Good Times, Bad Times

The more you don't write, the more nothing there is to not write about.

I have a new car. And by "new" I mean "used." My Sedona finally stuck out its tongue at me one too many times. I love my new used car. It reminds me of the cute little Neon I drove when I was young.

Firecracker had her yearly brain MRI, which made me feel weepy. But it doesn't change anything, so I'm back to sneaking peeks at this illness from the corner of my eye.

A rather annoying situation at church has developed. Dear Husband was working on a Seder and was feeling that the church was not very supportive and hardly anyone was registering, so he thought he should back out. He was so miserable that I thought it the best course. Well, that resulted in a mean spirited and unprofessional email from one of the staff. As a result he's been feeling pretty wretched, but the response didn't make him feel like sticking around, that's for sure. Now the church wants us to write some sort of letter airing our concerns. Jolly.

The 4000th episode of Goede Tijden Slechte Tijden has come and gone, yet the angst remains. Lucas and Noud are still star-crossed, and I fear I will be stuck in this tangled story line until Christmas. Please note: never undertake a building project alone, at night, in an abandoned sanitarium, with a flashlight the size of a pickling cucumber, and be assured that those odd noises you hear are the sounds of someone sneaking about for an inexplicably long time instead of just jumping out and slitting your throat right away. Finally, keep your bloody cell phone on your person. If you are concerned that there is a possibly dangerous someone lurking, don't think, "Hey, I'll just leave my cell phone here while I go investigate that noise upstairs. Meanwhile, why don't you leave your cell phone next to mine and head off in that direction and look for X, who has not been seen since she wandered off without her cell phone. See ya in a bit."

February 25

I feel like if I don’t write something soon, everyone will forget I’m here. Including me. Life seems full of holes at the moment, a bit ragged, and rather dull. Slumberous times, but not refreshing. I do things I don’t enjoy. I do things I usually enjoy but don’t enjoy now. I think enjoyment might require more energy than I have at the moment. It’s very difficult to let discomfort simply be, when it feels like a garrote wrapped around my neck. Perhaps I should stop trying to reassure myself. Why do I try to reassure myself? I’m very unconvincing. I live my life trying to pretend that I am not deeply afraid of: being alone, losing the people I love, being friendless, entering depression and never exiting, passing my mental problems along to my children, having no money, having no faith, living with Firecracker’s disease, looking for meaning and finding nothing, trying to create meaning and being stymied. Being me, just me, as in this is all there is – me anxious, floundering. There is no better me, no me with improved synapses and joie de vivre, no me who is more productive and less defective.

When I was younger, I used to think about being a mistake, that I was shoved into this world with some sort of ontological defect that prevented me from holding the world loosely rather than facing it stricken, as if it were coming after me with claws bared. More people than I realized feel this way, which isn’t much comfort, really. We are always busy leaping out of the way of the industrious, the ambitious, and the determined who think us weak and tiresome.

Some days my thoughts are like the sound of footsteps receding down an empty hallway.

The Mysterious JQ

Someone with the initials JQ has been going through my archives, leaving pleasant comments here and there. But the initials don’t link to a blogger profile.

Who are you, JQ? Do you have a blog somewhere? I appreciate you visiting and taking the time to leave messages. I haven’t left comments in response because I don’t have a decent computer at home for the moment, so I have to squeeze everything in during down times at work.

And in answer to one of your questions, I’ve heard of Ann Sebold, because of The Lovely Bones, but I haven’t read her. I suppose I should…

This Book Could Use a Better Writer

My Vitamin D levels are very low. My thyroid is a bit wonky. Perhaps that is why I feel so little inclination to do anything at all. I have reached a boring patch in the book, the lackluster part you have to slog through – no skipping ahead in this one – before the story picks up again.

Despite my complete lack of ambition, I have a story in a journal

To all my bloggy friends who aren't on Twitter or Facebook (these can just ignore this post), I have a story at Blue Print Review called "Coffee." I think I posted it on the blog some time ago, but now it looks all shiny and new. So stop by and have a look, and then look at the other works - it's an interesting issue.

So go have a look, because right now it feels as if I may never write anything again.

Resurrection = Insurrection: in which I prove once again that I'm incapable of serious thought

I think this floated by in my twitter stream. I don't know much about Peter Rollins, except that he wrote a book called The Orthodox Heretic and a book of parables. I've been on his blog a few times, and thought I was out of my depth. But, you know, it was hard to pass up a teaser like "Resurrection = Insurrection" (the tag line for his blog is "To believe is human; to doubt divine", which makes me want to get hold of his book). So I pressed play.




Resurrection = Insurrection

Great stuff - so much more interesting than the Westminster Catechism.

Now, what do you think my first thought was when I played this?

Do you want to know?

C'mon, guess.

Hit play yourself. You don't have to watch the whole thing (though it would be well worth your time).

*drums fingers*

*whistles*

Well?

My first thought was "Wow, he's hot." Yep. Here's this theologian delivering a really great message about Christ and transformation and my first thought is that he's cute and his accent slays me. My second thought was "Why the hell are they filming him leaning against a wall?" What is it with religious films and funky camera hijinks? I watched a series of videos in which the camera was positioned so that every speaker delivered his message to the air on my left. The director was determined that you were never going to see the speaker head-on. And then of course there are the Nooma videos, which I love but, you know, they have that self-conscious look to them, the "I'm a Christian but I'm not that sort of Christian who decorates with Precious Moments figurines and Thomas Kinkade prints." Which I fully appreciate, don't get me wrong. I'm a snob.

I'm not just a snob; I'm a shallow snob.

But, seriously, what he says about the narrative self and the true self has me thinking. It's a topic I've pondered a lot, particularly since I have one deliberately evasive "good Christian" narrative self for work and another for play and another when I want to appear intellectual (I'm so not spinning that narrative at the moment) and so on. If there is a true self (wow, that sounds really weird to someone raised on postmodernism) I'm not sure who she is. I don't think that I demonstrate love, unless love for my family counts. That seems very insular. I know I'm not participating in a global transformation, important as I think it is. When you get right down to it, I'm self-serving, self-focused, and self-centered, all of which I try to spin into amusing commentary.

Ha! And here's Lent right around the corner...

In the Slough

I’m still paddling around in the backwaters here, among the Spanish moss and gators. So far I’ve kept all my appendages, if not a balanced mind. I am two people at least. The one who goes to work and does homework with the kids and has this rather comfortable domestic life. Then there’s the one talking now, the doppelganger. She is navigating a swamp, alternately alert to lurking danger and lulled by the lapping of sludgy water against the boat. She’s liable to get eaten, because she is growing very bored.

Doldrums

Sigh. I am in the doldrums, and not a breath of fresh air to fill my sails. I’m trying to just let depression be what it is, since it is an inescapable part of the rhythm of my life. It won’t be here forever and it can huff and puff but thanks to modern medicine it can’t blow the house down. I hope.

But you know, it’s like having a cold. Yeah you can keep going and you aren’t dangerously ill, but your nose is rubbed raw and your throat hurts, nothing tastes good and you have to breathe through your mouth. It’s annoying, in other words, and gets in the way. Who can create a coherent plan when they’re sneezing and dabbing at their nose all the time? And complaining about it to anyone is about as entertaining as droning on about your cold symptoms.

Still. The symptoms drag at your consciousness all day long. They change the context for your goals and desires. Everything seems an enormous bother.

What is my deepest fear, the one that is always stirring the silt at the bottom of the pond? I think it is to be left alone, with no one, all social connections cut, the loss of every person who has helped define me. The fear of lack of desire. That’s horrible, to find yourself devoid of interest, with only the patterns of duty to keep you moving forward. One of the worst things about depression is the way that pleasure falls away, so that there is no particular reason to do any particular thing, and every decision seems an impossible riddle. I suppose this is why I cultivate my little obsessions, these hooks on which to hang my attention.

Sigh. At least the girls keep me anchored in reality.

Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House

I survived another birthday sleepover. This year DramaQueen had her sleepover at a hotel, one of Dear Husband’s inspired ideas. Ten year olds are still young enough to find hotels novel, and I didn’t have to clean up before or after. This hotel also had an indoor pool, which went a long way toward tiring the sweet things out.

Ten year old girls can have unbelievably shrill voices. In fact, they were sometimes pitched so high I’m surprised I could still hear them. I thought the sound would have entered that range only people under 20 can hear.

Of course, not every girl was a shrieker. We had a fascinating mix of personalities. There was the quiet, reserved girl who seemed to speak easily enough with the others but remained steadfastly polite and distant with me. The there was the girl who refused to stay up past her normal bedtime. It just wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t make a fuss about it. She just rolled out her sleeping bag and got in. I rather admire that self confidence. No one seemed to mind and they even chided each other for disturbing her (Forgotten in moments, of course. I finally sent her to the extra bed in my room). One girl was cute and rather quiet, until she went off like an alarm at mention of the Jonas Brothers and Justin Beiber, which brought forth some extraordinary squeals, and energized her for the rest of the evening. Another girl was perky and wholesome and reminded me of Bailey from the Suite Life On Deck (yes, I watch a lot of Disney) – a sort of iconic Midwestern girl. The final guest was the well-mannered and altogether wonderful BFF. If you could imagine the ideal friend for your daughter, P. would be that. I think I would use the term “well-bred.” I don’t think that’s essential to good character (God, I hope not, or we’re doomed), but it’s a lovely quality to find. Her family is polite and gracious, and it shows in the children, who are also polite and friendly and full of good humor.

We set up our computer to play music. Periodically the shy, reserved girl would call out, “DramaQueen, what song is this?” That would alert DramaQueen that something had gone horribly wrong, and she would race over to the laptop. “That’s my mom’s awful music!” And we would be back on track listening to Selena Gomez and Jordan Sparks.

They spent a lot of time playing a game called MASH, which I remember from my young days as something passed around in a spiral notebook. This version we paid about $10 dollars for, and consisted of a set of wipe-off cards with questions. MASH is a sort of fortune telling game. Even though I remember playing it, I’m pretty hazy on details. I just remember part of the game was listing potential husbands. Since the notebook was passed around, if you made the mistake of listing an actual real-life boy, you had to worry about them getting hold of the notebook. No doubt our version was lame. DramaQueen often looks at me with pity when I describe anything from my childhood. We were so deprived and had funny hair. If you’re dying to know more, you can go here for a full description.

At one point DramaQueen spilled a bunch of pop rocks on the carpet. This immediately galvanized the group, who decided to apply ice and see if they still popped. The experiment was a success and seemed to delight everyone. And here I was worried about party games. I noticed the next morning that all the spilled pop rocks had mysteriously vanished as if they had never existed. This is an example of God’s grace in action.

I brought stencils and gave all the girls tattoos. This was a great success and I recommend it to anyone else planning a birthday party for tweens. Manicures are so yesterday, but make them look like bikers in training and you have a hit. I did say no, however, when one of the girls asked for a tattoo around her bellybutton.

I discovered who was on team Jacob vs team Edward. Most, including DramaQueen, seemed to be on team Jacob. For those of you who’ve been asleep for the past few years not in the know, I’m talking about Twilight. Jacob is the werewolf and Edward is the vampire. This just goes to show that robust, well-muscled boys with long dark hair and no shirt will always win over skinny pasty-faced boys with floppy hair, however romantic. In general, though, DramaQueen’s response to boys is still “ewww!” Dear Husband thinks this is a front for a deeper curiosity. I don’t know. She looks genuinely baffled by the romance thing to me. And she doesn’t understand why anyone in their right mind would want to use their tongues when they kiss. I seem to remember wondering the same thing at 15 after my first kiss, but that’s another story.

I let them watch Star Trek, and in case any of the parents decided to sue me later, I made them close their eyes when Kirk was making out with the green chick. I could have chosen something rated G, but how boring is that? And this gave me the opportunity to ponder Zachary Quinto, who looks mighty fine even with pointy ears. No one made it to the end of the film. They all conked out around midnight. As I said, I was very happy about that swimming pool.

For the grand finale, Dear Husband brought donuts the next morning and the girls floated off with their parents on a sugar high.

A Minor Paradox

This is one of those days when I feel sure trouble is brewing. I must have a terminal illness. My children are being covertly stalked. A financial crisis of some sort is hiding stealthily in the wings. Something monumentally important has been forgotten, and it will be my fault.

Outside the sun is too bright. This is the time of year when crap happens under the unremittingly clear winter light. And all the memories of crap that has happened at this time of year slinks out of their hidey holes to remind me of the insecurity of all we hold dear.

The other night I dreamed that a crab attacked me. You wouldn’t think that a crab could be so menacing, but it kept coming after me. When I woke I first thought it was a very strange thing to dream about – why a crab? Then I thought of the astrological sign featuring a crab – Cancer.

This makes me think of how much I would prefer to not die. Ever. I like being around. If I have to die, I would like it to be of old age, and not after a punishing dose of chemotherapy, like my mom, or in a nasty auto crash, like my nephew.

I’ve got an investment now. I want to see my grandchildren. I want to see all the medical, scientific, and technological advances that the future will bring. It’s been very exciting so far. Every year brings some advance I’m glad I lived to see, or book, film, or song that I can’t believe the world did without.

I don’t find heaven more appealing than here. I’m lucky that heaven is pretty much here on earth for me, and it’s one of my besetting sins that I don’t make it so for others who know nothing of heaven on earth.

So there you have it. On the one hand I’m weary and pessimistic; on the other I rejoice that the world is turning and I’m still here to enjoy the rotation.

The year that was ... something or other

I was wondering if I should do one of those "year in review" type posts, and then I realized that I can barely remember last week. I could, of course, just make everything up, but happily I have my blog archives. They catalog the strange waxing and waning of my various fixations.

The Top Overwhelming Obsessions of 2009:

Twitter
Facebook
Supernatural
Misha Collins
Torchwood
Foreign soap operas
Writing (not obsessed enough, really)
Patrick Wolf
Owen Pallett

I don't enter a new year brimful of enthusiasm and resolutions. I enter grudgingly, with suspicion. I'm always a little nervous about what bizarre notion will next take hold, and just as worried that perhaps nothing will ever hold my attention again.

I fear the words are slinking away on their inky feet.

Black Dog, Black Turning Eyes

Do you remember the fairy tale "The Tinderbox"? I read the story as a child. I had no idea what a Tinderbox was, but I imagined a wooden box full of twigs. In reality it was a box with a flint and some sort of slow-burning material – what they used before they had matches. (I can see some sort of examination of the rise of industrialization that then resulted in "Little Matchstick Girl," also written by Hans Christian Anderson. That is one sad story. When I was 7 or so our ballet recital was "The Little Matchstick Girl." I was an angel who danced around the dying girl. My costume was blue with itchy feathers around the bodice.)

If you don’t know "The Tinderbox," you should go read it, because ol’ Hans was a rather humorous writer, even when talking about lopping off a witch’s head. To summarize, a young soldier meets a witch who asks him to chimmy down into a hollow tree and fetch her tinderbox. While he’s there he’s free to help himself to all the copper, silver and gold coins, which are guarded by three dogs with enormous eyes. When he gets out, he wants to know why the witch is so keen to get an old tinderbox. She’s snippy and he responds by slicing her head off. Those were the days before anger management.

He’s got tons of gold, so he heads off to live large in town, until he’s broke and has to live in a garret (but doesn’t write poetry) and all his friends abandon him. He’s hanging out in the dark and remembers there’s a candle in the tinderbox. He strikes the flint and who should appear but one of the dogs, ready to do his bidding. Of course he sends him out after more gold. Then the story goes on to an unapproachable princess, a narrow escape from death and the destruction of all the pesky people standing in his way. Basically, we have a parable about corporate America.

Or not. Fairytales are wonderfully adaptable. One of my favorite books of poetry is Anne Sexton’s Transformations, reinterpretations of classic fairytales. And then there’s Angela Carter’s sinister The Bloody Chamber. They are chock o' block with sex, despair, brutality, misogyny, injustice, revenge, depravity. Fairy tales are dark and mean. Just tonight Firecracker woke up from a bad dream about getting lost and a witch locking her in a cage. The world of fairy tales is sicker than Saw. Well, I haven’t seen Saw, but you know what I mean.

I had forgotten about "The Tinderbox" until I ran across a Patrick Wolf (yes, I’m on about him again) song of that title. It’s perfectly done – if ever a song sounded like a fairy tale, this is it. His lyrics eventually land on the desire for lasting love and, I think, for some inner spark of vitality. Which is probably why I'm thinking about it. The flint has to be struck over and over.

Merry Merry

1. We went to a candlelight service at an Episcopal church last night, and it was wonderful.

2. Dear Husband has been reading a book by Ann Rice and he says that after reading her descriptions of growing up Catholic, he gets why I find God in art and why I like liturgical services.

3. I have at least three Starbucks gift cards and a box of Starbucks Via, as well as two gift cards for bookstores. Sigh.

4. The girls each got Nintendo DSi consoles from grandparents. They have the cutest game I have ever seen - Nintendogs - with realistic dogs that you feed and play with. I sounded like I had been hitting the eggnog too much: Awww, that's so cute! Oh, that's just the cutest thing! Oh, look, he's rolling over! Oh, look at them eating!

5. Dear Husband made the most delicious ham I have ever had.

6. The girls and I each got Snuggies.

7. I got little black licorice scottie dogs.

8. The kugel turned out great even though I bought ricotta instead of cottage cheese. I have since found many many recipes from actual Jewish sources using ricotta rather than cottage cheese, so I know I'm not crazy. So there. There are as many variations of kugel as there are of "pasta with sauce." The MIL used rice noodles for Dear Husband, and I couldn't tell the difference. I suppose if you have enough cheese, sour cream and sugar, the noodles just have to sit there and be a bit chewy.

9. DramaQueen is determined to continue believing in Santa Clause. She was glued to NORAD watching his progress, and she decorated cookies, and put out crackers, carrots and water for the reindeer, as well as a message asking for a response. So of course I had to write a letter from Santa. This is the part of Christmas I will mourn passing. Nothing really expresses enchantment so much as a child awaiting Christmas.

I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas. I'm always a little sad when it's over and all the ornaments have to be packed away for another year. As I get older I begin to consider the losses that could accumulate in the coming year, the possibility of mortal illness, the pangs at watching my girls get older and wanting to snuggle them before they decide that's childish and they've outgrown all the kisses and cuddles.

I also really dislike New Year's Eve and New Year's Day. I always have. There's something about the start of a new year that makes my spirit tired and forlorn. I don't like my birthday, either, not because of growing older but because acknowledging my birth also makes me feel tired and forlorn. I suppose I've never felt very celebratory about being born. Speaking of which, DramaQueen's birthday approaches in January and then Firecracker's in February. Birthday parties mean tracking down nonresponders and fretting that no one will show up and worrying that everyone will be bored. I usually try to opt for venues where someone else runs the show, but I guess I'll be doing it this year, at least for DramaQueen.

Thank the Dear Lord that we are not doing Girl Scouts this year.

Gloria

Now, THIS is a Christmas Carol. Boy, it beats listening to Casting Crowns choke out O Come All Ye Faithful.



The sound is so beautiful and pure. It makes contemporary worship music sound like a drunken rattling of tin cans.

And perhaps I should next break out my collection of Gregorian Chants.



Sigh. They don't write 'em like that anymore.

Submission

Failure. Cummulative. Ontological. The details don’t matter. Only this matters. Failure traps my wrists in its cold hands and breathes ice into my mouth. My veins go numb, the blood sluggish. My eyes have fogged over. I am barely here. Then the slow glow of anger catches in my throat. The air vibrates. Imagine your lover brushing his lips across the skin of your inner arm, how it focuses your attention. I feel weak and urgent, the way you feel when you want to be kissed. I am in dissaray, my pulse struggling to find its voice. I have gripped rage hard and his response is swift. The flesh yields to the thin steel blade, and for a moment I’m giddy with relief and the sting of honest pain.

More violins, oh, and a bit of keyboard and orchestra some rain and stuff

Final Fantasy's new album Heartland is due out in early January. I'm fairly dancing with anticipation. I happened across this amazing video of Owen Pallett performing one of the songs from Heartland with the Vienna Symphony Orchestra. Damn, it's amazing.



And then I found a much better version of Many Lives 49MP. This song never ceases to thrill me. He makes a mistake at the end, quite charmingly.



Finally, I thought this was great. He's playing in the rain and won't stop until he's finished his song. I think this song is also from the forthcoming album. I heard him play it at the Atlanta concert. I love the refrain "I'm never going to give it to you" - he sang it directly at the audience.

formspring.me

What 5 people living or dead would you want to have dinner with?

Buster Keaton, Patrick Wolf, Owen Pallett, Franz Kafka, Frida Kahlo. I'll stick with the famous, as I would like to dine with most of my friends anyway. The list could change at any moment. In fact, it's probably changing this very moment...

Ask me anything

formspring.me

Ask me anything http://formspring.me/2tired2move

Bendy

I saw this over at MadPriest's blog:

"Grouping the sexuality of people under the terms gay and straight is a false dichotomy. For a start there are plenty of straight gay people around - if there weren't then there would hardly be a right wing in the Church to fight against.

A true dichotomy would be kinky and straight. Descriptively it is far more accurate and puts people into likeminded groupings (imaginative, creative sexual creatures in one camp - boring killjoys who might as well be dead already as they obviously hate the idea of actually being alive).

From roads to fjords to human beings, things are always far more interesting if they contain kinks, have crinkly edges and are downright bendy."

This made me laugh. He states a truth with such flair and humor. Isn’t this a much better division - the creative sexual creatures and the boring killjoys? I’ve often thought about this division into gay and straight. I've found that both camps want you to be very clear about where you stand. Bisexual is uneasily tolerated as a term for the people who just won’t get off the fence, because of course you should be one way or the other or you’re just kidding yourself.

Human sexuality is amazingly flexible. Whatever your preference, you can always surprise yourself. Unless of course you’ve given up on surprise entirely.

In any case, if Zachary Quinto shows up at my house, I’m not leaving him and Dear Husband alone in the same room. You never know.

Advent

I’ve been reading posts about Advent and wondering how to think about Christmas. I so dislike that little phrase “Jesus is the reason for the season.” If I am completely honest, I would not like Christmas nearly so much if there were not presents and trees, lights and decorations. Although I don’t like the relentless consumerism and marketing of the holidays, I really like many of the secular aspects of Christmas.

I’m not quite sure how to extract Christ from the sentimentalized narrative of events that I’m not sure even happened. Where I work, the thinking is that if the Virgin birth is not true, then Christianity falls apart. I don't know why. The story of a virgin birth really seems like something patched on later to explain how this man could be completely human and divine at the same time. But it’s a beautiful image – the soul of the world waiting for the divine to enter as one of its own, God binding himself in human flesh out of love for his creation, giving himself to his creation. Despite my prevarication, I don’t really feel hypocritical reciting the creed about Jesus being born of a virgin and that he died and rose again. I think so many things are true that aren’t literally true. Good fiction is true. Good poetry is true. And yet there may not be a single actual event in either. They transcend the literal and ascend to a world of – what? – archetypes? Platonic forms? The Christmas story is beautiful. It’s poetry, it may be fiction, it is a vision of what the world could be if we truly followed the law of love, it speaks of our greatest hope that humanity is good, because Jesus was a man and was good, because he championed the outcasts and afflicted, and we ourselves can nurture that goodness.

Dear Husband is frustrated at my lack of passion for Christ, as he puts it. He considers my sense of not fitting in to be of my own making. I do find it very difficult to engage. He loves our new pastor. I find his messages simplistic. Dear Husband thinks I'm antisocial. It's not that I don't think there are other people like me - I just don't think they're at our church. And, yes, I have my guard up based on what I hear people express. My husband fits comfortably into orthodoxy. He doesn't take issue with anything. When I hear our pastor say that doubt must be met with faith, I feel frustrated. It's like saying that hunger must be met with food, and yet the tables are bare. Dear Husband says I didn't really listen. Oh, but I did. I listened, hoping I would hear something startling. I am always hoping I will hear something that will touch me, stir me, invigorate me.

And that is why I am about to turn once again to a more formal style of worship. This next weekend I plan to visit an Episcopal church. I don't necessarily think that I feel completely comfortable there. I have so little experience with this style of worship. I've been to Episcopal/Anglican churches that were sadly out of touch. But I want to experience a little quiet veneration, a different rhythm, the Eucharist as a rite, ritual prayer. Dear Husband is beginning to think I'm a nonbeliever. In many people's opinion, I would be. Not in my own. I just feel tired.