These are very very delicious. I mean it, so, so tasty. They might be the only really good reason for Easter to exist. Well, that and time off work or school. I would definitely bow down to them, maybe even pray to them. Ok, not really. But anyway.
[the BYU (private Mormon-run university in Utah) Honor Code comprises the rules you have to live by on campus or you'll get kicked out of school]
I never really thought this would happen. I feel ambivalent.
Check it out.
But I do want to say, unequivocally, that I hate Provo. That will never change. Also I like the phrase "ecclesiastical endorsement" just because it's sort of fun to say.
Okay done.
Thank you for your thoughtful question, MNS (see preceding post). So as to give credit where credit is due I pulled "sie" (pronounced like "see") and "hir" (pronounced like "here") from Dean Spade's recent article in the Berkeley Women's Law Journal, "Resisting Medicine, Re/modeling Gender." Spade, founder of the Sylvia Rivera Legal Resource Program, cited them from Leslie Feinberg's 1998 Trans Liberation: Beyond Pink or Blue 1.
Alternatively I recently found a quote by James Green, in an email to Patrick Califia (regarding trans activitism at the 1995 Michigan Womyn's Music Festival) which Califia used in his Sex Changes: Transgender Politics, using "s/he" which I've always liked, and "heesh." If I remember correctly, Green was letting the Festival's leadership know that Feinberg would make their discrimination public "in every public speaking engagement heesh does" if it continued.
Now forgive me, as I'm a grammar freak but may not use the correct terminology. I'm still not sure what a dangling participle is, though I'm quite sure I rarely if ever use them ;) But it seems the personal first and second person pronouns are safe - I, me, you - as they are not and have never been gender-differentiated. As are their respective possessive versions - my, mine, your, yours. And now I'm good with the basic third person - in sie, s/he, and heesh, if I'm reading them accurately. They overlap, yes? Third person possessive is probably my favorite with hir. But what about her/him? Am I missing it? I don't think I've found it yet, maybe I need to go back to the original Feinberg. Shim?
The bottom line: if I become interested in having myself referred to with neutral pronouns, I'll let you know. I have some internalized misogyny to work out before that time, if it comes. [God damn it.] But I think I will continue to use sie and hir in referring to unknown or generalized individuals. I prefer them to s/he and heesh because they are further from the gendered originals - s/he and heesh, to me, imply more that a choice can or should be made, whereas sie and hir feel more definitively neutral, identity in their own right. Which is the point. At least I'll do so as long as I remember. And, I guess, thank my lucky stars that I have the luxury of forgetting. And try not to forget.
Comments? I'm sure I'm overlooking some strange thing. Or not strange. Anyway.
Novelist Kurt Vonnegut dies at 84.
He died. I am very sad. He is truly one of my heroes.
I wonder if it was a blue tunnel after all.
"When I think about my own death, I don't console myself with the idea that my descendants and my books and all that will live on. Anybody with any sense knows that the whole solar system will go up like a celluloid collar by-and-by. I honestly believe, though, that we are wrong to think that moments go away, never to be seen again." 1974
Because words. Words are everything and nothing. They're all we have but they're not real. All. None. Our utmost connection and our utmost separation.
Not real, not tangible. Esoteric floating out in the air. Nonexistent and untouchable in space, in essence, not even real in energy. In the energy spent to write them, maybe, but not energy of their own. Random marks assigned random meanings that could have been any meanings at all but are the meanings they are. Words words words words words words words words words and more words words words words words words words.
Which brings me to connotation and how meaning is meaning but it's not the same; it's meaningless too. Like when as a kid you wonder if you're colorblind but realize you might never be able to find out, because if you see (what you call) red and somebody else sees it as (what you call) green that person will still have grown up identifying it as "red" so their red is your green but they're both called red and it will never make sense you'll never know what they're seeing or if it's colorfully similar to what you see. The meanings. The meanings. Not saying what you mean because the recipient of communication has hir* own connotations and you can't know them, not all of them. Can't know the memory that comes up when you say a certain word at a certain time. There's no communicating we are all stuck in our own world and even shared experiences have individual connotations, though you won't necessarily know it because what you call green is still what sie* calls red even though it's still green.
For his sake I really hope he's gone, gone and didn't have to go through the blue tunnel, because gone is all he always wanted to be, really.
and people who tell me it's not sad, since he had a long life and left all his writing behind, your optimism angers me. I don't feel like explaining myself, since it won't mean to you what I mean to say anyway. You make me tired.
It's not that I feel as alone as I sound it's just that
Well, it's just something.
*I decided to use gender-neutral pronouns today so work on it.
I suspect that my slowly growing social and political awareness is causing me to feel worse and also not better
Because of a distinct (distincly mine) lack of power
& what about when you're working your very hardest and doing you very best
but it's not enough
what about that
sometimes it's not enough. it's not okay
just because something has to be okay doesn't mean it is okay
what then
Is this nauseating up and down really all there is
Am I really supposed to be okay with that
Q: How many women did Joseph Smith marry between 1827, when he married Emma, and 1844, when he died?
A: The historians are not exactly sure, but it's at least 30, and probably several more.
Q: How many do they bother telling you about at church?
A: Just one. Emma's a hero, after all - but not so much when Joseph keeps bedding most young (and some not-so-young) women in his vicinity and she's yelling at him and smacking him around some, as any right-headed person would do. So it saves Joseph's and the church's face if their first prophet isn't a polygamist (especially not [gasp] BEFORE the revelation was publicized) and saves hers if she looks like such a generous, loving, supportive woman instead of a reasonable normal human being.
Oh yeah - another thing they don't tell you about is the fact that several of these women were already married at the time, to living husbands, some of whom knew about the marriages and some of whom did not. I don't think they're too interested in the polyandrous side of things, although I knew from a young age that I'd be a sister-wife in a polygamous heaven.
Q: (just for fun, this one)How many sets of sisters did Joseph marry?
A: I think it's 3 or 4, can't remember exactly, but at least 3.
Q: How old was the youngest and the oldest when they were married?
A: Helen Mar Kimball - 14. Rhoda Richards - 58.
You can see short bios of all the well-documented wives at www.wivesofjosephsmith.org.
I guess it's a result of being invisible for so many years that I maintain a quasi-subconscious fear that I don't exist, or maybe just don't exist enough. When the airport toilet doesn't auto-flush after I stand up it really freaks me out.
I've been working and working on my self-validation skills but still.
So now, despite the fact that I was sobbing in extreme pain last night, since I haven't had a relapse of that intensity since then, I have this feeling that I'll go the endodontist and he'll dismiss me, like, "why are you whining? there's nothing wrong."
-No, Maybe Girl, you did your research, all the information says the same thing; if there's a lot of pain, there's a problem, call the doctor right away.
-But I've been pretty much pain-free all night. Maybe I was blowing it out of proportion.
-Remember? You may blow some things out of proportion, but physical pain has never been one of them.
Okay. Damn. Time to go. Guess I'll see what happens.
It could be political. It would most certainly be economic and social. They're too much entangled. Infuriation. Too much effort, too much destruction for this moment. We only just got me calmed down (thank you my dear).
I guess the most disembodied feeling was brought on by seeing hearing smelling dust from the hardest tissue in my body floating away in tiny particles toward the light they were using to see into my mouth. Go toward the light, little granules of enamel! You smell weird and wrong - go toward the light! And don't forget to tell jesus I'm coming. Good thing the doctor and his assistant had protective glasses on. That'd be like tiny shards of glass, or something - getting in your eyes, your lungs, your nose. I'm practically choking just thinking of it. Well, they're the ones who have to clean the tools afterward, not me. If it's such damned hard tissue why isn't it holding up as well as my bones? My heart, liver, kidneys, even! All fine!They're exposed to bacteria, too, or...some..other...bad..stuff..or..whatever.
Not unhappily disembodied, though. Novocaine a godsend, a reprieve from pain which would only worsen in the coming days (and let me tell you, that's not what's supposed to happen). At least HE explained what the fuck was going on.
Humorous too, because I've never used a dental dam, not until my root canal. Kinky. They poked a little hole in it and trapped it around that one tooth so it'd stay dry. And I thought, this is interesting.
But really, now, what boggles my mind is the outs they constantly give themselves. I mean, come ON, health care professionals are supposed to be trustworthy, infallible! Just like church leaders. Oh. (again, thanks a bunch mom. also thanks larry for the crappy teeth.)
So that he has an out when I see him later and say, it's these waves of the sharpest of pain, coursing through my jaw into my face, my head, my neck. White-hot-white-cold fire, it's waves that give me the chills, I break out immediately in a cold sweat, it's I can't hold still kind of pain. It's if this lasted 10 seconds longer I'd head for the emergency room kind of pain. Yeah. He'll say, oops! I guess we missed some. Happens all the time. Oh well.
It's oh well to him and to me it's two days of a lot of seething, crying, trying to continue to breathe, lying around but not feeling rested, anticipating the new set of surges when I get the hint of pain, almost a tickle (one full of terror), that precedes it.
I could be just a baby, learn to deal with it, life is hard blah blah blah. Pema Chodron's Buddhist 'leaning into the sharp points.' No, you know what? Ask anybody who knows me reasonably well. I can handle an awful lot of pain before it really gets to me. In some cases I enjoy pain, court it. This? This at its worst was, no question, a 10. This shit was leaning into ME. Running me through, more like. Yeah, see? There's a mark where my ribs meet, and in the middle of my back - run clear through -
Hey I think every person who reads this blog was needing to know this so I'll tell you:
It's not okay when parents have so many goddamned children (maybe 7) that communication becomes a grade school game of gossip, even in important situations such as what could be (or could have been) a life-threatening illness of one of the parents.
!!! those !'s are code for my furrowed brow and my indignant petulant feelings. (But thanks to Sissie for telling me, I'd never have known!)
Give me a fucking break, Diane! After 40 years of parenting, you still don't realize this is a problem?
And also bitchety bitch bitch bitch about x and y and z, blah blah yeah george you know the story. I don't mean to undermine myself it's just that I'm such a whinerbaby. WTF.
[Lily in her pup tent. (ha ha ha.)]
Okay, really I'm talking patellar luxation, or a luxating patella, meaning that Lily Bug's kneecap until recently had been sliding back and forth over her femur in and out of alignment, not too painfully but decidedly uncomfortably, such that she's been declining to run on her right rear leg for a couple of months.
So she had surgery on her knee, and we both had a visit to Ponder, Texas, where my brother-in-law is a junior partner in a vet clinic (i.e., we got an amazing deal - thanks Chris!). Ponder is... small enough that there's no stoplight. I was as queer as queer could be there, even just drinking coffee in the gas station (since I wasn't allowed to bring coffee into my sister's Mormon home, since apparently its very presence would violate the Word of Wisdom and soil the whole house). But anyway I don't mean to be a dick, I do appreciate their help and had a good time getting reaquainted with my nephews. And sleeping.
But she was a champ, really. No crying except when she was waking up from the surgery in a room with a bunch of strange, sad dogs in crates and she was thinking, "What the fuck did you hosers do to my leg? And why is my brain so fuzzy? Give me some drugs, now." She was extremely well-behaved on the plane in both directions, too. Now as she's healing, it's a matter of keeping her down more than anything - she doesn't realize they chiseled off and moved her tibial tuberosity (a chunk of her shin bone) from one place to the other, held there until it heals only by a little steel pin, and is apparently feeling pretty well - but I'd much prefer that to any complications or having her in any pain.
Here's Lily, pre-surgery in my arms, after the anesthetist shot her in the bum with sleepy happy drugs.
I watched the whole surgery, and I must say it was fucking cool. I was a couple of feet away, watching this master dog-surgeon-dude sawing away on my tiny dog's tiny bones. My brother-in-law watched from her other side, as he is learning to do the surgery but hadn't seen it done live before. I quite enjoyed it. 
Here is her scar. It's a crappy camera phone picture. She looks like a badass now. But needs some tattoos.
E. the Catholic (my roommate) has taken to calling her tripod, which I find pretty funny. And after two and a half weeks, all her stitches have fallen out except the very bottom one, which the surgeon showed me how to remove. She must've done a bit too much today, as I was home and she was out of her crate quite a bit, because this evening after some serious bone chewing she got down from my lap and sleepily limped over to get to bed, not using the leg at all. It doesn't even look weird when she's trotting or running with a rhythm; from the opposite side you can't even tell she's not using that leg. But when she moves slowly, it's obvious and very pathetic. And absurdly cute.
Mason Jennings, the total shift of tone and pace in the song, the riff the intensity the harmonics followed by the mellow quiet and he sings, slowly,
"You know loving me is not enough...
(moment of quiet + guitar)
I know future is as future does..."
Courtesy of my 3-year old nephew Tommy:
Knock knock. Who's there? Orange. Orange who? Orange I didn't glad to say poop?
(I made him tell it over and over until I could memorize his grammar.)
Courtesy of Bee Season by Myra Goldberg:
"...Though Aaron can identify a few Hebrew words, his knowledge of the language is largely limited to the ability to parse letters...there's no way for him to know he's welcoming in the Sabbath bride as the English translation claims. For all he knows, the entire congregation could be chanting
Green Eggs and Ham.
"Aaron is still musing over his Dr. Seuss realization when he remembers his father's early lessons in consumer consciousness. Ever since Saul dissected a Snoopy Cone Machine commercial for Aaron at age seven, Aaron has been aware of the manipulative powers of advertising. "Never buy a product just because you've seen it on TV," Saul instructed at an age at which recognizing characters on cereal boxes made leaving aisle three empty-handed tantamount to abandoning a friend. As a result, Aaron has grown to mid-adolescence with an eye for label reading. It is at the service's completion, while munching on an oneg cookie, that Aaron realizes he's bought Judaism without consulting the side of the box."
[I feel I can say the same, with different details.]
Fucking fucking FUCK you job. I hate you.
Stupid fucking motherfucker. Stupid fucking people stupid fucking investment stupid fucking training stupid fucking almost catching up stupid feeling better for a while stupid fucking power struggles stupid passive agressiveness stupid loneliness stupid obsessiveness stupid confusion stupid lack of trust stupid too much work
STUPID GODDAMN IT. Shit goddamn motherfucker.
Guess I'm just trying to blow off enough steam to make it a few more days. and try to figure out what the fuck is going on with me. or something.
sometime recently i thought this up as a blog title:
"titles are for oversimplifiers of content." or something. actually there's a word i'm looking for instead of oversimplifiers but i can't quite reach it. oh well.
today without meaning to i'm looking like serious butch circa 1959. like chloe sevigny in "if these walls could talk II." i just need a little more Elvis-like duck tail hair in the back, and a pack of cigarettes to fold into the sleeve of my t-shirt. and don't forget the motorcycle. hee hee. it's a fun game especially since it wasn't purposeful.
here is something else:
re: relational experimentation -
what's different is how i'm seeing myself. i'm confident, cock-sure, even. i hope that lasts throughout, even if my hypothesis about this specific experiment proves fallible.
and the last thing is that what i wanted to write on [stupid] myspace but couldn't fit in the right place is this: camera phones + myspace = a reinforced competitive consumerist system of solypsistic insincerity. and that even being aware of it doesn't leave one immune - i'm as guilty as any. (i admit, i was trying to make that sound complicated and smart, but those words actually do convey what I'm trying to say.)
Fuck you Taco Bell.
(wrote this a while ago, thought I'd expound and publish, didn't expound, published.)
re: recent advertising industry rant:
1 - I happened to be at Union Square Park at the right time of night to go through the lighting display, and it's actually really cool. I was giggling and spent quite a bit of time there. The lights are motion-sensored and fun. Way to go designer Boontje, still fuck you Target. [I re-read the aforementioned sign and there's also a conspicuous section which says something like, "Target has also sponsored other holiday and seasonal displays in New York City." This is starting to sound like a performer's bio in a program, and I hate those too.]
2 - I walked through more than usual of the Union Square subway station, where Amstel bought every open wall space in existence, and overall the ad campaign doesn't actually leave any room to wonder about what brand it is, it was just that my particular morning path happened to cross those few specific ambiguous ads.
There is, in fact, something I find more insidious than advertising campaigns that plaster names, labels, and logos as large as possible everywhere you look, until you're so used to them you almost don't see them anymore (though their effect is just as present on your mind and behavior).
It's this new trend I've been noticing, or maybe it's not new at all, of campaigns that DON'T include either the business name, or the product being advertised, at least not visibly enough to identify it.
3 things:
1. A subway campaign by Starbucks. The more square poster-like ads in the car all feature, very clearly, a big Starbucks cup and the name of a holiday-season-specific product available. And probably some other pro-Starbucks language pertaining to how it will improve the sense of family in your holiday and even your general health and well-being. The context of this ad is a certain color scheme - mostly red, a red background, red cup, white lettering, and either periwinkle blue or mint green accents (these alternate from one to the next).
1a. Then there are the long, thin ads that run above the windows along the entire length of the car, in 3 or 4 pieces. These feature very specifically the same color scheme and attitude, but feature family scenes - mom bringing the Christmas turkey to the family waiting at the table. A row of people bundled up waiting in line to place presents in the mailbox. A big family snowparty with snowballs, iceskating, snowmen, etc. Nowhere in these ads is there a Starbucks cup, nor even a representation of a warm drink, nor the word Starbucks.
2. Also subway related, but in the station - this one by Amstel Light. The ads are all very simple, a huge golden-colored poster with a beer bottle in the center, and it's "dressed up" in different ways, as related to the holiday season. I get off the L-train and the first one I see is tinseled-out and I can't read the brand name. The second is wrapped in foil like a gift, and again I can't read the brand name. The third has a red and white scarf, and the brand is slightly obscured but clear enough that I can guess. Then I turn the corner, and there's a maybe 10-12 foot by 3 foot poster (same colors) outlining each syllable of the first line of "Deck the Halls" including the tra-la-las, as if on a karaoke program where a ball or arrow bounces on each syllable as you sing. The ball is a bottle of unadorned Amstel Light, and since it's not video or movable, there's a separate bottle of beer on top of each syllable. That's 17 bottles of beer on the wall, lined up in a pretty row, leaving no doubt as to the brand.
3. The "installation" at the north end of Union Square Park, called Bright Nights or some shit. They closed down the whole end of the park for nearly a week putting up scaffoling and such, so I was curious when it reopened. Apparently the scaffolding is the support system for some sort of lighting display or program that comes on at night. But, of course, metal scaffolding is ugly alone, so they decorated it with some green fabric and red and white ribbon, almost as if each standing tower is a big gift. Seemed fairly innocuous as I walked through the first time, until I looked a little closer at the ribbon, which is a red background with white printed leaves and flowers, maybe poinsettia, and infiltrated with white target signs, you know, the red and white logo for Target? If you're anywhere close that little target is all you can see clearly on the scaffolding. (I have never seen the light display and don't intend to, so that part's missing from my analysis.) At either end of the walkway is a sign describing the installation, but first mentioning the sponsor, Target, and the designer's name. As if we didn't fucking KNOW it was Target's deal.
Problems: a) the advertisers are pretending to be generous with the space they've bought in not being clear that these are indeed advertisements, (as opposed to actual donated space or a public service announcement) which is illegal, by the way - check the FTC - but these big wigs have probably found ways around that. ADVERTISERS ARE NOT GENEROUS EVER. b) the advertisers believe that their logos as unconnected to a name or product will be enough to carry the effect of the supposedly sanctimonius message - and THEY'RE CORRECT. c) due to the nature of advertising as it has been, obscuring the advertised product simply makes people more curious and confused, therefore increasing the effectiveness of the ads with out obscured products. THEY'RE TAKING ADVANTAGE OF A UNIVERSAL HUMAN CHARACTERISTIC, CURIOSITY, TO MANIPULATE OUR CONSUMING HABITS - NOT TO MENTION OUR SUBCONSCIOUS SYSTEMS OF BELIEF.
Right now I think that advertising other than identifying signs above the store itself should be abolished. I'm not even going to mention a website review of a company I recently did at work whose purpose is research and placement of behaviorally targeted advertising on the internet. (You think they're not tracking your keystrokes and clicks?) I'm totally horrified and what with so many goddamned outside factors at work on my personality, moods, beliefs I don't know who the fuck I am anymore. I'm tired of it, and also tired of feeling I need to be so suspicious. Tired.
He frequently hangs around the stoop two doors down from my building, he and a couple of other people, which I've come to believe are his parents. I must admit, the door isn't actually green, it's the entryway behind him and the inner door. But I've always gotten a green door feeling from the place. Wears the same clothes pretty much all the time - blue adidas jacket, black jeans with paint stains, baseball cap. Always says, "Hey, Hot Dog!" and smiles as we pass, though he's heard me tell people her name is Lily. It's his term of endearment.
He looks to be in his 40's, I'd guess. Maybe younger, he's a little haggard. Dark hair but it's unclear whether or not he's Puerto Rican or even Hispanic, though most members of the neighborhood hail from Puerto Rico. Pretty thick, longish mustache. Nice guy, predictable. Stable. And especially because of the lack of creepy looks or personal questions, kind of endearing.
I didn't realize he was gone, I guess it must have been a few days - walking down the opposite side of the street with Lily I see a missing person sign on a street lamp post. Big picture of him - at least I think it's him - and then I read what he was last seen wearing and I'm sure it's my green door guy (turns out he is Puerto Rican after all). Shit. Now he has a name, and 7 children, for god's sake, and he's missing. Only it's weird, because for several days that's the only sign I see, and it's not all that noticable. It's not like they're going door to door asking questions or papering the whole neighborhood. Then later I see another, nearer the subway stop, a more high-traffic area. I feel pretty horrified at the whole situation. Not afraid for myself, but sickened at the thought of where he might be, what might have happened, and knowing that his whole fucking family is wrestling with the same things, as well as just plain not having the guy around. I think about it a lot, more than seems natural, or something. Sick. Sickened, shuddering, bent over because I momentarily lose the strenght to stand up straight.
Then one day he's back. It's been maybe 2 weeks, maybe a little more. He looks different, like he's gained a little weight, and it confuses me - I can only think that maybe he's been in a hospital being fed intravenously. Does that even make sense - would that cause weight gain? I see him, in the same old clothes, and I stare. I don't mean to be an asshole, but I have to make sure it's him. His top four front teeth have disappeared. And he looks serious, moreso than before, understandably - only I don't, because I've no idea what happened. He was gone and then he was back. And it's clear in the feel when we meet eyes that something has changed, but I don't know what. Though it's sort of comforting to hear, "Hey, Hot Dog!" again.
Incomplete because I don't know what this guy gained or lost in those two weeks. How he suffered or didn't suffer, feared or didn't fear. Was he trying to run away on purpose? But we're not close enough friends for me to ask...and I'm no longer sickened, just......heartbroken.
This Sunday morning I'm sitting here at the computer doing a little research on Trader Joe's, Whole Foods, and union organization attempts among their employees. It's kind of cold in the apartment, but I could turn on the heater and I haven't so it can't be that bad.
Normally in a situation and time like this, Lily Bug would be snuggling herself in a burrito-shaped pile of blankets and puppy on my bed. Her routine is to go back to bed after breakfast, since that's when I leave for work during the week, and when I'm home on the weekends, if I'm not in the bedroom, to her it's as if I'm not home, which is fine. She needs her Lily-time, as do we all.
However, for some reason Lily has decided she needs to be where I am this morning. She still needs to satisfy her morningtime sleepy quota, so that means she is curled up in my lap, my hand holding her little dog-butt in place, while the rest of her body is snuggled inside the sweatshirt I'm wearing, with her head resting in the armpit against my shoulder. No, I did not position her this way. She did that by herself.
And at the risk of a gag-me cuteness factor, I needed to put that out there because it's been a rough week, and my Lily knows it. My ex had a very hard time when I moved Lily across the country to live with me, understandably. She's still pretty angry about it. But R, even though you're not reading this, I don't know if will make any difference to you, but I want you to know that THIS DOG HAS KEPT ME ALIVE AND SAFE MORE TIMES THAN I CAN COUNT THESE PAST FEW MONTHS. And I mean that specifically - literally. She is a major reason I'm not dead.
-She says: I see two people here, the little girl and the grown-up girl. So who is going to win?
-I say: little girl wants desperately to suffocate big girl to death with a pillow, in her sleep. Big girl wants desperately to beat little girl with a bludgeon until she shuts the fuck up. They want each other dead.
-So my question now is, HOW THE FUCK ARE THEY BOTH STILL ALIVE?
I am furious.
