The Massacre

Today has been a weird day:

• I have been doped up on Benadryl since Thursday 'cuz my eye keeps acting up, thus my energy has been really low
• Brad woke me up at 2:30 a.m. having puked in the sink, scaring me half to death doing that hover-at-the-edge-of-the-bed-til-you-wake-in-a-panic-thinking-there's-someone-crazy-in-your-house-to-kill-you thing; I screamed; he screamed; Craig screamed; then we calmed down and cleaned up the puke
• went to Fargo yesterday and realized that my husband's chronological age might be 38 but his actual age is 68
• Mai has been in a weird "Sybil" mood and I never know which "Maisey" I'm talking to---question: Is this the nice Maisey or the grumpy Maisey I'm talking to? answer: hmph....well....there once was a dog when I was a little girl and I was your Mommy...cut to me pulling my hair out and drooling
• I have gained and lost the same 6 pounds since January
• I'm frustrated by the lack of jobs that I seem suited for and the lack of money in the checking account

And then Craig decided to clean the fish tank....

Keep in mind that the fish tank was this putrid lime green that only exists in fish tanks (and maybe guacamole after being in the fridge a few days...) We hadn't had the time until today, nor the inclination so now we decided to do it...get all sticky and slimy with fish poo! Yeah that's a memorable family day.

Craig cleaned it. I gathered the fish. Acted like I was doing something and let him get all yucky. I am the girl after all and have done this job too many other times...let him do something nasty...I cleaned up the puke.

He cleaned it and it sparkled. The water was mountain clear. He even managed to get the rocks clean and the stupid little statues that I know are ridiculous, but still want in there...he got them scum-free. I then reappeared to deliver the fish to their clean home. We went about the rest of our day, making lunch...

20 minutes later we walk by the tank and notice that they're dead! All of 'em! All the fish are lying belly up, face down on the bottom of the tank, ensnared in the stupid statues, being gently moved by the current created by the filter...it was a massacre...an epidemic. It was eery as hell! You have to understand that I am not overly attached to the fish...I feed them every night and clean the tank when it needs it, but I don't have names for each of them and I don't stare endlessly at the tank. I do find it calming to look at in those brief periods I can spare and I love the sound of the filter bubbling and humming in the otherwise silent silence. But to have 6 living creatures die so suddenly, creatures that depend on you for their care...well it has spooked me a little. I have a feeling that karma is going to catch up to me.

Now I'm looking at this empty tank and it reminds me of the big world out there and how we can choose to see it:

On the one hand, it is a big empty space. It is lonely and scary, frightening and eery. And if you dare venture into this water, it just might kill you. There are dangers around every corner and even those with the best intentions can still f**k it up and badly. Even if we didn't mean to kill them, the fish are dead, one and the same. You dare not venture into these waters, especially with no one there to greet you and warn you of the dangers ahead.

And yet, on the other hand, it is peaceful and inviting. The glow from the light above warms the waters and the current is strong enough to keep you moving, but not so strong as to force you along. It is serene and full of possibilites. It may be empty now, but there is the promise of the life that can fill it...and the life they can have. It is clean and new.

I think sometimes I try to choose one way of living rather than the other, but I think most of our lives skip from one to the other and reside mostly in the in-between. Some days the water is dangerous and all that is around us is death, bad vibes, grouchy people---all might look well, but the water can kill you, silently suffocating...leaving you breathless. And other days are full of promise and new life, clean living, clean slates, warming light from above. And other days feel like a journey between the two. I've been in the in-between for a long time now, hoping that the waters don't kill me and hoping for the warming light and clean waters. The Massacre at noon makes me wary and weary but reminds me that our lives are much the same.

Beginnings

So I'm feeling inspired by Spring, by you guys, by my work on my thesis, and by the Writer's Conference.

I have a thought (that I am too shy to share right now...ah shucks) that I would like to develop. It isn't really a "new" idea for me; it's one of those nagging feelings that is beginning to articulate itself. My question then as a innocent/virgin writer is where to start and how to start. How to begin...and without the obvious answer of "at the beginning stupid!"

How do you begin? Where do you start? What's the incubation period? And is labor as hard???? Please keep in mind that both of my pregnancies were the things of horror movies as were the deliveries...will it be that hard? And are there at least a few moments of joy?

Wow the pregnancy metaphor went way further than I wanted it to. Okay??? Maybe I'm not cut out for this. I'll continue to blog, write my thesis and wonder if I should write...if I can...

Ghosts

I am mired in research for my thesis and nagging at the back of my mind is still the notion of the missing stories. Throughout my journey as an "academic" I have been as struck by the stories that aren't told as those that are...I celebrate in the stories that do get told and find myself then imagining those that aren't.

I remember in AK we read a "journal" by a Spanish nun in the 17th century who only joined the sisterhood because she wanted access to books and knowledge. She bodly states that it wasn't an overwhelming belief in God that brought her to the nunnery; it was instead the idea that she could have access to the same knowledge that the men of her time might have. I remember this distinctly because it came as such an "a-ha" moment for me. I realized then that I was a legacy of this woman. I am the woman she wanted to become and if not for women like her that found ways around repressive systems, I too might be faced with such a choice as hers. I felt connected to her. And then I found myself exploring the stories that weren't told. I mean, there were so many people then without the time/money/privilege to read, who toiled away their lives to put bread on a table rejoicing in death so that they might finally have some peace...there are so many stories left untold. Those are the stories I want to hear.

So this is a long way for me to say that in my research I am finding that I am hearing the voices of stories left untold. I find myself looking for the stories of the black women working for the white women of this South that I read about. I find myself wanting the stories of "Mammy" told from her voice. What must it have been like to "raise" white children knowing that they would one day be the ones who might take a whip to you, sell your children, or, if you were lucky, be the ones who might set you "free." I want to hear their voices. I cannot imagine how these women navigated that world in which you hope that you can teach them better and then probably knowing that you can't and if you don't it would have immediate consequences for those that you love. I cannot imagine that space between caretaker and slave...cannot imagine how you suckle one who might someday be the one who kills you. I just cannot imagine it...and yet I want to. I want to hear more clearly those voices in the past. Not some voyearistic pathology but want to understand how their history has helped to shape my history.

I see these ghosts in the distance and know that they are important and want to hear them call, want to tell that story, want to understand...

I know that this is morose and not our usual "banter." I know I've gone off on a tangent again and I'm not making any sense. I'm mired in the South right now and I'm trying to claw my way out:)

In over my head

As you two are already experts in your field, perhaps you can talk me down from the cliff I find myself on right now...

I begun to actively explore the theoretical concepts of my thesis and in this exploration I have found that there are many out there who say what I want to say much more artfully than I ever could. I find the work engaging and stimulating. I have that pleasant buzz in my brain that makes me feel alive with exploration but when I think about using the applications to my work, suddenly panic sets in...Aren't I just saying what's already been said?

Perhaps that isn't even what I mean. I do feel as though I am approaching it with difference, even if only subtly, but I have that uncomfortable feeling that I'll never quite be able to capture the real complexities that are muddling my brain. I think I'm on to something...I think it might be important...but I'm not sure that I'm up to the challenge.

This is not a pity party. I know that I am fully capable of understanding the material. I feel like I am digging in and teasing out the nuances, but I want this thesis to be good...not just (good) but good. I feel that I owe it to myself to really make this experience about pushing myself into uncharted territories. I owe it to myself to produce a work that should I never write something like this again, I can look at and say I am proud of. That the work can stand on its own. Not just, "that's good enough to pass."

This isn't even about unrealistic expectations, I don't think. I just want some "tips(?)" on how to get over writer envy perhaps. How do you find that place within yourself where you know that you are allowed into the conversation and that what you have to say is worthy of being heard? How do you get past self-doubt, push beyond the fuzziness and find that place of fire in a work like this? How did you guys do it? I can use all the help I can get.

More time please

I've been thinking a lot about time this week...mostly my lack of it. But it has struck me too, how everyone around me seems desperate for more of it.

Talking to K and hearing about her needing at least an extra day in the week to get through all her work...J you always seem to be in need of a few hundred hours here and there...and I am really starting to feel as though someone is shaking the hour glass, making the sands fall more quickly.

This was spring break: I had lofty plans for the week...finish all my grading, plan the rest of the semester, have handouts ready for printing on Monday that would take us to the end, make luscious dinners every night, clean the basement, go through my closets, and, keep my kids home at least one day and really enjoy them. Okay, I look at the list now and think I must've been drunk when composing it, but it was my list nonetheless...

So here's what got done...I kept Maisey home one day but didn't really enjoy her because I couldn't finish anything else on the stupid list:)

K, I've been privileged to spend some time with your boys this week. This too reminds me of time. Not only the obvious: I can't believe that the man fretting over his defunct engine is the same boy who watched my male toddler, played matchbox cars with him, and let him win occasionally at the very same fuseball table we now have parked in our basement. But also that your baby is now having a baby and my baby is turning into a man...and hence...PANIC!

I blinked and the week is over. I slept one night and England is gone (so sad) (oh and by the way, in that slumber I had another kid!) Where does it go and why can't I enjoy it more?

I am noticing a theme that seems to be recurring and it is this idea that we are never content. I have a job (that I occassionally enjoy) which is a true relief after this past summer's budget crisis. I had a week off from said job (which I should've enjoyed but instead spent the entire week spinning my wheels feeling guilty 'cuz I wasn't doing something else!) I have a husband whom I adore and kids who are reasonably fabulous...what is wrong with me? Why can't that be enough? It used to be. I used to find the balance. I used to be able to claw on to those things I really felt were important. Now I mostly feel conflicted.

So instead of writing, I have another list of things I should be doing (that I'm hoping to complete just as soon as I find the time)...

Chapters and stories

I've been thinking about a conversation I had a month or two ago. A grad student and I were discussing our class and he stated that he hated novels as he saw them as contrived. (I suppose I should mention that he is a short story writer.) He thought that short stories were more like life. At the time I thought him pretenious as hell and acknowledged that I had never thought about it one way or another. And I hadn't. But I am thinking about it now.

So which is it? Short story or novel? Anyone with sense can say that it is both and neither. We all have moments in our lives that define us. These moments shaped who we are for better and for worse. They are dramas and worthy of being written. On their own, they are engaging stories that connect us to others. Moments of birth, death, crises...and yet that doesn't tell the whole story.

Then the novel. We can all see how those dramatic moments build upon on another and how different view points, different perspectives might offer different stories. We all like to think that our lives might make a good novel. And we all hope that the novel has a happy ending. But that's the problem with the novel...they end. We don't.

So neither analogy offers the right perspective. Each are just ways to chart a journey, but neither is complete. Our lives have short stories and are a series of endless chapters. But I am coming to believe that the real life, the real living, might actually happen outside the pages.

I really wonder about the nuances. The past three years have been my novel. I have had a series of dramatic moments that build upon one another. I have had epic journeys, close calls with death, birth...(even a war) it might be a riveting story. But those moments don't capture what I love about my life. I relish the quieter moments.

For me it is the smaller moments, the ones that don't get written that really shape us. I wake up every day (thank whoever for that) and do laundry, go to work, make dinner, kiss the kids, yell at the kids, pet the cat, clean up cat puke...the list is endless, but it almost happens every day. I have routines and though I love when the routines are shook up, I feel off kilter when I can't perform them routinely. I think we need those every day hassles to help us appreciate the extraordinary and to help us see that the extraordinary happens every day. It is in those upsets to what we expect.

I believe in my life. I believe in my story. But in my story I spend as much time on the toilet as in profound conversation and sometimes I do both at the same time. I measure my daily success on how tired I am at the end of the day. There is the balance between completely knackered and wide awake. I think that the number of wow moments can only happen in contrast to the other moments. After all...how can you appreciate mind blowing sex if you haven't had the "okay, I want to but I also need to make dinner and finish washing the dishes" sex. Each are wonderful...each are necessary...but they fulfill different needs.

So my life really happens between the lines. My life is a short story and a novel but the page that it is written on. It is gloriously mundane, tumultuous, hilarious, and boring. I love it!