Time enough to write

But did I write? No. The girls played so well together today, making up games & talking about fairies and generally keeping themselves very entertained. But I did chores - including removing a desk from the office, shifting its contents to a box, then moving a bookshelf and all its contents to the desk's spot. (The desk, which I got when I was 10 but am no longer attached to, was put on the sidewalk with a sign that said "FREE" and disappeared by mid-day.)

I could say that if I'd sat down to work on my story, the spell would have been broken, and the kids would have immediately been asking for me. But that's just based on past history, and is not a known fact.

I did, at least, get a little writing done at the Box with Suzanne. And I have about 20 minutes more tonight that I *could* use to write. So there's hope.

My birth mother is still doing all right, as far as I know. I'm going to try a call again in the morning.

All better with the world

My birth mother is out of ICU and in her own room. Thanks to all for your kind thoughts and well-wishes and prayers - I believe that made a difference! She and I had a great conversation this evening. I was afraid I had worn her out by keeping her on the phone for too long, but my half-sister J. told me that earlier in the day, they'd had her laughing so hard, they were afraid she'd have another brain clot and need another surgery. Actually, the problem was a hematoma that they had to drain. We're so glad she seems to be back on the slow but steady road to recovery. I tell you, I think I come from a line of very tough women, and I'm so glad. Not so much for myself in this case, but for her. So glad.

The difficulty of distance

So my birth mother is in ICU three states away, recovering from surgery. The surgery was for bleeding in her brain she suffered after having been in a car accident on Saturday that she and her husband had thought until a few days ago had left them with only bruises and a totaled SUV. (Thank God they had the new vehicle - it was a semi that hit them.)

And all I can do at this point is pray for her and the family that is there with her, and for the medical staff taking care of her. Half the people who might read this blog (and she is, I think, one of the most constant of my readers) already know all this. My thoughts are with them, with you. Here's a hope that you sleep well tonight and awaken feeling better than you do now. I may not be there in body, but I'm as present as I can be in spirit.

Spider

spider

legs finer than a
newborn's eyelash
you
rap-
pel
on
in-
vis-
ible
silk
backlit by the screen
on which these words appear
your body would fit in a 12-pt Palatino
8
with room to spare
you are gone before I can type my name





August, 2000

Read This!

Inside Job by Connie Willis.

I adore Connie Willis' fiction. I mean, adore it. Her latest book is a quick read novella that is just nothing but completely satisfying. So incredibly fun, especially if you like light but brilliant speculative fiction stories.

In terms of rating, I give it, like, a gazillion hundred million stars.

You may not enjoy it quite as much.

How's your Italian?

I didn't see Life is Beautiful, but I've heard nothing but good things about it.
The same director, Roberto Benigni, has a film coming out next week in Italy. It's La Tigre e la Neve (The Tiger and the Snow).

Why do I care? Not because it's a foreign film from a reputable director and actor who plays a poet in post-war Iraq. It apparently didn't do well in a screening this week, anyway. No, I care, and I'll see this movie, for the same reason I saw Rollerball. Because it also stars Jean Reno. A French actor whose parents were Spanish and who was born in Morocco, here playing an Iraqi poet. In an Italian film.

Why not? I'm pathetic. But at least I admit it.

Blip

Perhaps you missed the fact that I wrote 10/3/2005?

Perhaps your computer has experienced a hiccup or blip of some kind, and just didn't read this post that I posted 10/3/2005? Or...a router was down somewhere and so there was a delay in you seeing an updated setdownthis page.

Yes, that's it.

I'm sure that's all it was.

Amazing what a full night's sleep and a couple of encouraging comments can do for one. Truly amazing.

Why, exactly?

...am I posting every day, when most days I resent or dread doing it?

Strike that.

Make it *every* day I resent or dread doing this.

So either I'm going to change my feelings about this, or intentions, or execution, or *something* - or I'm going to stop doing it, regardless of whether I'm two months away from the pre-determined "one year" goal.

I've whined about this before.

Which is, actually, pretty much my point.

So we'll see what happens.

Old Enough for Hogwarts

R is eleven years old today.
(Kate may recognize the sweater.)












...

SCA

The field across from the girls' school, because it's technically part of the Fairgrounds property, is often the venue for things like dog shoes and smaller circuses that come to town. But yesterday, when I was picking up R from school, and I saw the field of tents that had sprung up like some sort of slap-dash medieval village, I immediately thought, "It must be the SCA."

SCA, for those of you who don't know it, stands for "The Society for Creative Anachronism, Inc." In case you don't want to go to their web site and therefore be either completely converted and HAVE TO JOIN NOW! or be completely dismayed at how people can get TOTALLY LOST IN A FANTASY WORLD, here's the blurb about SCA from their home page:

"The SCA is an international organization dedicated to researching and re-creating the arts and skills of pre-17th-century Europe. Our "Known World" consists of 18 kingdoms, with over 30,000 members residing in countries around the world. Members, dressed in clothing of the Middle Ages and Renaissance, attend events which may feature tournaments, arts exhibits, classes, workshops, dancing, feasts, and more. Our "royalty" hold courts at which they recognize and honor members for their contributions to the group."

The short-hand version of this is that there are over 30,000 people in the world playing dress up who aren't afraid to admit it. These same people are also, many of them, avid history buffs and craftsmen. Some of them couldn't hold down a steady job if their lives depended on it, and others are probably doctors and lawyers and auto mechanics and physicists in their spare time. It's probably not much different from the rest of society as a whole, except for their collective capacity for make-believe.

This is another "road not taken" for me. I could be part of the West Kingdom! I could be participating in the Crown Event this weekend, a tournament to decide the next King and Queen! I'm not being sarcastic. I'm serious, here.

Does this scare you? Or, like me, are you sighing, "Ah! I too, have felt that longing to be fully part of a subculture that lets you talk funny, play a role, sleep outside, and partake of interpersonal melodramas that no one else could possibly understand?"

Yes, I'm completely generalizing and probably missing parts of the big pictures. Still, I wonder how many people work in professions with mysterious work-related vocabulary, or pretend to be what they're not in life, or go camping, or suffer from complicated flawed relationships simply because they're fulfilling the need for Drama in their lives. Ok, maybe not the camping part. But the rest? It could be SCA or it could be life. Or, for 30,000 people at least, it could be both.

A much better day

Today I felt like I was able to work through so much - not only to shake the shame and patch up things at work, even improve the situation there (with only one or two other minor flare ups) - and the rest of the taking-care-of-the-kids afternoon, evening & night has gone fairly smoothly too.

D. is at the girls' school again tonight, finishing the texture on the walls for the Kindergarten classroom's bathrooms. He's worked I don't know how many full days at the machine shop followed by hours and hours at the school, now. Poor broken man. (He also picked the wrong week to stop drinking beer.)

R turns 11 on Saturday & will have a party Sunday. On less than a week's notice, all but two or three of her classmates will be attending her party. Sure, it's a small class, but I told R that I thought that spoke of how well she is liked in the class. I didn't say, "Good for you, you're popular!" but I did point out that they're looking forward to celebrating her special day. Considering she's more than once given the exact same, "I don't have any friends at all, no one likes me," speech that I gave at her age (and maybe still give in a slightly modified form - or live trying to avoid having to give), I figured it wouldn't hurt for her to see that she's not the pariah that on bad days she feels she must be.

And because R loves her teacher ("Miss J"), she invited her as well. And just to encourage the instructress to join in the festivities, R apparently told her, "Miss J, If you don't come to my party, I won't pay attention in class."

As you can imagine, when I heard this story from R (later corroborated by Miss J), startling visions of R's entire future academic career (or lack thereof) flashed before my eyes.

But the flip side is that she not only threatened her teacher, she also bribed her. "Don't worry, Mom," I was told, "I also said, 'If you do go to my party, I'll give you a shoulder massage.'"

So she's got that going for her.

For shame...

Shame defined by Dictionary.com:

A painful emotion caused by a strong sense of guilt, embarrassment, unworthiness, or disgrace.
Capacity for such a feeling: Have you no shame?
One that brings dishonor, disgrace, or condemnation.
A condition of disgrace or dishonor; ignominy.
A great disappointment.

Even though a few of my co-workers have once or twice read SetDownThis, I'm going to throw caution to the nor' easterly and mention something happened at work today that's had more of an impact on me than I want it to. In a day already peppered with challenges (good for personal growth, sure), I completely inadvertently made a co-worker feel betrayed and put on the spot and accused of something he didn't do. And he took great umbrage to it.

Usually, when someone tells me directly, "I'm really angry," I don't expect him or her to mean, "I'm really angry at you." I think he eventually understood that my comment (a note in a service record) was never meant to cause problems, but he was thorough in expressing his feelings of betrayal.

I can understand where he is coming from, and on the surface of it, there was nothing wrong with what he was saying. In fact, it can be a refreshing change when someone tells you how they feel immediately, rather than complaining behind your back or harboring smoldering resentment or (my own undesirable gig) doing the passive aggressive thing. But even though I never meant any harm, and even though I apologized for my part of the misunderstanding, and even though I now know how to avoid such error in the future with him, I'm still feeling such a sense of *shame*. Unwarranted, unwelcome, and certainly unnecessary. All I can surmise is that it's leftover from some other time - times - in my past when I was made to feel, or allowed myself to feel, that I had let someone down. Had terribly, horribly, acted to reveal them in a position of culpability - false or true, deserved or not. What a worthless emotion shame is! And what purpose does it serve here, except to widen the already significantly yawning pit between my inaccurate, defeating self-image and my truer (dare I say "worthier") self?

Stoopid shame. Ptooey!! This is me spitting it out. Guilt? Not so bad a thing.

Dictionary.com suggests:
Remorseful awareness of having done something wrong.
Self-reproach for supposed inadequacy or wrongdoing.

Okay, give me guilt over shame, then. I think guilt is better, insofar as it can lead to self-reflection, correction, compassion and change. But shame? Blech! Ptooey!!

Sorry if I got your monitor wet.

Warm buzz

I don't mind telling you that this yoga thing is addictive.
I'm so spaced-out sleepy and peaceful after class, I probably am not safe to drive home. I can imagine nothing better than going straight from an hour of conscious breathing, stretching, grounding, centering to sleep. Sleep! Before my mind kicks in and tells me everything that's "wrong" or that I didn't "fix" today. Off to that place where we are completely vulnerable but should be completely free.

All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.
Change it to the present tense, and that's Julian of Norwich + Ekhart Tolle, thank you very much. Works for me.

Monterey

We're members of the Monterey Bay Aquarium, and yet we didn't go there at all last year, and didn't make it this year until now. But as though to make up for lost time, we spent all of Sunday taking in as much marine life as we could stand before having a giggly dinner at the surreal Monterey Carrows and heading home.


Actually, R and I snuck away for a bit in the early afternoon, so she could get her feet (read: legs) wet in the Pacific and hunt for seashells. I'd also enjoyed a morning jog down along the beach and to the wharf while the family slept in. It somehow felt exotic to run to the sound of seals barking about their breakfast.

Back Chez Nous & Archive Meme

We just pulled into the driveway about 20 minutes ago, and even though I slept practically the whole way home, I'm not up to staying up to detail the weekend or otherwise write a meaningful blog. Pictures and something of more substance tomorrow, then!

But Wait! There is more tonight, thanks to Julia tagging me with this Meme:

1. Go into your archive.

2. Find your 23rd post (or closest to).

3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).

4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.


Here's what I got:

"You don’t have to tell me they were taller once."

This makes little sense out of context, even if I tell you it's a line from a poem. But there it is. Maybe it's a suggestion from the universe that I work on that rewrite, though. Hmmm.

Monterey Bound

We're off for a very short stay in Monterey, and I don't know that I'll have internet access while there, so am posting this brief mid-day post now.

It's beautiful outside, and we're all so looking forward to the getaway. I hope everyone else is also having a very, very pleasant weekend.

Sept. 23, 2005

This title is what happens to you when you run out of titles. The date. This date in history.

I watched Donnie Darko tonight. While alone. At night. After a glass of wine (which always makes me paranoid). After telling myself I wouldn't. And the dog isn't even here (at the kennel while we head out of town for a day).

The film is...unsettling. But also it's a film that makes you think. Mostly, it makes you think that you'd better not watch that kind of thing alone at night after a glass of wine.

But I'm ok now, thanks to the Bach I listened to to take off the edge.

Warning: political in nature

I try to stay away from politics in this blog, if only because I know that the four or so people who might read it have a wide range of political leanings, and I'm not interested in ruffling feathers.

For those of you who have not figured it out yet through knowing me, reading this, or other inference, I did not vote for George Bush. Either time. I respect the office of the President, and I am trying to teach my children to respect our country's leaders. Also, I would like to believe that Mr. Bush sincerely thinks he is doing what is best for this country.

However.

I am angry and bitter and ashamed about where he has lead the U.S., and I do not hold him in high regard. To say the least. He is not invited to Thanksgiving at our house. And I will not be sending him a Christmas card. Praying for him, yes. Sending him a Christmas card, no.

I just got an email that began "Sharon Olds has declined to attend the National Book Festival in Washington" and linked to this article from The Nation. Keep in mind that I don't read The Nation, and don't even know where in the Moveon.org<-->American Enterprise Institute spectrum it falls. However, if I were First Lady Bush, I'd be feeling the sting of Ms. Old's open letter. Especially the last four paragraphs.

Happy First Day of Autumn, Washington D.C. and everyone else.

Giving Blood

Just one of the things I did today was give blood. I imagined myself writing a list of the many other things I did today, but then wondered why? To record only? So that when I read this later I can look back with admiration or regret, pride or dismay? To impress or depress other people?

Let's just say that it's the close of the day, and now:
the girls are asleep, both having had a good solid evening cry for different reasons
D is in the garage, building walls for the Kindergarten bathroom
My left arm is bandaged with a green bandage
the dog is sleeping off vaccines

All is as right with the world as I can, at the moment, make it.

Second Yoga Class and Marine Animals

Just home from the second yoga class. I don't think I was snoring during the last pose ("corpse"), but it's hard to say. Ian said he thinks there was someone snoring, but on the other side of the room from where I was.






So I understand that a giant leatherback turtle was just sighted off the coast of Wales. Very cool - but what's even cooler & more critical is the story I'd missed from last month. Apparently mid-August, a super-pod of dolphins was seen off the coast of Wales. Not a dozen dolphins, not a hundred dolphins, but something like two thousand dolphins, including mothers nursing calves, all headed out somewhere together. I'm not sure whether to be flip and say they're probably saying "So long and thanks for all the fish," or to seriously wonder if they know something we don't. Hmmm...