Hey, public, get it right.
Seems folks have a nasty habit of using synecdoche when talking about OCD. Why? Because they clearly do not understand what, exactly, OCD is. Case in point: earlier this week, while in line at the store, I overheard the cashier and bag-boy discussing their pseudo- OCD symptoms. Cashier: I have the check the cash drawer every night, I have to. Bag-boy: What, is that like an OCD thing? Yeah, I’ve got one of those too: every time I wash my hands, I have to do it twice. Every time, gotta wash them twice.
Checking and hand-washing are just 2 symptoms of hundreds for those with OCD; not only that, these symptoms penetrate one’s life to the point of interference in daily life. In other words, one checking behavior and some extra careful handwashing does not a disorder make.
Excessive handwashing and checking are just two outward manifestations of the disorder; behind these, there lie thousands of obsessive thoughts, internal rituals, magical thinking. Thousands of other rituals that no one else sees, like counting steps, or only turning to the right (never the left), only opening doors with your left hand, never your right. Looking at things only at a certain angle. There are countless invasive rituals that no one ever knows.
Point being this: please be well-informed of what you are rambling on about. There are those in the world who just might call you out on it.
Pop culture mash-up.
Came across a quite few things on the net this week that piqued my interest. I love it when literature and pop culture mash up. I love the psychological perspective too. I just read a blog that lists the Top 20 (unfortunate) lessons girls learn from the Twilight series, and I’ve gotta say, it is dead on. There is a distinction between attraction to the ‘bad boy’ and the boy who wants to kill you. The psychology of attraction is evident in this post, just as it is evident that a teenage girl’s idea of what is romance (or love, for that matter) is heavily skewed. This link will link you to the blog post:
I’ve not read the Twilight series, nor have I seen the films. The reviews and previews I’ve read/seen have given me all the indication I need to avoid them both. Obviously, this series is fantasy, but when it comes to love/romance, are teens emotionally mature enough to realize that when someone threatens your life it is not actually romantic and does not mean the boy will love you forever? I can hear it now: “He treats me badly but I know he loves me.” Ugh.
Someone told me that the writing was poor in the Twilight series, and that someone else they knew conducted an interesting experiment: a page of Twilight was compared to a page from Harry Potter. The result of this was that the reader claimed that HP was written so much better. I have my doubts. I read the first HP book and was done. I’m thinking of conducting this experiment myself, just to see if the writing is comparable.
Also found this article on The New Yorker, thought it was a nice mix of canon lit and current affairs: Blake’s Tyger Tyger used to comment on the Tiger affair. What I really liked is the idea of Tiger as both lion and lamb.
Also saw this blog on Twitter, depicting Sarah Palin as Superhero “Blunder Woman”: http://bit.ly/7IRdSU
Finally, my favorite internet/twitter find of the week: A grammar worksheet from a David Foster Wallace class. Yes I took the quiz. And it was fucking hard. DFW was a brilliant writer, and I’m bloody jealous of those who attended classes he taught. DFW and Nabokov are two writers that I would put first and foremost on my fantasy ‘dinner party’ list. The conversation that this post generated was fantastic, if you’re a grammar nerd like me: http://tinyurl.com/yd74a7z
And–a word about what I’m reading this week. Still trying to finish “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies,” which, while I find it highly entertaining, could use a better editor. Seems there wouldn’t be so many errors, as the book was pretty much perfect to start with! And I’ve heard the book is being made into a movie/mini series. Not sure what to make of that.
Also ordered “The Original of Laura” by Nabokov this week. Have read just a few pages so far, so not much to comment on. I do love the idea of having a peek inside his writing process, though I feel a modicum of shame as I know he wanted the notes destroyed. But it’s Nabokov! I could not resist.
The last time he called my name, I kept walking.
October, 1997: two deaths in our family, two days apart.
Uncle Doug, who had lived next door to us for ages, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s sometime in 1996 or ‘97. It was quick work, much quicker than I expected. I was dealing with my own demons, yes, but… still. It was devastatingly quick.
The last visit I had with him was in the hospital. He was lucid; he recognized me. He called my name as we were leaving the visiting room, and I did not turn around. I kept walking.
The next visit: a different hospital. A different face. He was gone, long before he was pronounced.
*******
Soon, sometime in December, I will travel to Alabama to see my Aunt Cleona. She was married to my Uncle Doug for about a thousand years. This year, she has also been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. From what I’ve been told, Aunt Cleona is also decompensating at a rapid rate.
I can only say further that I am both terrified and utterly depressed. Actually, I can add one more thing: Cleona has been a generous and cheerful soul, a rare thing on this earth.
Ever so fucking thankful.
Oh yes, I am thankful. This week is Thanksgiving, which chiefly means (for me, anyway) an extra and much deserved day off. The past few months have seen a flurry of social activity around here; I’ve been an unusually social beast and have had a damn good time at it. However: just the thought of the holidays *stresses* me out, so I’ve come up with a plan of action. Part Martha Stewart, part [insert title of any film showcasing nutty family scenarios with hoards of crazy family members and inlaws], and part my obsessive need to plan and list things. That said, here is the plan:
Drink lots of mimosas. Get a bottle of OJ and champagne ready.
Avoid shopping malls at all costs from now until January. Shop on-line!
Pet cats daily. Hug ALL of your friends daily. [This is from Martha Stewart: apparently, petting animals for a certain period of time, or having physical contact with another human releases feel-good chemicals into your system.]
Put hot neighbor on speed dial so that I don’t miss ANY hugs.
Keep in mind that the new year is a mere six weeks away.
Ask doc for some valium before heading to any family functions.
Read Sarah Palin’s new book before seeing any republican relatives, so that you are informed enough to argue intelligently about it. Also read up on health care plan so that you can defend the public option. Be prepared to be called both a communist and socialist.
Finish reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. This is just for fun. Ok, and also the fact that I’m hoping Mr. Collins gets it by Charlotte before the book is over. I know, I’m a little sick. Deal with it.
If all else fails, book a flight to some Caribbean Island and hide.
I always knew my excellent spelling would make me famous.
I was greeted by a co-worker today with the words, “I saw your picture in the paper!”
Me: stunned and confused look.
Turns out, that little adult spelling bee I attended last week made the local news. Yes, I do recall a photographer being in attendance. No, I had no idea that my mug would show up in this past weekend’s Tennessean. Us wordy-nerdy grammar fanatics are the new celebrities.
Here’s a link to the article:
http://www.tennessean.com/article/20091114/NEWS01/911140324/Spelling%20bees%20catch%20on%20with%20Nashville%20barflies
That’s me, with the Princess Leia do; my teammate is the one spelling our word, in a decidedly dramatic fashion, in order to gain us more points.
On the heels of this news came a text from a friend: he said that Oxford Dictionary had chosen, as 2009’s word of the year, the word ‘unfriend.’ Gasp! What has social networking done to our language? The following article also cites ‘birthers’ as a close second, which would have been my choice.
‘Unfriend’ is New Oxford dictionary’s Word of the Year -*
Just goes to show how technology and language evolve. What amazes me about the word ‘unfriend’ is that I immediately knew from whence it came. Not only that, but when I told my ESL class, they immediately knew as well. Fucking amazing.
A different kind of haunting.
This week, I’ve been feeling haunted. Not with the paranormal, UFO’s, or horror films. Events past and stories and photographs have been my lurking in my mind this week, and today they’ve finally caught up with me.
Last night, I dreamt of an event that has already happened: the details were different, but the story was the same. Someone left me. Someone with whom I was deeply in love with left me this year. I dunno why, but the scene replayed itself in my mind again, last night, rendering me a sobbing wreck today. Thanks, subconscious, you’re a bloody fucking peach.
The past two or three weeks have been very hectic: things are happening at work, I began teaching an ESL class for adults in the evening, and both of these things have kept me from focusing on other things, during the week. Which means it’s all hitting me today, now, on my day off, because this is the only time I have in order to break down. Well, that seems fair, right? Hardly.
I have been making an earnest attempt at keeping up with my reading, and that is the second half of my week’s haunting. I have been reading stories from the latest Granta magazine, the Chicago issue. I love Chicago: I have family there, and have made many trips by car or plane to visit, the last trip being summer of 2008. None of the stories I’ve read so far have been similar to my experience– which is good and bad. But when a writer talks about Lake Shore drive or Midway or Cicero, well, I’ve got a reference point. It’s nice.
As a preface to the story I want to talk about, I need to say this: a few years ago, I saw the Pulitzer Prize Photographs exhibit here in Nashville at the Frist. I think there were about 50 photographs, and they are blown up to tremendous size, therefore eliciting a much larger emotional response than would a smaller photo, one seen in a book or even on a computer. Viewing this exhibit was emotionally draining; some photos we are all familiar with, due to their having been plastered everywhere. Others, though just as startling, are not so familiar. One such photo that I was unfamiliar with was this: a photo of a small black boy, taken from a low point, in what looked like the quad of a public housing development; in the background, the public housing building looms, large and ugly and not just a bit scary. But the juxtaposition is what makes the photo: the boy is running, laughing, happy. It’s startling.
I can’t recall where the photo was taken, when, or who the photographer is. A google search has not produced the answer, either. But I was reminded of this photo by the essay and photo essay by Camilo Jose Vergara entitled “The Projects.” The essay is a little heartbreaking: Vergara talks about his project of photographing Chicago over the course of nearly 30 years. When you look at the photos, it’s painful to see how some things really never change. He writes about how he went to Chicago’s infamous (and extremely dangerous) housing projects and took photos from the roof. He wrote about the violence, the horrific living conditions, the utter perversity of the fact that people had to live in these housing projects. Several of these projects have been bulldozed in recent years, with books popping up from those who had to live in them. Just what I read from Vergara’s essay was enough to scare me: I’m not sure I could read a first hand experience from an actual tenant.
The photos Vergara took jolted my memory of the Pulitzer Prize Photo exhibit: the Cabrini Green projects look exactly like the building I saw in the exhibit photo. Another surprise to me was the fact that the Chicago housing projects are HUGE: 16 stories, on blocks that are miles long. One project held 28 buildings. It had never occurred to me, before now, that bigger cities had bigger projects. Nashville of course has them as well, but nothing to match the size of Cabrini Green. Nothing to match the violence held in the Chicago projects. And yes, I have been in some projects here, and seen them first-hand, during my years in social work. No, there were not the safest or best-kept living spaces; but damn, they don’t compare to the ones in Chicago. Perhaps it’s my naivete that keeps me from assuming there are worse places.
It seems appropriate, in October, to say “Bite Me.”
Yeah, not much time for blog-writing this month. I began teaching ESL classes last week, plus my day job is a tad hectic. Plus, it being cold, all I really want to do is wrap myself in a blanket and read. Or sleep. So, in lieu of any writing, I give you this: the most interesting song & video I’ve seen in a while. Jack White is pretty much my hero; he is fucking brilliant. Here’s proof.
Letterman, Polanski, and some guy I ‘knew’ in college.
I realize everyone and their mother are talking about Letterman and Polanski right now. I just have a couple of things to say, nothing too in depth, as I’m sure others have better articulated and researched articles on both elsewhere. But all this upheaval about sex and sex crimes got me thinking about something that happened to me many years ago.
I will state that I love David Letterman unabashedly. LOVE him. He has taken self-effacement to new levels. I think what he did was so fucking smart: instead of giving in to some pathetic extortion threat, he broke the news himself on his own talk show and told the world what was up. Regardless of anyone’s views on morality, David did nothing illegal; he committed no crime. The extortionist is the one at fault here. Having the balls to confront the situation the way he did makes Letterman a stand-up guy, in my opinion.
Now, with Polanski: different story. I don’t get why everyone is so outraged that he has finally been ‘caught’ after all these years. If he had raped a girl yesterday, would all these celebs still come to his rescue? If he were not famous and a [purportedly] talented filmmaker, would the story still be the same? I will say right now I’ve no opinion of him as far as his films go: I’ve never seen a Polanski film. But being a creative or talented human does not mutually exclude being a rapist. I feel there is some romantic idea tied to artists/writers/film makers etc. that makes people more forgiving of their actions or eccentricities. We’ve seen this over and over again. Even with Michael Jackson: we can all agree that he changed the music industry, that he was super-talented. But does that mean he wasn’t capable of the crimes of which he was accused? Of course not. The cult of celebrity we have in this country is astounding. But I guess it’s hard to idolize a person and villainize them simultaneously.
We seem to judge sex crimes differently than other crimes. Kind of shocking, considering that as a society, we tend to crucify anyone who does not follow certain morals. I would like to know what the celebrities who are supporting Polanski think about Letterman’s indiscretions; I wonder how they will judge him?
So. This brings me to the ‘guy I ‘knew’ in college. This is a personal, true story from my early college days. I’ve never known quite where to place this story; I knew it should be told, at some point, in some form, but never knew how/when/where. so here it is.
In 1989, I lived in a dorm at a university for one semester. My roommate and I hit it off immediately: we liked the same style, music, values. Our weekend and Wednesday night ritual was to drive to Murfreesboro to stay with her boyfriend, who shared an apartment with two other couples (they were all in a band together). I slept on the couch.
On one of these Wednesday nights, we went out for drinks, then came back to the apartment early; the roommate and I had to get up early Thursday to make it back to campus for class. One of the other couples that lived in this apartment had the master suite, and the female of that couple (after all these years, can’t remember names) happened to be out of town. So her partner (not yet married but would be a short time later) decided to take this opportunity to go to a party and get really, really fucked up. And when I say fucked up, I mean a lethal combo of alcohol and drugs that cause a person to do things they will really regret.
I fell asleep on the couch that night around midnight or one am. My usual time. The couch was positioned next to the apartment’s front door; I heard nothing when this guy came home. My roommate and her boyfriend were asleep in his room. It was around 3am.
I awoke to the feeling of something stuck in my mouth; I opened my eyes to find this guy, this roommate, sitting on the floor next to the couch, right next to me. In my haze of sleep I asked, What the fuck are you doing? He said he wanted to see what I was doing.
We exchanged a few more words, as I tried to put together just what was happening, what had happened as I slept. He was fully dressed; I surmised from this that he had kissed me, that the object inside my mouth was his tongue. The look on his face is what terrified me: he had a dead face, expressionless, his eyes the same. Like a zombie but without the camp. This was the face of a person in absentia. Whatever he had sucked, smoked, snorted or injected into his body that night had turned him into something else. This does not, in my eyes, excuse anything he did. Not for one second.
He finally made his way down the hallway to his room. I lay back down on the couch, but turned on the telly, and stared at it, wide awake. Not much time passed before I could feel his eyes on me again. I looked up and he was standing in the doorway, staring at me. I don’t know how long he stood there.
The next morning: shame. I felt shame. Why? Did I do something to induce this behavior? No, of course not. I’d barely spoken five words to this guy the entire time I’d known him. Did I do anything to bring this on myself? No. There was no consent. This was ALL HIM. All of it. Yet, I was the one to feel ashamed. I just knew if I told my roommate or her boyfriend that they would not believe me, they would take his side. They didn’t even like this guy– and I knew that. And yet…
Breakfast the next morning was awkward: I with my secret, and the guy acting as if nothing had happened. I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of there. We stopped for gas, and while her boyfriend was fueling the car, I told my roommate what had happened. She was shocked, outraged.
My roommate’s boyfriend talked to the guy, told him what had happened. The guy claimed no memory of the event (natch) but said he would apologize to me. He never did. Fucking asshole.
This story is further complicated by the fact that this jerk was actually engaged to his girlfriend, and they married the next year. I saw her in a bar in downtown Nashville the next year; I so wanted to tell her not to marry this guy, that he was a slime-ball. But I didn’t. I ‘d never been friends with this girl; I’ve no idea how she felt about me. Would she have believed me anyway? Doubtful. Why? For the same reason any one doesn’t want to believe bad things about people they love. If the person you love is capable of bad things, it smashes the idyllic view you have of that person. On some level, it could mean that your judgment isn’t as good as you think. You could be wrong.
For all I know, this girl could have been well informed of her boyfriend’s predilection for molesting girls as they slumbered. Maybe she thought it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe she equated it to some kind of Sleeping Beauty fantasy type thing. After all, isn’t that how Sleeping Beauty was awakened– with a kiss?
Hmmm. That last bit about Sleeping Beauty just opened up a whole new range of possibilities, didn’t it?
Dependency : A poem
Dependency: A poem.
Words. Aren’t they the truest thing on the planet?
All I had, for years: your words. I was
dependent on those words, my substitute for your
actual presence.
Words I could return to endlessly, let them wash
over me. I read them for comfort, and to cure my
boredom.
To cure my longing for you.
Words: my proxy for you. A stand-in.
Another you made up of sweet nothings in a
form I could understand.
My medium: my best-known works
shaped filled constructed
all with words, letters, punctuation
that directed me to laughter, tears, meanings.
The perfunctory connectors– the ifs, ands, buts– of our
relationship
turned out to be weak,
the flow interrupted.
