Also wish blogger knew how to embed music. Pity.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Karamu, fiesta, forever
I'm home from what's felt like an exhausting day of rehearsal at North Prospect made all the more grueling by the fact that I was viciously under-slept. My plan was to go to a meeting tonight but I'm feeling tired enough that I'm contemplating not going (this is an example of me being confused as to whether I'm just being lazy, or actually giving myself a break). I worked last night at the restaurant, and it was intense- we did over 130 covers and I (gracefully!) managed a very persnickety party of investors that I'm told left some very sweet compliments about me with Matt who was managing last night. Despite the hubbub of full friday night service, I found a terrific moment of zen doing side-work in the kitchen (in this case I was doing roll-ups and napkin triangly thingys. I tend to like the mindlessness of side-work, all things I can do and check off a list and feel very accomplished. Make coffee. I know how to do that! Make two buckets of roll-ups. I know how to do that! Polish a butt-load of silverware. etc. I get the same thrill out of sitting down at a doctor's office that I'm visiting for the first time and filling out my personal history- it's like a test that I know all of the answers too. Really, I'm not kidding, answering these questionnaires make me feel capable and accomplished, as though I'd studied. I know my birthday, my allergies, my surgical history, and usually where I am in my menstrual cycle. I have all these answers. I can make all these roll-ups. Which is what I did last night, hiding out in the kitchen for the last half hour of service listening to the ancient Paul Simon cd that no one but me plays on our chef's cd player. I love every one of those songs, every one of those lyrics, and they come to me like the names of my own family.
Okay, so that was my bubble of zen, it was from then on out that the night got a little wacky: I cashed out, changed, and left with Nate (one of the other servers, very tall, lanky, and utterly flaming), drove to his apartment, picked up his boyfriend, and the three of us went to a club called Machine down by Fenway park that is quite literally the gayest place on earth. I don't mean that they were merely accepting of and supportive to alternative lifestyles, I mean that this was...how do you say it...a boy's dance club. Now I knew all this when Nate had asked me to go, I knew I'd be the only lady in there, I'd anticipated that the bouncer would give me a strange look as I came in with Nate and his boyfriend and I was all prepared with my witty quip about how I was chaperoning, and of course he laughed and shrugged, and I was all geared up for a night of dancing by myself and occasionally prancing with Nate. I was not, let me repeat, was not prepared for the men with the unbelievable pecs wearing little white booty shorts pole dancing, or the guys wearing go-go boots, or the few in sequined dresses. I was wearing my blue Pali Swim sweat pants and sneakers, and a white v-neck. It was awesome. I've gotta say though, it felt very different- and a relief- to be in a group of men and not be approached or commented upon. I feel egotistical saying that, vain and even guilty because it admits being aware of the negative attention I get for the way that I look, but it felt nice to know that I didn't have to be protective of myself, that no one would try to dance with me, and most importantly that no one there would give two shits how I danced. I really just got to let loose and jump around and be in my own personal music video; I must have looked like the ultimate spaz, but at the time I felt truly badass. I danced from about midnight till 2 am (I don't think I've had a late night like that since London) and I could still feel my quads ache this morning when I got up to go to my 9am rehearsal. I had a blast.
I still haven't decided what I'm gonna do tonight...I think I'll watch Little Women in bed, maybe order in. Dado Tea in Cambridge has this great tofu salad thing with warm beans but it's all the way in Cambridge and I've got my little space heater goin up here and it's pretty cozy. Quiet and a little lonely, but cozy.
Okay, so that was my bubble of zen, it was from then on out that the night got a little wacky: I cashed out, changed, and left with Nate (one of the other servers, very tall, lanky, and utterly flaming), drove to his apartment, picked up his boyfriend, and the three of us went to a club called Machine down by Fenway park that is quite literally the gayest place on earth. I don't mean that they were merely accepting of and supportive to alternative lifestyles, I mean that this was...how do you say it...a boy's dance club. Now I knew all this when Nate had asked me to go, I knew I'd be the only lady in there, I'd anticipated that the bouncer would give me a strange look as I came in with Nate and his boyfriend and I was all prepared with my witty quip about how I was chaperoning, and of course he laughed and shrugged, and I was all geared up for a night of dancing by myself and occasionally prancing with Nate. I was not, let me repeat, was not prepared for the men with the unbelievable pecs wearing little white booty shorts pole dancing, or the guys wearing go-go boots, or the few in sequined dresses. I was wearing my blue Pali Swim sweat pants and sneakers, and a white v-neck. It was awesome. I've gotta say though, it felt very different- and a relief- to be in a group of men and not be approached or commented upon. I feel egotistical saying that, vain and even guilty because it admits being aware of the negative attention I get for the way that I look, but it felt nice to know that I didn't have to be protective of myself, that no one would try to dance with me, and most importantly that no one there would give two shits how I danced. I really just got to let loose and jump around and be in my own personal music video; I must have looked like the ultimate spaz, but at the time I felt truly badass. I danced from about midnight till 2 am (I don't think I've had a late night like that since London) and I could still feel my quads ache this morning when I got up to go to my 9am rehearsal. I had a blast.
I still haven't decided what I'm gonna do tonight...I think I'll watch Little Women in bed, maybe order in. Dado Tea in Cambridge has this great tofu salad thing with warm beans but it's all the way in Cambridge and I've got my little space heater goin up here and it's pretty cozy. Quiet and a little lonely, but cozy.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
gentle Annie
I've been trying to go to meetings over this past week Alanon, OA, AA, really anything I can find where that language is spoken. I could easily be in a room full of homeless folk and provided that they were reading The Promises I'd be at home. I'm less gung-ho about the OA meetings because the meetings here are so frustratingly food-based; when they go through what it was like, what happened and what it's like now, their stories rarely delve into the evolution of their relationships, their thinking, their relationship with god, in fact their "what happened" is usually simply that they started weighing and measuring every portion of every meal, following a rigorous no flour no sugar diet that was granted to them by the grace of god. Okay. That's not for me, and I know I sound defensive here when I say this, and it even feels a little as though I'm looking for ways to be the exception to the rule, but a strict weighed and measured diet that is not allowed to include any joy (flour and sugar) does not sound like freedom to me. In some respects I can understand how this method allows you to basically hand over your food, it's nolonger your responsibility- it's god's, and you get to turn your attention to the rest of your life (and now I'm confusing myself a little as I write this, because that, technically does sound like freedom to me) but I want my freedom to include choice, variety, and indulgence. I want to temper my relationship with food, not give up on it entirely and restrict it to portion-sizes. I guess I also want to continue working on the part of my recovery that is about paying attention to my body with my eyes closed - not analysis in front of the mirror, but continuing to learn to feel when I'm hungry, acknowledge when I'm full; to me that's a HUGE part of my own recovery that I feel the weighed and measured approach doesn't allow for. I also want my process to be focused on steps and not food. At all. In fact I'm really not sure that OA is the best program for me because of how very food-centric it is (I actually find it pretty triggering sometimes). I was shocked to rediscover how frequently people mention their current weight, their clothing size, the amount of weight they've lost, how much they used to weigh- this is stuff that still drives me MAD to hear! I hear women mention weights that are in the range of my highest weight, my lowest weight, and it doesn't even matter what context it's mentioned in, I'm immediately comparing- if that was their heaviest, and this is my healthy weight, and what I ate today, and what I could eat instead, and what if my weight crept up to that weight again and this same woman saw ME. The crazy creeps in and I can't tame it...which is why I went to an Alanon meeting today where I felt so safe. In a way I don't really fit into Alanon either- everyone there is codependent in the way that I am not, that is to say that they're people-pleasers and doormats and entirely devoted to other people in ways that don't benefit them. I'm a people pleaser, absolutely but in a very different way: I'm bad at it. Yet, that desire to keep everyone around me happy and content, that need to make sure the emotional temperature of those around me is still very present. I feel a little guilty sitting in a room full of people that can only be identified as 'givers', while I myself am no doubt a 'taker', but what we do share is our thinking. The loneliness, the fear of losing, of the people we love being angry with us, or worse- disappointed. The only thing I feel I have that they don't is entitlement...gluttony, and shame, and that's where I think OA will play a role in this.
Guidance?
Guidance?
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Still like that Spanish dancer
I'm sitting in my room in blue pj's nibbling a Godiva dark chocolate square and feeling pretty shitty. Like my life has been on halt for a few days. I took a school bus with the children's choir tonight up to Concord where they had an MLK performance for the Concord City Diversity Committee. Again, it was one of those experiences where I kept thinking "I can't believe they're putting me in charge of this. I can't believe I'm the only adult? on this bus. I can't believe they're asking my permission." I sat, like the grown up is supposed to, in the front of the bus with the clip board and the snacks and my sheet music and tuning fork and directions for the bus driver and the sign-out sheets with all the kid's emergency contact information on it, and was thankful that the kids stayed mostly quiet so I could spend the hour and half trafficy ride looking out the window and listening to my little red ipod. Sometimes on the road with my forehead against the glass I could have sworn I was on the 405 on my way into Marlborough. I can't believe I'm the responsible one. Me, with the rest of my life on fire around me (and me with matches in my hand, wondering how the hell this blaze started) and I'm given thirty seven kids to transport up to Concord, feed, warm up, rehearse, and hand off to Michele for their concert.
When I rode into Marlborough I usually sat up front with Shane Lynch and Maile Borthwick (Claire Borthwick was way too cool to play) and Lauren Raab, and the three of us would play this...amazing game. The school bus was a space ship, and we, it's crew, had to guide it through the many dangerous catastrophes we'd encounter on the way into school. This was seventh grade. We had no shame. I was pretty much in charge of the game, that is to say that I directed the action, warned everyone of approaching threats and enemies, and when I was feeling bossy, suggested things I thought other characters would say. Lauren's name was Captain Ramsay, Shane was Miss Isseris and was in charge of weapons, and I don't remember my main character's name but I can tell you that I was a medic...and at one point a spy for the Peons who were always attacking us. I also played the voice of a character named Atrix that we were only able to contact by radio; he was our master commander and he had a cockney accent but he was in a different ship or time zone or something (he was named after a character from the computer game MYST that Peter was really into at the time). Our crew would encounter such terrifying challenges as 'the fog that turns people inside out' (actually from the Simpsons, but they never knew that), gigantic minefields that our fearless (and obedient) Captain Ramsay would have to navigate, and the aforementioned Peons (which I've since learned is a term derived from Spanish that refered to hacienda workers...I think for some reason it was a word I'd heard before and thought was foreign and cool) who would attack us for reasons we never really decided upon. I'd pictured Peons as tiny gnat-like aliens who's ships were impenetrable (and equally tiny) and would swarm upon us and puncture our ship, but thankfully they never penetrated it's walls and every day we arrived safely to our destinations (mine was 26th and Georgina, at the Country Mart) unharmed and usually exhausted. We were so loud on the bus, so completely devoted to our characters with voices and facial expressions and dramatic wails of fear and cries of victory...the rest of the bus couldn't stand us, but we loved it. Our plots would often involve betrayal and mistrust and confusion and great prophecies that may or may not be fulfilled next monday morning. But we were so into this game (which I think had a name, only I can't remember it right now) that I can remember getting chills of excitement, or my heart racing from some plot twist. We all felt it. It was as though we pictured ourselves in a TV show...actually I think we honestly did, hold on, I'm remembering this as I type! I'm remembering a moment when Miss Isseris and I made some huge discovery that changed the course of the episode, and in my memory Shane and I looked at eachother and said "aaaand fade out". Yeaaaah I think that's how we did it. Yes! Yes! That's how we'd run the show because between scenes we'd discuss what was going to happen next! (after the commercial break?) I'm pretty sure that's how I got to be the creative force behind the plot- that I got to interject every three minutes or so with "okay then Miss Isseris finds Captain Ramsay's radio device and hears the voice of the head Peon Exxon (yes, really) over it and that's how she discovers Ramsay has been colluding with them which means he was being mind-controlled! Okay! Go!
So, that's what was happening the last time I was on a bus. And here I was tonight with Dishwalla in my ears looking back over my shoulder to make sure they're not crawling under the seats, and reviewing my rehearsal check-list.
The other interesting thing that happened tonight was that one of the kids lost a tooth. His name is Charles Brown (hehe, get it? Charlie Brown?) and he's a little black boy, about 9, with a great voice but is seriously rambunctious. We were eating pizza before warm-up when he turned to me and said "here, this came out" and he proceeded to hand me this tiny tooth. He pulled down his lip to show me the gap. And then he continued eating his pizza, no huge deal, just a tooth. I took him to the bathroom to rinse out the little hole after he was done eating, and while he rinsed I held his tiny tooth in a napkin. I stared at it and thought to myself I'm holding this boy's tooth. It belongs to him and I'm holding it and it's not attached to him anymore. This is maybe the weirdest and strangely most maternal thing I've ever done. I'm sorry I can't explain why that moment felt so profound to me, but it really did.
After we'd returned home from the concert I drove back to Medford and did a quick grocery run for the weekend- lettuces, string cheese, yogurt, honey, fujis, almonds. Walking through the supermarket alone felt impossibly sad. Despite it usually being a little easier on my ED head, I haven't gone grocery shopping alone in awhile, and walking those aisles tonight I felt very low. I talked to myself through most of it; it's the only way I know to manage getting smacked with that kind of loneliness, prayed out loud a little but not loud enough to turn heads. I'll admit though, anyone who grocery shops at the sketchy Foodmaster! at 9 at night is a total yahoo, myself included, so I certainly wasn't the only one talkin to myself. One saving grace was the thought that I wasn't on the floor, and hopeless. I was low, but I wasn't broken. And that's the difference between medication and none. It's a shadow of hope, a little bit of belief that I can change me. Somehow. I believe that. I know it's a matter of therapy and medication and writing and maybe a Boarderline group, a 12-step group, some kind of peer group. It's probably more than that. Like actually changing my words, or re-organizing my believe system so fears aren't at the forefront. It's living so slowly, so mindfully minute to minute that I'm able to discern the reasons for everything I'm doing- no- everything I want to do and say, and decide whether those reasons are within my integrity, or not. Make sense? Enough Psychobabble. Me too. What do they say, actions first the rest will follow? My action is to eat this other square of Godiva white chocolate and hit the sack. Then pray.
When I rode into Marlborough I usually sat up front with Shane Lynch and Maile Borthwick (Claire Borthwick was way too cool to play) and Lauren Raab, and the three of us would play this...amazing game. The school bus was a space ship, and we, it's crew, had to guide it through the many dangerous catastrophes we'd encounter on the way into school. This was seventh grade. We had no shame. I was pretty much in charge of the game, that is to say that I directed the action, warned everyone of approaching threats and enemies, and when I was feeling bossy, suggested things I thought other characters would say. Lauren's name was Captain Ramsay, Shane was Miss Isseris and was in charge of weapons, and I don't remember my main character's name but I can tell you that I was a medic...and at one point a spy for the Peons who were always attacking us. I also played the voice of a character named Atrix that we were only able to contact by radio; he was our master commander and he had a cockney accent but he was in a different ship or time zone or something (he was named after a character from the computer game MYST that Peter was really into at the time). Our crew would encounter such terrifying challenges as 'the fog that turns people inside out' (actually from the Simpsons, but they never knew that), gigantic minefields that our fearless (and obedient) Captain Ramsay would have to navigate, and the aforementioned Peons (which I've since learned is a term derived from Spanish that refered to hacienda workers...I think for some reason it was a word I'd heard before and thought was foreign and cool) who would attack us for reasons we never really decided upon. I'd pictured Peons as tiny gnat-like aliens who's ships were impenetrable (and equally tiny) and would swarm upon us and puncture our ship, but thankfully they never penetrated it's walls and every day we arrived safely to our destinations (mine was 26th and Georgina, at the Country Mart) unharmed and usually exhausted. We were so loud on the bus, so completely devoted to our characters with voices and facial expressions and dramatic wails of fear and cries of victory...the rest of the bus couldn't stand us, but we loved it. Our plots would often involve betrayal and mistrust and confusion and great prophecies that may or may not be fulfilled next monday morning. But we were so into this game (which I think had a name, only I can't remember it right now) that I can remember getting chills of excitement, or my heart racing from some plot twist. We all felt it. It was as though we pictured ourselves in a TV show...actually I think we honestly did, hold on, I'm remembering this as I type! I'm remembering a moment when Miss Isseris and I made some huge discovery that changed the course of the episode, and in my memory Shane and I looked at eachother and said "aaaand fade out". Yeaaaah I think that's how we did it. Yes! Yes! That's how we'd run the show because between scenes we'd discuss what was going to happen next! (after the commercial break?) I'm pretty sure that's how I got to be the creative force behind the plot- that I got to interject every three minutes or so with "okay then Miss Isseris finds Captain Ramsay's radio device and hears the voice of the head Peon Exxon (yes, really) over it and that's how she discovers Ramsay has been colluding with them which means he was being mind-controlled! Okay! Go!
So, that's what was happening the last time I was on a bus. And here I was tonight with Dishwalla in my ears looking back over my shoulder to make sure they're not crawling under the seats, and reviewing my rehearsal check-list.
The other interesting thing that happened tonight was that one of the kids lost a tooth. His name is Charles Brown (hehe, get it? Charlie Brown?) and he's a little black boy, about 9, with a great voice but is seriously rambunctious. We were eating pizza before warm-up when he turned to me and said "here, this came out" and he proceeded to hand me this tiny tooth. He pulled down his lip to show me the gap. And then he continued eating his pizza, no huge deal, just a tooth. I took him to the bathroom to rinse out the little hole after he was done eating, and while he rinsed I held his tiny tooth in a napkin. I stared at it and thought to myself I'm holding this boy's tooth. It belongs to him and I'm holding it and it's not attached to him anymore. This is maybe the weirdest and strangely most maternal thing I've ever done. I'm sorry I can't explain why that moment felt so profound to me, but it really did.
After we'd returned home from the concert I drove back to Medford and did a quick grocery run for the weekend- lettuces, string cheese, yogurt, honey, fujis, almonds. Walking through the supermarket alone felt impossibly sad. Despite it usually being a little easier on my ED head, I haven't gone grocery shopping alone in awhile, and walking those aisles tonight I felt very low. I talked to myself through most of it; it's the only way I know to manage getting smacked with that kind of loneliness, prayed out loud a little but not loud enough to turn heads. I'll admit though, anyone who grocery shops at the sketchy Foodmaster! at 9 at night is a total yahoo, myself included, so I certainly wasn't the only one talkin to myself. One saving grace was the thought that I wasn't on the floor, and hopeless. I was low, but I wasn't broken. And that's the difference between medication and none. It's a shadow of hope, a little bit of belief that I can change me. Somehow. I believe that. I know it's a matter of therapy and medication and writing and maybe a Boarderline group, a 12-step group, some kind of peer group. It's probably more than that. Like actually changing my words, or re-organizing my believe system so fears aren't at the forefront. It's living so slowly, so mindfully minute to minute that I'm able to discern the reasons for everything I'm doing- no- everything I want to do and say, and decide whether those reasons are within my integrity, or not. Make sense? Enough Psychobabble. Me too. What do they say, actions first the rest will follow? My action is to eat this other square of Godiva white chocolate and hit the sack. Then pray.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
