January 2003
Great art is clear thinking about mixed feelings, said Auden. (from a slection of Edward Hoagland's diaries.)
I am home.
I love my home.
I love my desktop.
I love my web page.
I love my bed.
We arrived early and I succumbed to the sin of taking a taxi. Shuttles are so much cheaper but I just wanted to be HOME!
And I am.
I was (am) a little bit zonked from the day of air travel. I will write a full rant about this soon. And there was the time change. I lost three hours. But I was wired and tired. I ordered a pizza. Put on my beloved Board of Supervisors. Powered up my PC. Ahhhhhhh.
I'm home.
I called Mom. When we arrived at the airport a fellow pulled up beside us and told her she should check one of her tires. This started a bit of a row. Ken kept saying that if the tire blew out the car could roll. Mom didn't want to stop in a gas station and put in air because she'd never done it before. As I said goodbye I had visions of them with a flat tire in the middle of no where. I mean, it's crazy, because they have an emergency cell phone and some kind of AAA thing. So they would have been OK. But, shit. They drove back to Brevard and she took the car to some tire place and they found a roofing tack. All is well.
At the airport my Mom stood at the glass security wall and watched while they waved the metal detector over me and looked at my laptop case. I kept waving to her. My throat tight with tears.
The thing is Mom is in pretty good shape. Relatively speaking. She could be around for years. Ken is better. But, at 79, I think he's only ever going to get so much better. And I feel the need to be closer.
When I talked to Steve he sang the praises of Asheville. He thought it was a great place to live. (It is isn't it Susan?) It's close to M & K. I'm going to graduate in six months. And then I'm going to need a job. And I am thinking about where I want to position myself for that future.
But.
For today.
I am home.
KPFA is on the radio. I'm writing on my site. I'm drinking tea and eating toast in front of my computer.
I'm home.
And so happy to be here.
There was a point yesterday when I just wanted to order in expensive delivery food and play with my SIMS. I just wanted to zone. But I needed to go and get my mail. I swear I told them to deliver it today but yesterday they left a note saying come and get it. I needed to get the bills and write checks. My swollen credit cards need constant attention. I'm already getting THOSE phone calls.
And it was a beautiful sunny SF day. I've decided to pull away from the screen more and go ... out.
So, anticipating a months worth of catalogs and junk mail and bills, (oh my) I got my little grocery cart and walked up the hill to the PO office. Smiling at the hills. Got propositioned by a homeless guy. Ahhh. Life is good. I'm back in the city.
They had the pkg of books that Mom & I had mailed but not the mail. Or so they said. They gave me a phone # to call.
Here's the deal. One block from my apartment is the place where they sort the mail. One flat block. Up the hill, five blocks away from my house, is the PO office. So. I figured that the mail was at the sorting center. It had been there one other time. I walked back down the hill, knocked on the door and a guy comes and tells me that the mail is at the office. I hike back UP THE HILL and wait in line for ten minutes and ... oh...yes...they do have it. See, if I was my Mother I would have told the guy to call when I was there the first time. He woulda called and they would have told him to look a little harder and I wouldn't have made a second trip. Sweating. In the beautiful sun.
I got the bills. Wrote the checks. Groan.
I did play with my SIMS for a bit. I made a John Keats and an Emily Dickinson. They live in separate houses and they each have cat. I was going to try and hook them up. So far they haven't discovered each other.
Then I went to the store and got some tuna and apples and those already peeled carrots that that don't really taste very good. I mean really. If you can't peel your own carrots...what is that about? But I was really tired. I think the day of travel caught up with me. I was so thirsty the day I got to NC and I had the same experience yesterday. I could not drink enough water.
I spent a lovely long time reading blogs this morning. I couldn't sleep. Maybe I'm still feeling NC time. With my limited web time in NC I really noticed who I read and why. I like different blogs for different reasons. More about that later. Yesterday I read Dorothea, someone who I've been reading for a while, and Monica, a new friend, who were both pointing to a post by Shelly talking about comments.
I love comments. I check my own comment section manically and I love reading the comments on other people's sites. I love the way conversations happen in comment sections. And I've only had a few icky comments. Nothing too bad. But I've seen some really slings and arrows in comment sections. And the situation that Shelly was writing about (nasty comment bombers crashing a site) is an example of how loopy it can get.
But ohhhhhhh........I love comments.
It's funny. I get web shy. I don't always feel comfortable commenting. Or sending e-mail. But when I wsa in NC comments and e-mails kept me from crashing.
This public writing of personal riffing is interesting space. We become involved with one another in intimate ways and yet...there is distance. If I am listening to a friend say something I don't like they may be able to tell by looking at my face. Actually, my face is an easy read. But if I read a blogger friend saying something I find offensive, or dumb, they may never know. I can just click away. Or I can go back to my own blog and GO OFF. Which is usually how I handle it. If I really react to something I read on line, in a negative way, I usually use my own space to speak out. With a link. That way the blogger may see me in their referrers and check me out.
But ya know...I don't go looking for many fights.
And.
If one comes along I will square off. Not for the fun of the fight. I don't find fighting fun. But for the hope of evolution, education, growth...sumthin.
But I love my comments. Right now Bobbi has borked her MT and her comments are only there in her archives. I really want to be able to tell her how beautiful her stuff is and how much it helps me to go to her site and see beauty.
In case anyone is wondering...I never did buy any smokes. I thought about it yesterday but I was in too good a mood. A bit postal. But soooo happy to be home.
Yikes! I added to the bork on Bobbi's MT. Sheesh! She says I'm forgiven. Phew. But fa cryin out loud! All I did was leave a comment in one of her archived pages. Puts a whole new spin on the problem with comments.
MT gives me the heebie jeebies. There's no way I could do it alone. It just seems too hard unless you are a full tilt design head. The thing is I think I might like to be a design head. When I have time and brain cell function I actually read about design stuff. But...when I try to do something new with my page I sweat my limitations. And my limitations are many. Don't look under the hood. It's messy. And now I'm sweating someone else's design issues. Oh shit! (See Bobbi, swearing is OK here.) I'm so sorry!
The We Have Brains Topic is about football and feminism. I can't believe I have something to say about this. But M & K watch a lot of football. I would sit with them and read. I got pretty good at tuning out the roar and babble of the game. But Mom would yell and bang on her chair. "Go go go!" I dropped my book a few times.
The only time I was interested in football was when I had a crush on Gary Demblowski in seventh grade. He was on the team. I was in the bleachers. Swooning and yelling. "Go go go!"
The last Sunday I was in NC I walked into the living room when there was a game on between New York and Pittsburgh. I grew up in Pittsburgh. I was in seventh grade in Pittsburgh.
There was a turn around in the middle of the game and the end was really close and really dramatic. And then there was another game between SF and ...oh shit I forget...but, again, there was a mid game turn around and the end was really close and dramatic. I actually got caught up in the whole thing.
But in one of the games the players were fighting. You could feel the tension. And that is not about winning a game. It's about money.
The WHB questions are: Does your view of feminism skew your view of football, sports in general? Are you a fan, but a skeptical fan? Or do you just sit back & try to enjoy the game for the game's sake?
I'm not sure my view of feminism skews my view. I think my Marxist tendencies may either skew or clear my view. Depending on how ya wanna look at it. I'm not really interested in football but I think it's good for people to have things like football. I think it's good to be excited and involved and passionate. I mean life is fucking hard and the news is not good and the war looms and if people can forget about it all watch some guys run a ball back and forth ...hey...it's all good.
But there is SO MUCH MONEY involved in these games. And the spending begins in Jr high with special equipment and young boys are told not to worry if they can't read as long as they can get that ball down the field. And music and art programs fall apart for lack of funding. And money is spent on stadiums and superstar players and things I probably don't even want to know about. And the passion in those players is goaded with cash. And sportsmanship. Well.
One of the things I kept thinking when I was watching those HUGE men knock each other down and bang into each other with helmets and cleats was how people talk about fat people and our terrible health. (cough) Why isn't anybody worried about these guys and their health? It can not be good for your body to play that game. I knew a guy who had blown his knees playing football. We used to share knee pain stories. But I'm bad because my knees are fucked up because I'm fat (not) and he's cool because he fucked his up playing football. What is that about?
I have a VERY feminist friend. Who shall remain nameless. (But you know who you are.) When the big baseball game was being played here she was completely obsessed. COMPLETELY.
I saw the woman who kicked the football. I don't know if women should be in the game. I really can't muster up an opinion about it. Sure. Why not? What ever. I know there are women who are interested in the game. My 76 year old mother banging on the arms of her chair. "Go go go!" Me at thirteen swooning and yelling. "Go go go!" I remember the guys saying girls weren't interested in the game. It just made me want to know ALL about it. Early rebel nature. Feminist? I think so.
And if we hadn't moved away from Gary Demblowski I might have married him and had lots of kids and watched the game on Sundays.
Hmmm.
Uh.
Well.
All's well that ends.
I guess I'm taking my chances
Giving up the ring throwing in my gloves
I guess I'm taking my chances
Trading in my things
For a couple wings a little white dove
And one big love,
one big love
one big love
one big love
I think the whole travel thing hit me yesterday. I woke from seven straight hours of sleep, which is a lot for me, and then went back to sleep. Mom called and woke me up.
See. Ya can run but you can not hide.
She wanted to know how I did the roasted potatoes. Uh huh. Good gawd. I love her so much.
So I got out of bed and did the cereal, scone, tea, blog thing. Later I did a sushi, tangerine, blog thing. It was 2:00 before I took a shower. A really long shower. And, again, that's unusual for me unless I'm washing my hair or playing with my shower head. (Did I say that out loud?)
I just needed to be slow and spaced out and unresponsive.
My suitcase is on the floor in my bedroom. Mostly unpacked. I unpacked it in fifteen minutes at Mom's house.
Dru has an article in Hip Mama. Isn't that the coolest?
I think I said something about wanting to write more about the things I noticed about my blog roll while I was away and I had such a limited time to be on line. There are people on my blog roll who I feel really strongly about. Somehow a connection has been made that moves past the limitations of text. And there are people I read for information or inspiration. Like I love Harrumph. I love every thing Heather Champ does. But I don't feel .... uh ...connected. I'm not sure what all that's about. It isn't about whether or not a person writes about their life on line, or just links to cool stuff. I basically depend on George to find the stuff I oughta read.
There are people who I read every day and people who I read once a week and people who I forget to read and am happy when I remember and people who don't write every day. I have Bigger Hand on my blog role and he hasn't really posted for months. But I check every once in a while. Coz I miss Henry.
Shit. I shouldn't have started this. Now I feel like I need to do the whole list.
Any way the whole muse came back to me when I was reading Dru talk about how long her blog role is. I thought I had something really deep and insightful to say about it. But ... maybe not.
This guy is putting up a song a day for the whole year, just coz. So far my favorite is Understanding Marx.
I think my syntax was a bit off yesterday in my football rant. I was saying that my knees don't necessarily hurt because I'm fat. One of my knees was injured when a large restaurant mixing bowl was knocked off a shelf and hit me in the back of said knee. The cartilage was cracked. Being fat certainly puts more pressure on my knees and I am older. But I have thin friends with knee problems. Shit happens. And I don't know about the fatness of football players being a health issue. I mean fat people can be athletic. But having five very large men piled on top of you might not be healthy. One or two might be OK.
Heh.
Oh. I am tired. I'm rambling.
But since I am rambling. How am I gonna move to NC when I can't vote Green there and the new president of the SF Board of Supervisors is Matt Gonzalez ?
I had the best best best day. I had invited Kristina and Joe for dinner. Kristina came early and (because she so sweet and generous) brought me a book. (autographed no less) We went to City Lights and I bought a few more books. (truly fiscally irresponsible but now they are in such a lovely pile)
Then we had a coffee and then we shopped for a few more things I needed for dinner and some wine. And we went back to the apartment and I cooked and we drank wine and ate cheese. When Joe came he made martinis for he and I.
I made spelt crust pizzas. One with leeks smoked trout and creme fraiche and one with olives, balsamic red onions roasted red bells and mozzarella. And I made a raddichio, apple and fennel salad. I thought I might be sick of the apple fennel thing but the raddichio put a new spin on it and it was a nice crisp counter to all that creamy other stuff. And we had mango sorbet and coconut sorbetto and little lemon cookies.
And we talked and talked and talked. It was so much fun!
Then, just as the evening was winding down, Renee called and I talked to her for a lovely long time.
Best best best day.
I think the wounds from my airline experience have healed enough for me to write about it.
M & K had a bunch of frequent flyer miles that were about to expire. So they used them all to get me first class tickets. Mom was really hoping that the wider seats would be better for me. And so was I.
Not.
The seats are wider. But there is an arm rest in the middle that takes up room and so they aren't that much wider. And the arms are metal. I wasn't terribly uncomfortable at first but a four hour flight is a long time to have your ass squeezed. It was kinda painful. On the way out I was on a redeye so everyone slept and I tried to squirm from side to side, giving each side a break from the pain. When I got on the flight to Asheville the plane was pretty empty and the arm rests lifted and it was a short flight so I thought my trial was over.
But we know what happened then.
The plane I got on the next day was very small. No movable arm rest and I was practically sitting in some guys lap. When I realized that I was going to be sitting next to someone I panicked. I was trying to get off the plane, which was crazy. Finally I sat down, sort of sideways. I was uncomfortable. He seemed OK and he was very nice. He tried to make some small talk.
On the flight back the seats were made from a hard plastic, which kind of gave a little. Still painful but not as much. There was a white guy in the seat next to me.
OK. Let me be the first to say that I have attitude about white men. It is true that many of my favorite men are white. It is also true that many of the men of been in love with were white. I am the first to admit that I make gross overarching generalizations about white men. So I may offend some of you.
Sorry.
He was on the thin side of average. When I tried to open the overhead to put my computer case in it he said, "That one is already full." I turned to the one behind me and that one was more than half full as well. So I went one back. During the flight he was able to use his little table and his fold up TV screen and his earphones. Not me. The table wouldn't come up high enough to get over my belly. The earphones plugged in to the arm rest that my hip was squeezed against and so the screen was irrelevant. So he had a steak dinner and watched a movie and worked on his lap top. It was all good for him. I sat paralyzed in my narrow little band of area and read my book.
See the world is designed for him. All the people around us looked like him. If fat women of color were the CEO's of the world there would be couches on planes.
OK. I know. I'm being a little bit crazy. And I know the airlines companies are all going out of business. And I know they can't redesign the whole plane. But all it would take is an arm rest on the aisle that dropped. That's it. Is that so much? And if they wanted to be nice the tray table could be more adjustable.
Buying two seats isn't going to guarantee my comfort. If the arm rest doesn't move I'll be the proud owner of an empty seat and I'll still be squeezed.
I don't know. I just want to redesign the world. Can't we all be comfortable?
At the end of the flight the guy took his huge suitcase out of the overhead bin above us a smaller bag out of the bin across from us. He had been taking up three times as much luggage space as he was allotted. But he just put it all in a pile and waltzes off to his very important business. He can take up all the space he wants to. It's his world.
Usually I publish once a day. In the morning. And once in a while I get riled up by something I read and I post a second time. But I have a lot on my mind this morning. And, in truth, I wanted the fat girl flying story to stand alone. There is more than one reason for that. Some are dumb. Some are not.
I listened to the wonderful Governor Ryan speech yesterday. I never thought I'd wish I lived in Illinois instead of California. The governor in my state knows that the death penalty is a "threshold issue." What ever that means.
And there were two interesting blogs this morning. Kind of interesting counter points. Mike wrote about his use of pharmaceuticals and Chris wrote about realizing that so many folks he knew were on anti depressants.
I'm somewhere in the middle of the debate. I hate doctors. And I hate the idea that we need to medicate our pain. But I know that my own depression can wipe me out. I mean really. If money were no object I would never leave my house. I started taking herbs for depression last year and some of the shrill misery seemed to abate. I just added a new one. I'm determined to pull myself up enough to try and get some stuff done.
Maybe I can finish my book. Maybe I can work for Tom's campaign. Maybe I can get out the fucking door. It's not even about being happy. It's about being ... able. Er, sumthin.
Since I've been back I've been in a great mood. And it's made me wonder if I can sustain it. As the worries about money and the stress of what I'm not getting done begins to filter in and since I am not caught in the minute to minute need to respond to someone else's need and as the blood begins to flow back into my brain and I begin to think about IT ALL again, my mood begins to slip about.
So it's a thing to think about. And feel about.
I'M SO GLAD I'M HOME.
Marilyn & I went swimming and then to the Palace of Fine Food. Now I have a refrigerator full of beautiful veggies and a bowl full of apples and tangerines. And olives and bagels and tortillas and cheese and so much good stuff.
I did a pretty good job of cleaning out my refrigerator before I left but, for some inexplicable reason, I left a container full of red bell pepper pasta. I took the lid off yesterday and ... OH LORD. Not a good thing.
So I'm tucked in. Which I need to be because I need to do some writing before school starts.
I think I said something about needing to work on some writing. And I did. I’m working on a grant proposal for the org that my therapist works with. I think I might suck at grant writing. But … I’m doin what I can. The writing I want to be working on is THE BOOK. But after a few hours of doing the grant stuff I can’t switch into the MY WRITING mode. I have no idea what I mean by that and I suspect that it’s just me being afraid to look at THE BOOK because it’s been too long. And I need to do more work on the grant stuff. But I need a break.
So.
I’m gonna do the WHB topic. Does that make sense? I didn’t think so.
Heh.
I have written about this before. Because I think it's an issue for the
fat revolution. When fat girls do porn it seems like using the tools of the
master's house. And there’s a part of me that grimaces. And there’s a part of me
that smiles. I am really divided about it. And my mood determines my response.
There are times when I am as randy and objectifying as I wanna be. I
usually keep this stuff to myself. Because really … who needs to know? And
the part of me that wants to see all people in their totality and not as
isolated images for my turn on is (hopefully) going to override all that
anyway.
I did consume porn when I was younger. But even then I was divided. I’ve
never been able to isolate my own sexual response. I always have some awareness
of the human in the body. So all the poses and body parts add up for me and I
wonder about the heart and the story.
And there is often something so tired and cliché about porn. The people
always look the same. Which is why the fat porn can be seen as subversive.
Exploitation? Yes. And no.
As long as there is no substantive economic parity for women, as long as there are limits to access, as long as they are expected to be the ones who do ALL the child care while men prioritize careers, and as long as they can be abandoned to raise children with no financial support form the father, or the state, and then choose sex work because there is more buck for a bang than flipping hamburgers … yes, it is exploitation. If they are forced by the conditions of the culture to make the value of their beauty more important than the value of their brains and hearts and fundamental humanity and they use their beauty to make bank, yes, that’s about exploitation.
And I think there are women working in the sex industry because they like it. And why shouldn’t they? Sex is a good thing.
I always want to hope for wholeness. But I have my moments when my brain needs more attention. So I wanna talk, or read. And I have moments where my heart needs the most. And I don’t want to have to talk. I need to feel. And I have times when my body needs the most attention. And it isn’t about who I am or who another person is. It’s about needing body parts and friction. And other times it’s about a complex limbic dance.
I think this stuff gets confusing when people are talking about feminism. It does seem to be an all or nothing thing. There are people who are deeply hurt by pornographic images. I have been hurt by Victoria’s Secret commercials. I have looked at those images of beauty and desire and felt like there is just too many of them. The image of desirability is toxic and limited. Women put themselves through too much to live in that notion of beauty. And when I see and hear and read men who want there to be “nothing wrong” with feeling aroused by beauty and the image of beauty is the same large breast and not much else of a body image I feel tired and hurt.
Yesterday I read someone refer to a catalogue of rose bushes as “pure porn.” And I get that. I’m with looking at images and feeling desire and longing.
To an extent.
But lets not forget. For every woman who chooses the sex industry because they just love sex in some central to their life way there are many more women who are sold into the industry. They are not happy to be there. And we all, men and women, pay a price.
So maybe if we play safe and keep asking questions and try to allow for more than one possibility we can sort out what is hurtful and be left with an ever shifting and expanding sense of beauty and longing and desire.
So I'm sitting in therapy last night and I'm just so happy. And I start to worry. What if I'm just happy now? What will I do?
There's very little chance of that. What with the war and all.
But I am happy right now. I saw Barbara and that made me happy. I talked to Kara and that made me happy. I'm just lovin my life. And I'm gonna stay with it for as long as I can.
I was talking to Marilyn on Sunday. I was telling her that I didn't really talk much in NC. I mean really talk. She just stared at me in disbelief. Generally speaking I'm a talker.
So just being able to feel words in my mouth and under my fingers at the keyboard makes me happy.
Monica is linking to Robyn who has proposed the idea of a Blogger love fest. It's a nice idea. But being all happy n shit, like I am right now, I'm feeling the love for everyone.
And I need to be working on my other writing. Right?
Heh.
I'm mad about being old and I'm mad about being American. Apart from that, OK. -- Kurt Vonnegut
Sometimes you just forget about a vegetable. Like leeks. I just forgot about them. Now I'm on a leek kick. I made soup with leeks and potatoes and mushrooms and sausage. It was pretty.
I might have a little flu. In the late afternoon I felt kind of unwell. After I'd put everything in the pot I took a shower and put on my pajamas. The soup was smelling like healing. I ate some. I read for a while and watched the end of When We Were Kings on Sundance. Today I still feel a little bit ... out of sorts. It's not that bad. It's the mildly annoying flu.
I woke up having a dream that the last guy I was in love with (for three unrequited years thank you very much) was asking me why he couldn't be in love with me. He was saying he thought it would have been good if he had been.
What would Freud say?
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Happy Birthday Martin.
Steve just sent me W 's phone number.
202-456-