Monday, May 31, 2004 - remembrance
My cat is dead. I am not sure if she died today, or if she died over the weekend, since the rest of the family was away. I am somewhat relieved we didn't have to help her along. I am also somewhat. . . in disbelief. It probably won't hit me until I'm home and she's not there. Instead, she's planted near the rose bush, probably near Cleo, who was my mom's cat who died when I was a baby.
I walked to the Mission to pour through the thrift stores again. Most of them were having half-off sales, and were packed. At Thift Town I found a few promising items, then scurried back to the linen department, where there's a mirror on the wall. I slip on things over my clothes there because it's easier than waiting for dressing rooms. Anyway, before I made it to the mirror, I was looking at a few shirts, and an older Japanese man (50's-ish) stood right beside me, looking intently at me. I thought perhaps I was in his way, so I stopped browsing and migrated to the looking-glass. He started looking at the hats nearby, holding up one with an embroidered cartoon character, smiling. I smiled at it, too, then situated my garments. He pointed at a purple shirt, said, "Very pretty," and then made a motion like he was doing a palms-forward pull-up. Telling me, in gestures, to try it on. I could tell already that it would be too big and wasn't even going to try it on, but I figured what the hey. So I tried it on and the guy approved, after looking at the price tag, holding it between his fingers, but I said, "Too big," and took it off. Went through the other items, trying them on, and the guy watched. Me peeling off shirt after shirt.
I found this a little weird, but he wasn't really doing anything wrong, and I wasn't sure I could tell him to go away and not sound too rude and the language gap. . . and I don't know. I was about to pull on a skirt over my jeans, when he said "No good color," and wandered off, and after he was gone, I went and put everything back except one thing, and then looked some more. By this time, it being a sale day, the line was thirty people long, and I didn't want to bother with that zoo in order to get one measly shirt for 50 cents, so I went back to that rack to put it back (near the ball caps) and the man saw me again, said, "Don't like?" and I affirmed that, and got the heck out of there. That was the adventure of the day.
Sometimes, when I was in a happy mood, but was receiving a lecture or admonishments, to maintain a somber look, I would say in my head, to wipe away my grins, "My cat is dead, my cat is dead," and sure enough, I'd soften, become serious. So bad of me to take it lightly, for now it's truly happened.
She was a good kitty, though. She was born on my grandma's farm, and while I had played with many litters of kittens before and since, she was the one I begged my parents to let me take home, when I was a first or second-grader. Gray and fuzzy, with a little sliver of peach-colored fur over her pink nose. And bright green eyes. I named her Daisy to counteract her gloomy-colored fur, and named her brothers and sisters after flowers, too. When she got a little older, she slept on my feet at night, and kept them warm, and I loved her. As she aged, though, it became apparent that she was a long-haired cat. Grooming her was difficult, since she had no patience for it, and after fur-covered furniture and rugs became prevalent, she was sent to spend the majority of days in the basement. She had friends down there, though, a couple of box turtles who wandered around, eating cat food. Daisy confused them for her own, I think, and was caught a couple times licking their shells. A sweetie in every regard. She came upstairs to play, to admire the Christmas tree, to have a taste of leftover chicken. She mewed sadly at the door when she was lonely, and pawed at the wood until there was a mark there, after so many years of this habit. She had a platform built in a window, so she could look outside, and she curled there often, eyes droopy slits because of the sun, purring, taking it all in. She will be missed. [@11:33 PM]
Sunday, May 30, 2004 - Carnaval isn't
just about wearing feathers and/or skimpy clothing and/or sequins strategically glued and/or traditional ethnic costumes. It's not just about the driving drum beat or the masks or even the cool people walking on stilts. It's about having fun. It's about embracing life. I offer this photo as proof:
Last year I was fortunate enough to see the parade on TV, and this year, I saw almost four hours of it in person, before we finally decided to go in search of a restaurant; so starved.
Life is good. In a little over a week some of my friends from Carbondale are coming to visit, and it's going to be great.
I found two t-shirts that I'd possibly buy if I thought it was okay to spend $22 on a t-shirt. One says "I *heart* Carbs" (Delia's, pg. 2) and has a food pyramid of carbohydrate-rich food sources, and the other one is just a happy graphic print.
Well, my 15-year-old cat is having seizures back in Illinois. I was pretty sad about it when my brother called on Friday. She might not last long, and he asked if I wanted to speed her end, but we're just going to wait it out. She seemed to be okay later that day. All I can do now is hope she doesn't hurt too much and try not to think about it a whole lot.
The fam is camping at the Shed. I would be, too, if I were still there. Memorial Weekend. Ahh. [@2:46 PM]
Friday, May 28, 2004 - forward motion
I really do try to do my part to stop the spread of forwarded messages. . . though sometimes I'm still guilty of mass messages, particularly when it's the expedient way to pass along new addresses and other fact-packed information. I used to somewhat consider the threats of bad luck or enticement of good fortune that accompanied those totems and "Are you really my friend? Send this back to me so I know fo' sho'." etc. But this one, which I received yesterday for the umteenth time, grated on me for some reason:
Subject: I scored 100, and you better too!
>Date: Tue, 25 May 2004 12:00:17 -0500
>Subject: I scored 100, and you better too!
>
~Jesus Test~
This is an easy test, you score 100 or zero. It's your choice. If you aren't
ashamed to do this, please follow the directions.
Jesus said, "if you are ashamed of me, I will be ashamed of you before my Father."
Not ashamed Pass this on . . . only if you mean it.
Yes, I do Love God.
He is my source of existence and Savior.
He keeps me functioning each and everyday.
Without Him, I will be nothing.
Without Him, I am nothing but with Him I can do all things through Christ that strengthens me. Phil 4:13
This is the simplest test . . . ! If you Love God, and are not ashamed of all the marvelous things he has done for you.
Send this to ten people and the person who sent it to you!
First, it assumes that if I don't send this to people in my inbox, I am potentially ashamed of my faith. Bogus. Second, in the subject line, it asserts that the sender scored a 100, and it threateningly bids I do the same. No one needs this kind of treatment. It kind of reminds me of the Puritans going around trying to outdo one another and appear faith-filled enough, pure enough, all that. I think a better thing to do than cluttering poor people's inboxes is to live out your faith in real life. That's when it counts. Sure, it's a nice sentiment and perhaps even an act of bravery to send this on to non-faith friends; hurrah. But why not instead cultivate a real relationship with those people, send them real messages asking about their lives? Why not instead be an example to others with your unending hope and attentiveness to the needs of those around you? I think it would be a far better way for one to share his or her faith. (But if you want to know my story, just ask.) [@12:54 AM]
Monday, May 24, 2004 - sweet sigh
of relief. I am done with my freelance editing job. Perhaps even done-done, but time will tell. I thought I'd share with the down-home folks the literary sightings from last week. I know I mentioned the play and all at the MoveOn event, but I didn't get to mention who-all was there.
Up first was Ryan Hardy, who read a story about a pair of brothers and their betrayal of one another, and it was sort of lovely. Then Vendela Vida read from her novel, And Now You Can Go, which was really interesting because when I read the book, and only had the author picture on the flap to place her, I imagined it in a whole other voice, and I think I missed out on some of the humor, alas. Anthony Swofford read about giving his shoes away and marrying a shoemaker's daughter, and I think it was meant to be fable-ish. Andrew Sean Greer read a short story from William Maxwell's Days and Nights, and the only reason I know this is because later that week I e-mailed him to ask him what he read, it captivated me so, maybe from the way he read it, maybe for the story itself, and he wrote back and let me know, recommended another book to try, in fact. Julie Orringer read students' letters to the President from her sister's eighth grade class, with such priceless lines as: "To tell you the truth, I don't think any Mexicans voted for you" and "Your vocabulary is very limited, isn't it?" After all this time, I also finally was able to hear Dave Eggers read. It was a fantastic tale of a future time when windmills were atop every building, and the father was telling his daughter how he and her mother made all these things happen, really changed the world, but he became sidetracked with a Kucinich joke and told us all we'd rather see Campo Santo, so that was the end of that. But I have a picture. And Beth Lisick wrote a column about the evening..
Friday I went to hear some authors at the Chicks Who Click book party. Cathy Alter read from her collection, Virgin Territory, about female firsts. Noa Jones read about her filmmaking experience in the small Himalayan Kingdom of Bhutan. Lauren Shiffman read experimental poetry, and Angela Watrous read about cultivating faith in real life, from her collection, Bare Your Soul: The Thinking Girl's Guide to Englightenment.
So that's the literary breakdown from last week. Kevin thinks I'm so starry-eyed. And maybe so. But not everyone is lucky enough to live in such a bustling literary city, so I want to share with my faraway friends what people are writing about.
It's certainly more exciting than writing about my week in review. I did have a nice dinner out and a movie fest with a friend (Kissing Jessica Stein and Live From Shiva's Dance Floor) on Wednesday, but beyond that I was busy proofing and taking care of other projects. I have a big one coming up, but it's not as daunting as working on "The Book." It should actually be kind of fun, as long as I have enough time to put it together, so that's encouraging. Encouragement is surely helpful these days. I have been doing little things to put the reunion plans together, and today I received an e-mail from an unnamed source, telling me that one of our classmates is in prison. The Illinois prison system website has a search function that allows users to look up inmates, and when I typed in his name, his photo and record appeared onscreen. It was pretty startling, since I had no idea that one of "our own" had such a fate. It really shocked me; I thought at first the e-mail was some sort of stupid prank. It's really disheartening to know he's in there, in prison, I mean, and I wondered if in our limited contact with one another, I could have been a better influence; just wondered how he ended up like this.
In fifth grade, we were friends. There were many recesses when we'd go out into the field (all the who's-who of fifth graders fighting for spots at the tether-ball pole) and race one another, since he and I were some of the fastest runners in the fifth grade. I remember back then thinking of us in a Bridge to Terabithia kind of way. [@12:23 AM Tuesday]
Tuesday, May 18, 2004 - and my e-mail signature saves the day
I send this comforting sentiment in every electronic message that dances off into cyberspace. Maybe I should remember to read it myself more often. . . :)
"We must know that we have been created for greater
things, not just to be a number in the world, not
just to go for diplomas and degrees, this work and
that work. We have been created in order to love
and to be loved."
~Mother Teresa [@12:31 AM]
Monday, May 17, 2004 - Sarah Harmer is so pretty.
Heather Combs (of San Francisco) and Hayden (of Canada) were the opening acts to Saturday's Sarah Harmer concert at the Independent. They were lovely. I really liked Heather Combs because she was a bundle of energy; she also told jokes and started a sing-along to Tom Petty's "American Girl," which was fun. Hayden is one of the many heartfelt, incomprehensible crooners popular with some folks these days. He played the harmonica and sang trumpet noises. The sad thing about heartfelt music is even though it attempts to be earnest, the lyrics, in their simplicity, end up seeming hollow and meaningless. But he tried.
Sarah Harmer is so sweet. She's fun with her music, and earnest, without seeming overly sentimental (in a sappy way). I think she might be way Sarah McLachlan used to be--but with more originality. Granted, she has that greeting card aisle song, which was hard for me to stomach when I first heard the new album, but to see her in person, I trust the sincerity of her lyrics. She's just great: unassuming and honest and quirky and talented. Her voice is angelic and unique; listen to samples on her website.
Fun with concert lighting:
[@1:35 AM]
Dear Middle Class Dreams,
I'm not sure if we can be friends anymore. You tell me I can have you for my very own, but you seem so distant, so unreachable. You make me love you and want you all the more. And still you don't come. You don't even visit. I've worked hard for you all this time, to win your favor. I've worked harder than so many others, and I've done the right things, and I've tried to love my neighbor, show you my kindness, my alertness, my spark, my valor. Ever since I was in kindergarten, everyone knew I'd go to college for you. I'd do well to impress you, to gain your attention. I worked menial jobs to demonstrate my humility, my hope. And now you barely give me any. I'm not blaming you; it's everywhere. It just makes me sad because I feel like I've been lied to all this time, like you played me, like you led me on. I start to think I'll never see you again. Sometimes I wonder if that might be for the best.
Always,
Emily
* * * * *
You have to forgive me, everyone. I just got back from a reading benefitting MoveOn.org and John Kerry, and the final piece was a one-act play by Al Franken called the Waitress and the Lawyer, and it did its job. I walked home, all full of ideas about changing things, about new writing projects, and then it started sinking in that after paying my way to this benefit reading, I had two dollars left in my wallet. When I have two dollars left in my wallet, I frequently think about the lady in the parable who had but pennies and who gave almost everything, and the one who had a fortune and horded it all, and I think, Which am I going to be? I also start thinking, I need a real job. It's not that I have huge desires for material possessions, but I feel like I need to do well and have a good job so I can show people that I'm really doing something, that this is the reward for all my hard work. Maybe I'm too young to be rewarded for my hard work. Maybe wanting an adult-person job is asking too much. Some people will think that applying for close to 70 jobs in a year's time is a little over-the-top. There is a huge sense of desperation (n. 2. recklessness arising from despair)--a huge pressure to say that I can handle life and support myself and not feel like a goof at my high school reunion.
I cannot get a job at a clothing store or a video store, and when I called an Italian restaurant, responding to an ad, they questioned my gusto. What is this craziness?
I am overqualified and not qualified enough. I start to question my self-worth.
So. . . after all these thoughts pass through my mind, on 24th Street near Guererro, I find this flyer on the ground. Pictured on the front is an Asian person, not exactly looking into the camera, not at all looking into the distance. Shadow lines from window blinds stretch across his arms and shoulders, but somehow not across his face. And in white block letters at the top is printed: "Why can't you be happy?" I stare at the flyer on the sidewalk for a few moments, reflecting upon the question's validity and prevalence in society. I figure it's a biblical track, I figure it'll tell me the way to eternal bliss, and deciding this already, I pick it up and look inside. The answer is proclaimed in even larger letters there: "YOU CAN WITH DIANETICS." I think at first it says diabetics, and scan quickly the illustration of a volcano before realizing my error. I next think that this is some kind of joke, a flyer from that guru-Tom Cruise-character in Magnolia. But I read the back and find out it's a New York Times Bestseller, with 20 million copies in 50 languages, so someone must be buying it. I start to laugh at the comparison illustration of someone with an analytical mind and someone with a reactive mind. . . with the caption: "The reactive mind records and stores mental image pictures made during traumatic experiences. It is the source of feelings you don't understand" (emphasis in original), and I start to feel like this is a bunk self-help book.
Of course, I just googled it now, and find that it is a major text of Scientology. Suddenly things start making sense, the volcano, the "Be a Well and Happy Human Being" heading, the whole presentation.
I start to wonder if the Bible has ever been a New York Times Bestseller.
I start to get tired. I start to forget that I'm sad that my worth is partly determined by my job. I start to think I should just watch Fight Club again to cheer me up. Or just stop buying the convoluted ideas society's selling, period. I try. I really do.
My mom says stuff like "Someday your prince will come." Grady says things like, "You should just be more patient. Don't get so ahead of yourself. Appreciate the things you already have." All of it: waiting. [@10:40 PM]
Friday, May 14, 2004 - always a bridesmaid, never a bride
That was the title I had in mind for gushing about how it's starting to seem like I'm always just a degree or so away from fame, but not often famed myself. Tomorrow a former SIUC professor, Kent Haruf, author of the acclaimed novel Plainsong (now a CBS "Hallmark Hall of Fame" television movie), will be reading at A Clean Well-Lighted Place for Books. The event takes place right before the Sarah Harmer concert, so I'm still debating if I should attempt to sandwich these two activities, but all the same, I enjoy thinking about attending as a certain kind of reunion. I never had Kent for class; I only met him when I was a freshman and my comp. teacher invited me to a bar where some faculty and grad students were hanging. I felt like the coolest person in the world to be hanging with the grad students. How sunshiny was I then!
It occurs to me that Robert has many claims to fame, but it should also be mentioned that he was the pink rabbit in the "Without Me" Eminem music video.
Me, I got a callback today from a publisher with whom I interviewed on Monday; "Thank you for your time, but we have filled the position." I specifically refrained from making any mentions about this job because it was that perfect, and I didn't want to jinx myself. But alas, it was not meant to be.
My dad called this evening to give a friendly nudge about getting my high school class reunion planning in full-swing. I've been thinking a lot about things I still need to do to make sure everything goes off without a hitch, but still, it was a little embarrassing to hear my dad remind me. He said I need to send out the invitations pretty soon, and while that may be an option, since the reunion is actually in October, I think it wise to hold off a month or so. There are other things I can be working on, of course, but I wish I could portray to others (i.e., Dad) that I have things reasonably under control.
Another funny thing about this entry's title: it's highly unlikely that I'll even be a bridesmaid in my lifetime. I never had too many female friends growing up, and really I could only think of one or two chicas in the whole world who would ask me for such assistance. I guess that should be relieving, huh: no stupid dress to wear (only once--the cocktail dress conversion is just a myth), no backup-singer status to smile through. . . but it's also a little disheartening. I've participated in relatives' weddings by handing out bulletins or balloons, but there is a certain element of importance in being asked to be a member of the wedding party. I think one girl from my class has been in at least three weddings so far, and she's my age. Craziness. [@10:50 PM]
Thursday, May 13, 2004 - another famous friend
I feel bad for mentioning Robert the other day, but not yet pointing the spotlight on my friend Adam Henske who recently made the news. He and I went to high school together, church together, were on the cross country and track teams together, and he was a really great friend. I can remember one time I was worrying about something at lunch, and afterwards, as we walked off to class together, he physically wiped away my tears with a few swift moves of his finger, gave me a quick hug, and assured me that everything would be okay. He was really, really great. He also was an artist, and in high school, he drew these elaborate flowers with thorns and blood, really macabre images, but powerful. (For an artshow he decorated a door with red handprints and gore on one side, and "Showers" on the other, with burned books at the base--a chiling piece about the Holocaust.) He went to school for art, met a girl, married her, and now they're having a baby. But he's been busy with his art, too, and some of it is featured on baseball bases, to advertise the new Spiderman movie. Craziness. It's an interesting outlet for art, non-traditional to say the least, and I'm really proud of him.
Things are really good and full around here. I've been catching up with many friends from back home, and it's so encouraging to find that despite the burdens of time and distance, we're still close. It just fills me up to think of it. I've been making more friends out here as well. On Monday my friend Elena and I went out for pizza and had great cheesecake at a different restaurant afterwards, and it was heavenly. On Tuesday after work I went to another reading at Intersection, part of the Independent Press Spotlight series. Featured were Kitchen Sink Magazine and McSweeney's. It was really nice. Stephanie Kalem read "Fear of Musicals"; Elka Karl read "Why Can't Fiction Writers and Poets Get Along?"--both of which are featured in the current Latency Issue of KS. Chris Adrian read this piece about working in a hospital and having to be on "the juice" (IV nutrition), and Claire Light read about pigs in space, which was amazingly beautiful for being largely about a space crew utilizing pig waste for fuel and such. A publisher at McSweeney's, Eli Somebody, told of an exciting book on the horizon: a dictionary of fictional words with defintions written by more than 150 contributors, to be sold as a fundraiser to help make sure there is a new president in Washington come January. The whole thing seems really organic and fun.
I chilled out and did laundry yesterday. I needed to catch my breath a bit. And today I met up with a new friend after work, and had the greatest time. It makes me feel really happy to meet someone with whom I click like that, and it makes me feel a lot better about being out here. [@12:16 AM Friday because I was chatting online and doing more laundry and baking a cake]
Tuesday, May 11, 2004 - be the first on your block. . .
. . .to be in the know about LA Twister, the new feature film, the new play, and the new webcast entertainment extravaganza. It was an indie movie first, and from the trailer, it seems to be an "in LA my dreams can come true" and "exposing reality of the city"sort of film. All right, so we have the movie. Then a kid I know from SIUC, Robert Cannon, wrote a play along similar plot lines. That's the theatrical part. And the whole play process is being webcast live, every rehearsal, every fight, the whole thing, starting yesterday and lasting all the way through mid-June, with the culminating activity, the premiere of LA Twister at Mann's Chinese Theater on June 22. So tune in and check it out (and vote for Robert for the All-Star Cast). All the cool kids are doing it, and so are the kids who hate the cool kids, so it's gotta be good. [@12:09 PM]
Sunday, May 9, 2004 - of moms and men
This is my mom. She's special to me. When I was a baby, she'd set me in my pumpkin seat and set that on the table, talking to me as she peeled potatoes, explaining to my infant self the tasks involved in preparing them. She read me books and sang "Sweetly Sings the Donkey." When I was a little older, she took my brother and me to Sesame Street Live and Disney on Ice and other various child-centered theatrical events. She always told me that school was my job, and that there would be time for boys later, and with these urgings, I rose to the top of my class in high school and college. She cooked special birthday dinners for me, and chocolate chip cookies on snow days. We sang oldies and folk songs at the top of our lungs together on weekends while cleaning the house; we listened to the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack for months before we finally saw it on stage together. I have a million memories of things we've done together, of swimming at the lake, digging for mussels, of her at my track meets, school plays, and flute recitals, of her dressed as Mary at a church "Women of the Bible" fashion show, of her beaming at graduation and of her tearful as I embarked on something new. I hope I can hold onto all these memories and build many more new ones as the years wear on. She's done so much for me, and I've hardly begun to appreciate it all. I know you probably won't read this Mom, but Happy Mother's Day. I love you.
Speaking of, the original Mother's Day didn't center around flowers and breakfast in bed. It was organized by Julia Ward Howe (famous for her poem, "Battle Hymn of the Republic") to protest war. Check out this article for the real history behind the holiday, and this one, about the gift of peace for Mother's Day. And keep an eye out for the Aunt Lute Anthology of U.S. Women's Writing, which includes poetry and essays by Julia Ward Howe, due out this fall. [@7:23 PM]
And now for some quizness:
1. If you could build a house anywhere, where would it be? Hard to say. I'm not sure where I want my permanent home to be yet.
2. What's your favorite article of clothing? my turquoise tank top
3. Favorite physical feature of the opposite sex? eyes
4. The last CD you bought? Sarah Harmer's new album
5. The last gift you bought? a tin ornament for my momma
6. Where's your least favorite place to be? in the backseat of a jolty automobile = nausea
7. What's your favorite place to be massaged? lower back
8. What's most important, strong in mind, or strong in body? strong in spirit evens them both out
9. What time do you wake up in the morning? anywhere from 9 to 11, but if I get another part time job, that will soon change
10. What's your favorite kitchen appliance? this question is silliness. but I like the microwave for popcorn
11. What really makes you angry? closemindedness, hypocrites, feeling like I'm not being listened to, unfair judgments, hard work going by unnoticed, not being able to help people who need it
12. If you could play an instrument, what would it be? probably guitar. knowing to play the flute is lovely, but it's not the most versatile instrument in the world. you wouldn't gather round a campfire and break out the flute.
13. Favorite color? green and turquoise
14. Which do you prefer, sports car or SUV? I really just miss my old 1988 Writermobile. I probably wouldn't really feel comfortable in a sports car or an SUV. I like old cars.
15. Do you believe in an afterlife? without a doubt.
16. Favorite children's book? Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day
17.Last book you read? Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being
18. What is your favorite season? autumn. unfortunately, there's not much of that out here. I love leaves changing and apple cider and crisp sweater weather.
19. If you could have one super-power, what would it be? I've long considered the merits of seeing into the future or reading people's minds, but I think they'd be more of a burden than I could possibly realize. That's why I'd go with knowing every single language. That would rock out.
20. If you have a tattoo, what is it? no ink in this skin, though I've considered a little something once
21. Can you juggle? I'm pretty good with scarves, thanks to a video I watched twelve years ago
22. The one person from your past who you wish you could go back and talk to? I'd love to catch up with any number of my long-lost friends. But it would be interesting to talk to Mrs. Doll again, since she's been dead for almost 20 years, and I wouldn't otherwise have that chance. Or maybe my grandma.
23. What's your favorite day? sunny ones
24. What's in the trunk of your car? no tengo un carro ahorita
25. Do you prefer sushi or hamburger? hamburger; haven't developed a taste for sushi yet. I'm usually not fond of cold, squishy foods.
26. Mustard or ketchup? both
27. From the people you e-mail, who will be most likely to respond first? not applicable
28. Who's least likely to respond? not applicable
29. From whom did you receive this? the kind mastermind behind Shiny-Object Syndrome
30. Favorite cartoon? Simpsons (used to be a Daria fan, but I'm not sure if it's even on anymore)
32. Favorite movie? Amelie, Lost in Translation
33. Favorite soda/pop? orange?
34. What's your favorite sport? track and field and cross country and soccer
35. What is your favorite flower? lilies
36. What is your number one regret? worrying about things that don't matter
37. What is the best thing about the person who sent this? he smacked the mosquitos off my back while I was wearing a beauty queen gown and while attempting to photograph fireworks over a country town's baseball field; also, he is genuine [@11:43 PM]
Friday, May 7, 2004 - getting drafty
I've spent a little time this evening getting caught up on the possible draft that could be reinstated if Bush wins another term in office. From my Utne newsletter I quote: "Feeling a draft? You may, next spring, if Bush wins four more years and launches more wars in the Middle East. Traditional military thinking puts the American armed forces at 100-men-short, especially considering that Syria, Iran, or North Korea are next on the Pentagon's radar. Legislation is in place in Washington, and the Selective Service System is gearing up to bring back the good ol' Vietnam days."
The article continues: "And 'draft dodging' would not be as easy as it was during the Vietnam Conflict, since attending college, being female, or fleeing to Canada could not be used as shelters this time around. Stutz writes, 'underclassmen would only be able to postpone service until the end of their current semester. Seniors would have until the end of the academic year.' Meanwhile, shortly after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, 'Canada and the U.S. signed a 'Smart Border Declaration,' which could be used to keep would-be draft dodgers in [the United States].' Hold your boys close, mommas. If Bush wins in November, they could be trading their high school diplomas in for dog tags." --by Jacob Wheeler
Crazy, that! Equal Rights in our nation (FYI: that amendment never really happened, in case you've forgotten, and certainly isn't lived out in every area of life) means that I would be included in the draft, and while this shouldn't boggle my mind, it's still difficult to imagine. It's certainly fair that women would be drafted, since we've made such strides since the 70's, but even so, it's weird to think of this potential draft as the first to include women.
Even scarier to think of the extensive plans for military involvement that require such drastic measures of "recruitment."
Here's more on the subject--read up:
Rangel Promotes Plan to Reinstitute Draft - CNN.com (Jan. 27, 2003)
Beware Attempts to Revive Military Draft - editorial by Bob Wheeler (Dec. 22, 2003)
The Coming Draft - by
Connor Freff Cochran of AlterNet (March 25, 2004)
What Happens in a Draft - from the Selective Service System
Conscientious Objection and Alternative Service - from the Selective Service System
2002 Demographics Profile of the Miltary Community - from the Miltary Family Resource Center
Women in the U.S. Military during Desert Shield / Desert Storm - from the U.S. Navy
Military Woman Issues - from MilitaryWoman.org
Military Women: Critical Analysis - class lesson by Lara Maupin
Women and the Draft - from the Selective Service System
[@11:45 PM]
Thursday, May 6, 2004 - girls are mean
Yesterday I saw the new movie Mean Girls. I liked it a lot and generally had a nice time except for awful flashbacks to a certain low point in seventh grade. Mean Girls features clique-ish groups of students, one of which, the Plastics, keeps a lipstick-smeared book of photos of uncool people and mean or belittling things about them. They call it their Burn Book. In my life, in seventh grade, a certain girl (who shall remain anonymous) had read a certain book by a certain Ann M. Martin, author of the Baby-Sitters Club series. This book was called The Slam Book. In this book, some popular folks got together and circulated a book in which everyone could write anonymous things about everyone else. And even though things ended badly in the novel, this girl in the seventh grade decided she would make her own slam book. (Pure genious!) So it was great fun, every person nosily pouring through their page in the notebook, seeing what people thought. Some people found out that people thought they were cute, some people found out that people thought bad things. In science class I found out that people (or someone, at the very least) thought I was a bitch. We were dissecting that day, and I was overcome with hurt and asked to be excused to the bathroom, where I peeled off the dissecting gloves and sobbed and sobbed. I couldn't believe that anyone would have grounds to say such a thing about me, since I tried to be nice to everyone. In reality, someone just probably scribbled down whatever nasty word they could think of; maybe it was meant to be ironic. But my point is this: seventh grade was ten years ago, and I can still remember everything so clearly. Mean girl. The nameless one who started it was slated to get in trouble for the grief she caused, but at the last minute, she said it was an experiment tied to that book she had read, and in the end, she only had to write a book report. I was really angry at such an injustice that punishment was. I thought she knew very well what she was doing, and then she weasled her way out of it. Mean, mean girl. [@9:16 PM]
P.S. I don't think nameless girl is mean anymore. Also, there are plenty of nice girls in this world. Some of them are just so mean, though, that it sticks with you for ten years.
P.P.S. It's hard to notice it at first glance, but the "nice" kids in the film end up being almost as mean as the mean girls. Alas. Further Reading: Queen Bees and Wannabes: Helping Your Daughter Survive Cliques, Gossip, Boyfriends, and other Realities of Adolescence by Rosalind Wiseman. (In college, I wrote a paper on high school cliques and the purposes they served. Alas again; this woman beat me to the punch, book-wise.)
Tuesday, May 4, 2004 - motherlove
My most consuming fret these past couple of days has been about what to give my mother for Mother's Day (this Sunday!). This kind of thing was so much easier when elementary school and Sunday school teachers planned little activities, like painted hand-prints from their kids, with Xeroxed poems glued next to them. Like snowglobes and flower baskets I made in Girl Scouts: "Here, Mom! Happy Mother's Day!" Last year I got my mom a buttefly pin, which is about the fanciest I can do, since she's not big on jewelery. In previous years, I potted flowers for her, or washed her car, and now that I'm geographically distant, I'm finding it hard to think of a proper present--and it's even worse because it'll take longer for the package (once I have it) to make it across the country. Hopefully I'll have some time tomorrow to browse some shops before work; it's strange, but I have an unexplainable pressure this year to let her know I care. [@11:34 PM]
Monday, May 3, 2004 - divertido con hamburguesa
Throughout my travels, I've had a chance to sample a few regional hamburger joints, shining jewels of small-scale franchise and hosts of memomorable moments for locals. There was the famous Beef-a-Roo in Rockford, IL; Whataburger in Texas; In-N-Out Burger throughout California. Today, however, I finally had a chance to place an order at Whiz Burgers, a tiny retro stand on the corner of 18th and South Van Ness. It was after an afternoon of pouring through little markets and thift stores, and it wasn't quite dinner time, so Grady and I had milkshakes; strawberry for him and mango for me. Definite yum. San Franciscans with fast food cravings and indie sensibilities should definitely check them out. [@5:24 PM]
Sunday, May 2, 2004 - May Day Manifesto
Yesterday evening Grady and I went to a really great reading titled Manifesto: Coming Out Against Empire. It featured nearly thirty writers and activists reading poems, stories, and calls to action (or, as the program says, "Declarations Against the Logic of Rule"). Michelle Tea and Beth Lisick (who I mentioned numerous times last month) were on the bill, which is a main reason why I turned out. (Tea urged us to "love the pigeons," the pigeons who are survivors, who are really doves; would we love them more if we called them that? and Lisick made a poignant note in her Wisconsin-mother voice, but you had to be there to appreciate it; I cannot do it justice here.) Many of the other guests had interesting and inspiring things to say as well. Among the highlights were Lawrence Ferlinghetti wearing a plastic Statue of Liberty mask while reciting his poem (I'm so glad to finally see him, one of the few remaining Beats); Tamim Ansary's comparison of mall-shopping in a franchise-run suburb and market-shopping in a foreign nation; and Justin Chin's account of being evaluated with Immigration (which made me tear up). Some people called for revolution in the form of retaliation, which didn't sit well with me, but many of the pieces were more hopeful, witty, and encouraging, not just big gripe-fests. It's true that many people pointed out the abundance problems which plague us, but only a few (like the people I've named) offered any tangible help to those of us so moved to resist "the empire." Daphne Gottlieb had an interesting piece; she took a piece by Gertrude Stein and another by a nuclear attack victim and read it with a second voice, replacing the words "war" and "bomb" ("for your protection") with "love" and "sex." It was pretty intense, and was generally a good try at being edgy. But that's Daphne Gottlieb's favorite way to be, from what I've seen.
Today I tried a new church, Promise Land Fellowship. It was pretty cool and casual, located in the upstairs of a warehouse/retail building on Market Street. A woman spotted me as a new person, swooped down, and started introducing me to people (all of whom were her "best friends") and point out the spread of pastries and such in the cafe area. I was waiting for a friend from First Baptist who was supposed to be meeting me, so I imagine in the mean time, I looked pretty lost. A man came up to me and asked for the mini-life story. He turned out to be the pastor, and the "best friend" lady, his wife. "We have seven kids," she said when they were joined. "One of them is probably your age," she said. "How old are you?" I told her. "Yes, he's 2_, and single, and a godly man," she said. . . what? marrying me off to him in her head? It was interesting. The congregation was pretty mellow, a mix of young people and older folks, the mean age of 30, I'd say, and a lot of dreads, tattoos, tie dye tees, and matted-hair hippies--an ecclectic bunch. I felt downright square by comparison (just like I felt downright conservative yesterday amongst so many anarchists and socialists). But it's nice to stretch once in a while. [@4:48 PM]
Sylvia Plath and I make a great team. Check out our poem, a grammatically incorrect creation developed on this poem generator site:
green clock's jagged breath
"I dissolve my miserys and all the fate writes lamb;
I hide my shards and all is disappear again.
(I stretch I kiss you up inside my scar.)
The lovers go covering out in scrumptious and perfumed,
And lustful letter escapes in:
I fly my pancake and all the dictionary forgets heart.
I burned that you missed me into sandal
And yell me friendly, jumped me quite wet.
(I stretch I kiss you up inside my scar.)
mother runs from the dream, ghost's strawberrys sleep:
pull land and lake's wish:
I fly my pancake and all the dictionary forgets heart.
I falled you'd think the way you read,
But I dream old and I wander your regret.
(I stretch I kiss you up inside my scar.)
I should have wondered a meadow instead;
At least when sunshine wishs they slur back again.
I fly my pancake and all the dictionary forgets heart.
(I stretch I kiss you up inside my scar.)
- Emily & Sylvia Plath [@5:24 PM]
Oh, and another (this one corrected for proper tense, agreement, etc.):
broken arm's hand heart
"I slice my knives and all the sin hurts broken;
I burden my arms and all is spurn again.
(I starve I slice you up inside my hand.)
The heart goes sinning out in smooth and slick,
And manic knife hurts in:
"I slice my sins and all the arm hurts broken;
I burdened that you spurned me into hand
And starve me splintered, sliced me quite broken.
(I starve I slice you up inside my hand.)
Death hurts from the heart, knife's sins burden:
Exit arm and Love's hand:
"I slice my sins and all the arm hurts broken;
I spurned you'd starve the way you said,
But I slice old and I hurt your name.
(I starve I slice you up inside my hand.)
I should have sinned an arm instead;
At least when hand burdens they spurn back again.
"I slice my sins and all the arm hurts broken;
(I starve I slice you up inside my hand.)
- Emily & Sylvia Plath [@5:42 PM]