Daniel Johnston song
Listen to this great song. Here are the lyrics:
your picture
is still
on my wall
on my wall
the colors are bright
bright as ever
the red is strong
the blue is pure
some things last a long time
some things last a long time
your picture
is still
on my wall
on my wall
I think
about you
often
often
I can't forget all the things we did
some things last a long time
some things last a long time
it's funny
but it's true
and it's true
but it's not funny
time comes and goes
all the while
I still think of you
some things last a long time
your picture
is still
on my wall
on my wall
the colors
are bright
bright
as ever
things that we did
all we forget
some things last a life time
some things last a life time
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
she was horrid
My mom read us poetry sometimes instead stories. And she was into sing-song-y riddles. She got hold of a book with funny poems about manners that she really loved. To tell the truth, us kids didn't love the poems about manners but my mom sure did.
There was one poem that went like this:
I eat my peas with honey
I've done it all my life
It makes the peas taste funny
But it keeps them on my knife
That one made us giggle. Why wouldn't someone eat their peas with a fork? or even a spoon? Why a knife?
And then my mom had little diddies that got from gosh knows where. Here is one I despised. She only said this one to me. I was the only girl in the family, with four brothers, until I was fourteen. By the time my baby sister came along,mom had stopped her kiddie poetry. I don't think she ever said this one to my sister:
There was a little girl
Who had a little girl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good
She was very very good
And when she was bad
She was horrid
I already heard my mom telling me I was horrid when she said that one.
And I am feeling horrid right now.
There was one poem that went like this:
I eat my peas with honey
I've done it all my life
It makes the peas taste funny
But it keeps them on my knife
That one made us giggle. Why wouldn't someone eat their peas with a fork? or even a spoon? Why a knife?
And then my mom had little diddies that got from gosh knows where. Here is one I despised. She only said this one to me. I was the only girl in the family, with four brothers, until I was fourteen. By the time my baby sister came along,mom had stopped her kiddie poetry. I don't think she ever said this one to my sister:
There was a little girl
Who had a little girl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good
She was very very good
And when she was bad
She was horrid
I already heard my mom telling me I was horrid when she said that one.
And I am feeling horrid right now.
Friday, December 23, 2011
male unfounded entitlement
I know a little prick -- I have never seen his member but I bet it's a dinky one -- who
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
O Christmas Tree
I have not celebrated Xmas since 2000, the last year I had my daughter in my life at Xmas. It is oft said that time heals all wounds. This has not been my experience. The wound of losing my daughter is as deep, as cutting, as ever, I have just learned to live with it. It's a bit like living with a large blade in my side; like my body has adjusted to having the blade in it and if I move very carefully, mindful to avoid letting the blade shred any new flesh, I have stopped bleeding. Take just one injudicious step, and the gash bleeds anew. God, I hate my sadness. How I hate that it won't go away.
In recent years, I have tried, not very seriously, to acnowledge Xmas. Last year, I asked a friend to go to a holiday concert with me. He agreed to go but then he never committed to a date and time, so it was worse than having never tried.
This year, I have been thinking about gifts. I have seen comments on Facebook, such as an old friend writing "just have one or two gifts left to buy". I remember, as if I were remembering a novel, buying lots of gifts, investing much thought, time and money into the selection and purchase of gifts. I never bought gifts for any but my closest ties. I once had a roommate who shopped all year for Christmas, buying all kinds of super cheap junk on closeout, like decaying 'gift' soap bars on closeout at a dollar store. Then she'd give everyone in her whole world a piece of junk at Xmas. I don't understanding 'giving' away pieces of junk that no one wants, just so be able to say "I gave everyone a gift". I love giving gifts. And I have been known to give some very generous ones. But, except for a few gift exchange deals in adolescence, where everyone in a clique gifted everyone, I have never given junk gifts. Although now I am remembering a year when, my family moving away, I gave my best girlfriends in the old neighborhood some junk: I gave each of them a gift package that came with scented powder with a puff, cheap cologne and soap: all the same scent. Junk gift packages from Walgreens. Yuck. But I was 13 and believed that was something grown up women wanted. I believed I was giving my emergent adolescent girlfriends a girly-but-grown-up gift. And, in that case, it was the thought that mattered. I was sad to be moving away from the neighborhood I had grown up in. Those gifts were for me.
I don't give Xmas gifts now. I have not given any since my daughter left me. I don't even think about it. I know women living on SSI (welfare for the elderly and disabled) who suffer for months to give lots og gifts. I long to ask them who they gift to, and why, and what. How can an old lady who likely runs out of food money sometimes think she should give trinkets at Xmas? To a gandkid, sure, but who else?
Today, on my way home from one of my endless medical appointments, I bought a Christmas tree. A gift to me. It is just a Christmas tree ornament. But it is a tiny green-wired tree, with a tiny, shiny red star and a red bell hanging down.
It is hanging on a knob on the land where I surf, where I can see it all the time.
Oh Christmas tree.
It is not starting to feel a lot like Christmas.
In recent years, I have tried, not very seriously, to acnowledge Xmas. Last year, I asked a friend to go to a holiday concert with me. He agreed to go but then he never committed to a date and time, so it was worse than having never tried.
This year, I have been thinking about gifts. I have seen comments on Facebook, such as an old friend writing "just have one or two gifts left to buy". I remember, as if I were remembering a novel, buying lots of gifts, investing much thought, time and money into the selection and purchase of gifts. I never bought gifts for any but my closest ties. I once had a roommate who shopped all year for Christmas, buying all kinds of super cheap junk on closeout, like decaying 'gift' soap bars on closeout at a dollar store. Then she'd give everyone in her whole world a piece of junk at Xmas. I don't understanding 'giving' away pieces of junk that no one wants, just so be able to say "I gave everyone a gift". I love giving gifts. And I have been known to give some very generous ones. But, except for a few gift exchange deals in adolescence, where everyone in a clique gifted everyone, I have never given junk gifts. Although now I am remembering a year when, my family moving away, I gave my best girlfriends in the old neighborhood some junk: I gave each of them a gift package that came with scented powder with a puff, cheap cologne and soap: all the same scent. Junk gift packages from Walgreens. Yuck. But I was 13 and believed that was something grown up women wanted. I believed I was giving my emergent adolescent girlfriends a girly-but-grown-up gift. And, in that case, it was the thought that mattered. I was sad to be moving away from the neighborhood I had grown up in. Those gifts were for me.
I don't give Xmas gifts now. I have not given any since my daughter left me. I don't even think about it. I know women living on SSI (welfare for the elderly and disabled) who suffer for months to give lots og gifts. I long to ask them who they gift to, and why, and what. How can an old lady who likely runs out of food money sometimes think she should give trinkets at Xmas? To a gandkid, sure, but who else?
Today, on my way home from one of my endless medical appointments, I bought a Christmas tree. A gift to me. It is just a Christmas tree ornament. But it is a tiny green-wired tree, with a tiny, shiny red star and a red bell hanging down.
It is hanging on a knob on the land where I surf, where I can see it all the time.
Oh Christmas tree.
It is not starting to feel a lot like Christmas.
Monday, December 19, 2011
a Luciferic vortex
Rudolf Steiner, an Austrian scientist and visionary, was, in a way, an early "New Age" thinker. I say this because he was a prolific thinker, writer, leader and founder of many things.
He founded anthroposophy, published 67 or more books, and founded many initiatives that thrive and grow. He created anthroposophical medicine, biodynamic farming, eurythmy, Waldorf Schools, a Christian Community, The Camphill Movement, Threefold Economics and more. He also spoke and wrote extensively about how humanity unfolded on this earth. And he talked about the human future.
He didn't have particularly good news about humanity's short-term future. He tended to talk in terms of cultural epochs, which span
He founded anthroposophy, published 67 or more books, and founded many initiatives that thrive and grow. He created anthroposophical medicine, biodynamic farming, eurythmy, Waldorf Schools, a Christian Community, The Camphill Movement, Threefold Economics and more. He also spoke and wrote extensively about how humanity unfolded on this earth. And he talked about the human future.
He didn't have particularly good news about humanity's short-term future. He tended to talk in terms of cultural epochs, which span
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Mushrooms by Sylvia Plath
“Mushrooms”
Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly
Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.
Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.
Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,
Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,
Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We
Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking
Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!
We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,
Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiples:
We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot’s in the door.
Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly
Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.
Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.
Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,
Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,
Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We
Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking
Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!
We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,
Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiples:
We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot’s in the door.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Various Portents
VARIOUS PORTENTS
by Alice Oswald
Various stars. Various kings.
Various sunsets, signs, cursory insights.
Many minute attentions, many knowledgeable watchers,
Much cold, much overbearing darkness.
Various long midwinter Glooms.
Various Solitary and Terrible stars.
Many Frosty Nights, many previously Unseen Sky-flowers.
Many people setting out (some of them kings) all clutching at stars.
More than one North star, more than one South star.
Several billion elliptical galaxies, bubble nebulae, binary systems.
Various dust lanes, various routes through varying thickness of Dark,
Many tunnels into deep space, minds going back and forth.
Many visions, many digitally enhanced heavens,
All kinds of glistenings being gathered into telescopes:
Fireworks, gasworks, white-streaked works of Dusk,
Works of wonder and or water, snowflakes, stars of frost …
Various dazed astronomers dilating their eyes,
Various astronauts setting out into laughterless earthlessness,
Various 5,000-year-old moon maps,
Various blindmen feeling across the heavens in Braille.
Various gods making beautiful works in bronze,
Brooches, crowns, triangles, cups and chains,
Various crucifixes, all sorts of nightsky necklaces.
Many Wise Men remarking the irregular weather.
Many exile energies, many low-voiced followers,
Watchers of whisps of various glowing spindles,
Soothsayers, hunters in the High Country of the Zodiac,
Seafarers tossing, tied to a star…
Various people coming home (some of them kings). Various headlights.
Two or three children standing or sitting on the low wall.
Various winds, the Sea Wind, the sound-laden Winds of Evening
Blowing the stars towards them, bringing snow.
by Alice Oswald
Various stars. Various kings.
Various sunsets, signs, cursory insights.
Many minute attentions, many knowledgeable watchers,
Much cold, much overbearing darkness.
Various long midwinter Glooms.
Various Solitary and Terrible stars.
Many Frosty Nights, many previously Unseen Sky-flowers.
Many people setting out (some of them kings) all clutching at stars.
More than one North star, more than one South star.
Several billion elliptical galaxies, bubble nebulae, binary systems.
Various dust lanes, various routes through varying thickness of Dark,
Many tunnels into deep space, minds going back and forth.
Many visions, many digitally enhanced heavens,
All kinds of glistenings being gathered into telescopes:
Fireworks, gasworks, white-streaked works of Dusk,
Works of wonder and or water, snowflakes, stars of frost …
Various dazed astronomers dilating their eyes,
Various astronauts setting out into laughterless earthlessness,
Various 5,000-year-old moon maps,
Various blindmen feeling across the heavens in Braille.
Various gods making beautiful works in bronze,
Brooches, crowns, triangles, cups and chains,
Various crucifixes, all sorts of nightsky necklaces.
Many Wise Men remarking the irregular weather.
Many exile energies, many low-voiced followers,
Watchers of whisps of various glowing spindles,
Soothsayers, hunters in the High Country of the Zodiac,
Seafarers tossing, tied to a star…
Various people coming home (some of them kings). Various headlights.
Two or three children standing or sitting on the low wall.
Various winds, the Sea Wind, the sound-laden Winds of Evening
Blowing the stars towards them, bringing snow.
gosh golly
It is Saturday evening. I stayed up all night, which I do more and more. So I just couldn't get to the farmers markets. Now I have no food for the week. I'll have to go to a grocery store. I have gotten to quite dislike going to grocery stores.
Darn darn darn.
My phone rang sometime during the day. I hoped it would awaken me but the person hung up before the answering machine could even pick up. I was hoping listening to my machine and the message would awaken me. A few seconds later, I was sound asleep once more.
I slept until 3 p.m. So I'll be up again all night. And now, no food.
Next Saturday is Xmas Eve. I absolutely have to get to the market next week.
There is a market a few blocks from my home in Berkeley but I like one in Oakland, Grand Lake. Next Saturday, I'll have to get there very early. On Xmas Eve, there will be rushes on my favorite things.
Gosh golly darn. I think this might have been my last week for pink lady apples. What will I eat all week?
Darn darn darn.
My phone rang sometime during the day. I hoped it would awaken me but the person hung up before the answering machine could even pick up. I was hoping listening to my machine and the message would awaken me. A few seconds later, I was sound asleep once more.
I slept until 3 p.m. So I'll be up again all night. And now, no food.
Next Saturday is Xmas Eve. I absolutely have to get to the market next week.
There is a market a few blocks from my home in Berkeley but I like one in Oakland, Grand Lake. Next Saturday, I'll have to get there very early. On Xmas Eve, there will be rushes on my favorite things.
Gosh golly darn. I think this might have been my last week for pink lady apples. What will I eat all week?
insulate
insulate: To cause to be in a detached or isolated
position.
It is interesting to note that insulate and isolate are so similar.
isolate: to set or place apart; detach or separate so as to be alone.
I was emotionally abused two weeks ago. The vicious unkindness triggered a relapse of very old psychological vulnerabilities. I am not able to brush the abuse off. I am in trouble.
It is interesting to note that insulate and isolate are so similar.
isolate: to set or place apart; detach or separate so as to be alone.
I was emotionally abused two weeks ago. The vicious unkindness triggered a relapse of very old psychological vulnerabilities. I am not able to brush the abuse off. I am in trouble.
Friday, December 09, 2011
When it's over, it's over
The principles of Open Space:
Whoever shows up are the right people.
Whatever happens, is the only thing that could or should.
When it starts, it starts.
When it's over, it's over.
I think the principles of Open Space, which were first published by Harrison Owen, although Harrison does not quite claim to have 'discovered' Open Space -- Harrison is too generous and humble to stake such a claim. He recognized that the universe operates in a kind of harmony. The study of physics is giving more and more credence to the principles of self-organization, which are the same as the principles of open space.
If you meditate on these principles, and begin to make all your life choices, moment by moment, in the present, you might begin to see that these principles work as effectively, if not more so, than most religious belief systems. And their simplicity, like all great thinking, are powerful.
All roads lead to open space. All relationships embody the principles of open space.
When a relationship is over, it is over. Accept it. Love the lost friend or lover but let them go if it's over. When someone is repeatedly emotionally abusive to me, I tend to hang on. I get 'hooked'. I feel that I have to prove that I don't deserve to be treated like shit but, pathetically, sadly, I keep eating someones abusive shit in a crazy, codependent attempt to get them to, get them to what? Magically see me? Magically stop seeing their projected imaginations of who I am?
I am a good person. I am trustworthy. I am loving. Anyone who does not think so is not my friend.
I'm hurting. I begged the person I am talking about to simply be polite to me. Begged. And this person refused. And the whole time this person was being an asshole, I was blaming myself.
Whoever shows up are the right people.
Whatever happens, is the only thing that could or should.
When it starts, it starts.
When it's over, it's over.
I think the principles of Open Space, which were first published by Harrison Owen, although Harrison does not quite claim to have 'discovered' Open Space -- Harrison is too generous and humble to stake such a claim. He recognized that the universe operates in a kind of harmony. The study of physics is giving more and more credence to the principles of self-organization, which are the same as the principles of open space.
If you meditate on these principles, and begin to make all your life choices, moment by moment, in the present, you might begin to see that these principles work as effectively, if not more so, than most religious belief systems. And their simplicity, like all great thinking, are powerful.
All roads lead to open space. All relationships embody the principles of open space.
When a relationship is over, it is over. Accept it. Love the lost friend or lover but let them go if it's over. When someone is repeatedly emotionally abusive to me, I tend to hang on. I get 'hooked'. I feel that I have to prove that I don't deserve to be treated like shit but, pathetically, sadly, I keep eating someones abusive shit in a crazy, codependent attempt to get them to, get them to what? Magically see me? Magically stop seeing their projected imaginations of who I am?
I am a good person. I am trustworthy. I am loving. Anyone who does not think so is not my friend.
I'm hurting. I begged the person I am talking about to simply be polite to me. Begged. And this person refused. And the whole time this person was being an asshole, I was blaming myself.
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
just around the corner
The lyrics from a song popular during the Depression is singing in my being today:
just around the corner
there is a rainbow in the sky'
so let's have another cup of coffee
and let's have another piece of pie
Someone I have foolishly, blindly, cluelessly and without foundation believed to be my friend has finally treated me so shabbily, with such insulting, humiliating behavior, that even I, clueless codependent moron that I can be, see him for the predatory pig that he is.
It feels pretty good, surprisingly. I'm hurting. I've been emotionally fucked by this man. But at least I am awake to his true nature. So, there is a rainbow in my sky. Things are looking up. I feel pretty good to have my blindness come to an end. The reason this relationship has felt awful was cause this asshole was treating me like a piece of shit. . . . and I have practically been begging him to go on doing it.
I'm done, thank goddess. Out. Out. Out.
just around the corner
there is a rainbow in the sky'
so let's have another cup of coffee
and let's have another piece of pie
Someone I have foolishly, blindly, cluelessly and without foundation believed to be my friend has finally treated me so shabbily, with such insulting, humiliating behavior, that even I, clueless codependent moron that I can be, see him for the predatory pig that he is.
It feels pretty good, surprisingly. I'm hurting. I've been emotionally fucked by this man. But at least I am awake to his true nature. So, there is a rainbow in my sky. Things are looking up. I feel pretty good to have my blindness come to an end. The reason this relationship has felt awful was cause this asshole was treating me like a piece of shit. . . . and I have practically been begging him to go on doing it.
I'm done, thank goddess. Out. Out. Out.
Friday, December 02, 2011
The Muppets
I am going to see the new Muppets movie. I was feeling a big sheepish about it. Then over Thanksgiving weekend, I talked to my baby brother (age 48). He mentioned he was headed to the movies. And when I said I was going to see the Muppets, he shyly laughed and admitted that was the one he wanted to see.
I love The Muppets. They weren't around when I was little but they were around for my brudda Dave.
So that's what I am doing today. Or maybe tomorrow after the Grand Lake market.
I love The Muppets. They weren't around when I was little but they were around for my brudda Dave.
So that's what I am doing today. Or maybe tomorrow after the Grand Lake market.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
reincarnation
Recently, I read a column on Slate.com (I think) critical of how Buddhism has unfolded in modern America. Pretty much everyone I know has been influenced by the rise of interest in Buddhism, plus I have found myself close personal friends with a chick Zen Buddhist priest with her own little zendo/church. One of my current best friends has considered herself a Buddhist for almost forty years, although recently she has started going to weekly mass at an Episcopal church.
Everyone I know, just about, espouses rhetoric that is definitely Buddhist influenced, such as the belief that each human is totally responsible for creating their own experience. Or equanimity. Everyone I know uses the word equanimous, typically when they are telling me I am not being equanimous enough, which is not, um, very Buddhist of them. What happened to their self responsibility? If we are completely self responsible for our own experience, we aren't, in a logical belief system, responsible for other people's experiences. But what about the Buddhist attitude of affirming happiness for all beings? That can be interpreted as influencing another person's experience, right? Maybe it is okay, for a Buddhist and, maybe, non-Buddhists, to have positive wishes for others but to be equanimous about whatever happens to others and ourselves?
I am not presenting Buddhism accurately, I am sure. I don't want to. I am not a Buddhist. I have not studied Buddhism. But I have been to lots of Vipassana ten-day silent retreats, which are definitely Buddhist.
And that reminds me of another thing about Buddhism. There are endless streams of Buddhism, just like there are all kinds of permutations of "Christian". There are Roman Catholics, there are Southern Baptists, there are Seventh Day Adventists. I have heard, from the Showtime television comedy show called 'Big Love', which is about a polygamous family with one husband, three (and sometimes four) wives, three houses, lots of kids and complexity. Polygamy is not 'allowed' in Mormonism anymore but it used to be and I guess some folks still practice polygamy, although they aren't allowed to consider themselves, technically, Mormons. It's bad PR for Mormons to allow polygamous families to say they are Mormon, plus they aren't Mormon if they are polygamous. Anyway, I am aware, honest, that a television comedy is not a good source for my knowledge of Mormonism but I don't want to invest any of my life force in learning more. My silly point, which I base on a TV comedy, is that, based on episodes in the comedy show that presented some details of Mormon faith, is that Mormons consider themselves Christian. I guess they believe Jesus Christ existed and had some good ideas but then the Mormon founder came along and enhanced on JC's work? There is some very crazy shit in Mormonism but they present themselves as Christians.
And what about Scientology? One thing I like about Scientology -- I know more about Scientology than Mormonism because I have been proselytized by some fervent Scientologists plus when Tom Cruise flipped out on Oprah about Katie Holmes, some news stories mentioned weird aspects of Scientology. And then there was Tom Cruise's weird insults to Brooke Shields who said in a tv interview that she used antedepressants for her post-partum depression. What business was it of Tommy's to lecture Ms. Shields to not use drugs for depression? And then, still with Tommy, I read that Scientologists are not allowed to use any pain killers while giving birth. So I know weird shit details about a weird shit religion.
And then there are cults that fly below the mainstream media radar, like the John Rogers cult, which is still going. Ariana Huffington used to be one of John Rogers' top followers. Her involvement with that cult damaged her gay husband's campaign to become a U.S. Senator. The Rogers cult sounds a lot like science fiction.
And we all know, or we all can know if we care, that Scientology was 'founded' by a guy who started out writing science fiction. Then he realized he could get rich quicker with religion.
Hey, I am not saying that the wild explanations for life that Scientology or Mormons or Buddhists or Catholics offer are wrong. Nobody knows this shit for sure. Humans long for explanations to the meaning of life. Nobody knows what's going on, why we are here. Why are we here individually and collectively?
The column on Buddhism upset me because the writer was very critical of Buddhism. I am not a Buddhist. I am not anything. But I have grown attached to the idea of reincarnation. Reading one short column critical of Buddhism, I felt a wave of despair. I don't remember anything the column said but I guess I got the impression the writer was skeptical about the idea of reincarnation.
I think this life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and way too fucking long, to paraphrase Thomas Hobbes' Leviathan. I think life sucks. I can also think life is magical, majestic, reverent, celebratory, loving and gobsmacking gorgeous.
But when I read that 'column', which was not even as long as this blog post I am writing, and I read skepticism about reincarnation, suddenly I believed in nothing. I reverted to the atheist I believed myself to be for several years in my early twenties. Back then, I believed I was a meaningless speck of matter in a meaningless, albiet sometimes incandescent, cosmos.
I don't want to be a meaningless speck in a meaningless universe. I want life to have meaning. I want life to be about love. Mostly I want to be loved and to be loving. Nothing is stopping me from loving but being loved seems like an elusive, impossible magic that other people get but I don't. Even as I write these dreary thoughts, I am thinking of people who love me.
Life is hard. My life sucks. Let me have reincarnation.
Everyone I know, just about, espouses rhetoric that is definitely Buddhist influenced, such as the belief that each human is totally responsible for creating their own experience. Or equanimity. Everyone I know uses the word equanimous, typically when they are telling me I am not being equanimous enough, which is not, um, very Buddhist of them. What happened to their self responsibility? If we are completely self responsible for our own experience, we aren't, in a logical belief system, responsible for other people's experiences. But what about the Buddhist attitude of affirming happiness for all beings? That can be interpreted as influencing another person's experience, right? Maybe it is okay, for a Buddhist and, maybe, non-Buddhists, to have positive wishes for others but to be equanimous about whatever happens to others and ourselves?
I am not presenting Buddhism accurately, I am sure. I don't want to. I am not a Buddhist. I have not studied Buddhism. But I have been to lots of Vipassana ten-day silent retreats, which are definitely Buddhist.
And that reminds me of another thing about Buddhism. There are endless streams of Buddhism, just like there are all kinds of permutations of "Christian". There are Roman Catholics, there are Southern Baptists, there are Seventh Day Adventists. I have heard, from the Showtime television comedy show called 'Big Love', which is about a polygamous family with one husband, three (and sometimes four) wives, three houses, lots of kids and complexity. Polygamy is not 'allowed' in Mormonism anymore but it used to be and I guess some folks still practice polygamy, although they aren't allowed to consider themselves, technically, Mormons. It's bad PR for Mormons to allow polygamous families to say they are Mormon, plus they aren't Mormon if they are polygamous. Anyway, I am aware, honest, that a television comedy is not a good source for my knowledge of Mormonism but I don't want to invest any of my life force in learning more. My silly point, which I base on a TV comedy, is that, based on episodes in the comedy show that presented some details of Mormon faith, is that Mormons consider themselves Christian. I guess they believe Jesus Christ existed and had some good ideas but then the Mormon founder came along and enhanced on JC's work? There is some very crazy shit in Mormonism but they present themselves as Christians.
And what about Scientology? One thing I like about Scientology -- I know more about Scientology than Mormonism because I have been proselytized by some fervent Scientologists plus when Tom Cruise flipped out on Oprah about Katie Holmes, some news stories mentioned weird aspects of Scientology. And then there was Tom Cruise's weird insults to Brooke Shields who said in a tv interview that she used antedepressants for her post-partum depression. What business was it of Tommy's to lecture Ms. Shields to not use drugs for depression? And then, still with Tommy, I read that Scientologists are not allowed to use any pain killers while giving birth. So I know weird shit details about a weird shit religion.
And then there are cults that fly below the mainstream media radar, like the John Rogers cult, which is still going. Ariana Huffington used to be one of John Rogers' top followers. Her involvement with that cult damaged her gay husband's campaign to become a U.S. Senator. The Rogers cult sounds a lot like science fiction.
And we all know, or we all can know if we care, that Scientology was 'founded' by a guy who started out writing science fiction. Then he realized he could get rich quicker with religion.
Hey, I am not saying that the wild explanations for life that Scientology or Mormons or Buddhists or Catholics offer are wrong. Nobody knows this shit for sure. Humans long for explanations to the meaning of life. Nobody knows what's going on, why we are here. Why are we here individually and collectively?
The column on Buddhism upset me because the writer was very critical of Buddhism. I am not a Buddhist. I am not anything. But I have grown attached to the idea of reincarnation. Reading one short column critical of Buddhism, I felt a wave of despair. I don't remember anything the column said but I guess I got the impression the writer was skeptical about the idea of reincarnation.
I think this life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and way too fucking long, to paraphrase Thomas Hobbes' Leviathan. I think life sucks. I can also think life is magical, majestic, reverent, celebratory, loving and gobsmacking gorgeous.
But when I read that 'column', which was not even as long as this blog post I am writing, and I read skepticism about reincarnation, suddenly I believed in nothing. I reverted to the atheist I believed myself to be for several years in my early twenties. Back then, I believed I was a meaningless speck of matter in a meaningless, albiet sometimes incandescent, cosmos.
I don't want to be a meaningless speck in a meaningless universe. I want life to have meaning. I want life to be about love. Mostly I want to be loved and to be loving. Nothing is stopping me from loving but being loved seems like an elusive, impossible magic that other people get but I don't. Even as I write these dreary thoughts, I am thinking of people who love me.
Life is hard. My life sucks. Let me have reincarnation.
Friday, November 25, 2011
existential angst
In 1972, I spent a semester in Guanajuato, Mexico. Guanajuato is the name of a state in Mexico and the name of the capitol city in the state of Guanajuato, Mexico. Guanajuato is a very beautiful, old city. Like many European cities, it has urban warrens where the passageways between houses are so narrow that cars don't fit. Plus it is a step city in some places, with lots of stairways. A happy city tradition, at least in 1972, were callejoneadas. A group of musicians and singers, dressed in fancy performing outfits like many associate with mariachis, lead long streams of people walking through the city singing. The cllejoneadas snake through the city, up and down public stairways that comprise the only public 'roads' in that stretch of the city. Sweethearts hold hands. The pace is very slow so old and young are accomodated.
Another tradition alive in Guanajuato in 1971 was serenading. Young men regularly hired singers to serenade outside their sweethearts bedroom windows.
The gringas in my college program all hoped to be serenaded in this way. Yikes, what a gorgeous practice.
All of Mexico goes crazy for Day of the Dead but Guanajuato goes even crazier. There is a cache of old mummies found in caves surrounding Guanajuato. There is a gruesome mummy museum. The little city goes crazy over mummies and Day of the Dead with a particularly energetic callejoneada.
Why shouldn't groups of people get together, bring instruments and walk and sing their way through their town or neighborhood?
Gosh, I lost track of what I was going to write.
I smoked quite a lot of marijuana when I lived in Guanajuato. Smoking marijuana was a major motivator in my decision to study in Mexico. I went there my sophomore year in college. A friend, Mary Sue, heavily pressured me. I was planning to wait until my junior year and spend a whole year in Europe but she wanted to smoke a lot of dope. And we did.
We paid for room and board with a local family. Our family's father was a dentist, with a homemaker om who had one full time maid helping her do everything. Those two women seemed to do house work and meal prep 24/7/365. The reigning beauty queen of Guanajuato was the eldest daughter who, perplexingly, did not live at home with her family. Her mom bragged about her constantly. We asked, a lot, why she lived with relatives instead of in the house. Maybe the family wanted the income from us? There were three Americans living with this family. Maybe the daughter was packed off because they needed her room? The family was very mysterious about her.
Also, the dentist father did not spend all his nights at home. You know we American college girls wanted to know that story.
The oldest son in the family was a student at the national university in Mexico City. But he came home for a weekend visit as soon as the three gringas moved into his family's house. We were thrilled. We wanted to buy marijuana but were afraid to approach anyone. For some reason, we felt safe asking the son. Maybe he offered? I don't remember. He said he could buy us a full brick of acapulco gold for a price that seemed paltry to us. I seriously think it cost us about twenty bucks. He took our money, went back to college and the next weekend, he gave us a brick of acapulco gold.
Acapulco gold, at least the stuff we bought, was gold-toned, the color if golden wheat. The brick was the size of a large, old-fashioned building brick, the kind of large stucco bricks used in Mexico homebuilding, not the smaller ones in brick houses in my childhood Chicago. The brick was about 8 inches long, three inches deep and four inches wide. The dope was tightly bound by wire. The wire had clearly been machine-packed. Whoever made that brick of marijuana ran a professional operation.
When we cut the wire, the marijuana exploded, quadrupling, at least, in volume. It looked like a bushel of marijuana. We had heard fabulous tales of how good the high was on acapulco gold. Our acapulco gold was awesomely great dope. Plus the altitude in Guanajuato was high, and we were not yet adapted to the elevation so we got high very easily. We smoked that stuff constantly, when we could. When you lived with a family, you can't light up a doobie in the living room. Where do you go to smoke marijuana when you can't smoke in your living accomodations? Looking for places to smoke was a perpetual challenge. Usually, we would walk to the edge of town, lighting up as we got to the suburban areas with little foot or vehicle traffic. In our part of town, the street kind petered out, drifting up a mountainside. We went down there to smoke dope, walking to the end of the bus line as we got high then hopping the bus downtown where all the action was. Action you ask? What action? Just being around people, discovering the country and culture. And eating.
Gosh, I am so sidetracked. I'd almost like I am high and my mind is drifting. But I am not. I pretty much stopped smoking dope when I left Mexico but while I was there, I smoked quite a lot of marijuana. I also tried peyote.
The son in our family, after giving us our brick, asked us to give him some. We only wanted to give him a lid, which was an ounce back home. But he pulled out a bag that looked pretty big to us and helped himself to a huge amount of our dope. He said it was only fair, his commission. He ripped us off. Of course, he could have just taken our money and completely ripped us off. But after he extracted that tip, we did not buy from him again. But by then, we had discovered all the college boys in town. Or, to put it more accurately, the local university which was almost all guys in 1972 (it was a university with an engineering focus, besides sexism in a more culturally conservative country), the guys had discovered the two stoned blondes that were always roaming around town.
There were sixteen kids in our college program. None of the others ever got high. All of them knew, of course, that we were stoned all the time. And our professors knew. I am amazed we didn't get arrested. Two stoned blonde gringas with the munchies, and a trail of college boys hanging around. All the Mexican college boys thought all gringas were very sexually promiscuous. Mary Sue and I were both virgins, at least when we arrived. I don't know if she ever had sex in Mexico but I lost my virginity in Guanajuato.
After the family son took a lot of our dope, we bought from college boys, who were plentiful and all of whom were very eager to please us, hoping they would get lucky. No kidding. Mary Sue and I would stagger through the town every afternoon and evening and we almost always had a cloud of boys trailing us, waiting to wait on us.
During that fall, there was a major international cultural festival in Guanajuato. Performing arts from all over the world trekked to Guanajuato to perform dance, music and theater. And the prices were very cheap in 1972 Mexico. I am pretty sure the US dollar exchanged for about 66 pesos to the dollar so if a theater ticket cost 30 pesos, it was nothing to us. We went to lots of stuff at the cultural festival.
In downtown Guanajuato, right off the town square, there is an elaborately baroque (is that redundant?) theater, a theater a bit like I imagine Shakespeare's Globe theater was like: the main floor was not very big, the balconies rose straight up, with little booths like you see at the opera in movies. The higher up you went, the cheaper the tix and the poorer the view. The balconies of the booths had lots of gold paint, lots of elaborate paintings. And the style of the theater imitated European appearance, not Mexican. It was an odd cultural experience. We were there to experience Mexico and then we went to that international cultural festival. Troupes from Russia, China, Latin America, Europe. I don't think there were any Middle Eastern acts.
We barely did our academic work. After we got high, we'd head down to the town square, which is where everyone seemed to turn up to check to see if there was any action.
There were a couple hotels on the square, one kinda fancy.
Oh, in those days, females could not go into bars. Only men. Except the bar in the fancy hotel. The bar in that hotel had a piano. Mary Sue was a fairly accomplished piano player. She asked permission to play there and the bar was happy to let her play. We would get high, go to the bar, she'd play and I'd hang out. In the bar, the men were older. When you are 19, blonde, American, slender and stoned in Mexico, men hit on your constantly. Men in Mexico in 1972 were much more aggressive than I have ever seen men in this country. I handled the attention in a fashion similar to how I deal with panhandlers in Berkeley, which are about as ubiquitous of men trying to get my attention in Mexico in 1972: I blanked them all out.
I talked to boys some but the main reason I wanted to connect with boys was to (1) have access to buying more marijuana (2) practicing Spanish, which at first was harder while stoned and then when I got more fluent, easier when stoned and (3) the boys realized we wanted to try other drugs and a group promised us peyote, which they eventually delivered.
I started this post to write about a moment in Mexico that I have never forgotten.
We always returned home every night. Our señora had made it clear that we could not stay out all night. She was convinced that staying out all night meant we were having sex. We did not get so intimate with her that we told her we were virgins. But we got the message: we could not stay out all night. We pushed the limits. It was hard to drag outselves home when we were stoned out of our minds but we always dragged ourselves in, albiet often quite late.
One night, while very very baked (we did not use the word 'baked' back then!), we straggled in very late, maybe 2 a.m. The third gringa in our house, Miriam, must have had a very different experience of Mexico.What did she do all the time? She did not approve of our dope smoking. Did she study? Did she hang out with the other Americans? I never figured out what the other Americans did. There were several African American girls in our program. They seemed to just spend all their time with their families. We never saw the other Americans around town in our partying. And Miriam? What the heck did she do all the time? I'll never know.
We had a two room suite. Wisely, Miriam had chosen the inner bedroom. This worked well, since Mary Sue and I came in so late all the time. We could tip toe in and not disturb Miriam but the señora was like a mother hen and always knew when we rolled in. At breakfast, she would give us an angry stony silence, giving us the evil eye, signaling her opprobrium without saying much. She was not, after all, our mother. We were boarders, not even exchange students. A business arrangement. She was not the boss of us, but, in a very token way, we tried not to offend her too egregiously but we did.
So this one night, we come in. Mary Sue used the bathroom first. She always changed in the bathroom. We shared that tiny bedroom for about four months and she always changed in the bathroom. So I did too. Isn't that weird modesty? And she always went first. She was a sucky friend. In those days, I only chose sucky friends, friends who treated me poorly. I stopped choosing friends who treated me like they were doing me a favor to put up with me but used me. Mary Sue had pressured me to go to Mexico with her. She wanted a smoking partner. She turned me onto dope to train me for the trip. And she seemed to think she was in charge of us and I seemed to think so too. Now I hae friends who act like they are glad I am their friend, like they like me, with one exception. I have a 'friend' in my life these days who treats me in ways that remind me of Mary Sue. But mostly, I stopped choosing friendly enemies.
Anyway, we come in late, MS gets into her jammies and into bed and I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I would change in the privacy of the bedroom while she was in the bathroom. It was late. We were high and tired and had class early in the morning. And we wanted our breakfast and the señora would not feed us late.
I brushed my teeth. I was very very high. Instinctively, I felt fear when I would see myself in the mirror. I felt such fear. I felt drawn to look directly into my eyes in the mirror. Instinctively I tried not to look directly into my eyes but it was like a force field drew me in. I gave into the impulse and soon stared directly and closely into my eyes. I put my face as close to the mirror as I could and stared into my pupils, which, of course, were widely dilated. I stared into those black limpid pupils.
And I had a psychedelic experience, like a 'trip'. But I was only on marijuana.
Another tradition alive in Guanajuato in 1971 was serenading. Young men regularly hired singers to serenade outside their sweethearts bedroom windows.
The gringas in my college program all hoped to be serenaded in this way. Yikes, what a gorgeous practice.
All of Mexico goes crazy for Day of the Dead but Guanajuato goes even crazier. There is a cache of old mummies found in caves surrounding Guanajuato. There is a gruesome mummy museum. The little city goes crazy over mummies and Day of the Dead with a particularly energetic callejoneada.
Why shouldn't groups of people get together, bring instruments and walk and sing their way through their town or neighborhood?
Gosh, I lost track of what I was going to write.
I smoked quite a lot of marijuana when I lived in Guanajuato. Smoking marijuana was a major motivator in my decision to study in Mexico. I went there my sophomore year in college. A friend, Mary Sue, heavily pressured me. I was planning to wait until my junior year and spend a whole year in Europe but she wanted to smoke a lot of dope. And we did.
We paid for room and board with a local family. Our family's father was a dentist, with a homemaker om who had one full time maid helping her do everything. Those two women seemed to do house work and meal prep 24/7/365. The reigning beauty queen of Guanajuato was the eldest daughter who, perplexingly, did not live at home with her family. Her mom bragged about her constantly. We asked, a lot, why she lived with relatives instead of in the house. Maybe the family wanted the income from us? There were three Americans living with this family. Maybe the daughter was packed off because they needed her room? The family was very mysterious about her.
Also, the dentist father did not spend all his nights at home. You know we American college girls wanted to know that story.
The oldest son in the family was a student at the national university in Mexico City. But he came home for a weekend visit as soon as the three gringas moved into his family's house. We were thrilled. We wanted to buy marijuana but were afraid to approach anyone. For some reason, we felt safe asking the son. Maybe he offered? I don't remember. He said he could buy us a full brick of acapulco gold for a price that seemed paltry to us. I seriously think it cost us about twenty bucks. He took our money, went back to college and the next weekend, he gave us a brick of acapulco gold.
Acapulco gold, at least the stuff we bought, was gold-toned, the color if golden wheat. The brick was the size of a large, old-fashioned building brick, the kind of large stucco bricks used in Mexico homebuilding, not the smaller ones in brick houses in my childhood Chicago. The brick was about 8 inches long, three inches deep and four inches wide. The dope was tightly bound by wire. The wire had clearly been machine-packed. Whoever made that brick of marijuana ran a professional operation.
When we cut the wire, the marijuana exploded, quadrupling, at least, in volume. It looked like a bushel of marijuana. We had heard fabulous tales of how good the high was on acapulco gold. Our acapulco gold was awesomely great dope. Plus the altitude in Guanajuato was high, and we were not yet adapted to the elevation so we got high very easily. We smoked that stuff constantly, when we could. When you lived with a family, you can't light up a doobie in the living room. Where do you go to smoke marijuana when you can't smoke in your living accomodations? Looking for places to smoke was a perpetual challenge. Usually, we would walk to the edge of town, lighting up as we got to the suburban areas with little foot or vehicle traffic. In our part of town, the street kind petered out, drifting up a mountainside. We went down there to smoke dope, walking to the end of the bus line as we got high then hopping the bus downtown where all the action was. Action you ask? What action? Just being around people, discovering the country and culture. And eating.
Gosh, I am so sidetracked. I'd almost like I am high and my mind is drifting. But I am not. I pretty much stopped smoking dope when I left Mexico but while I was there, I smoked quite a lot of marijuana. I also tried peyote.
The son in our family, after giving us our brick, asked us to give him some. We only wanted to give him a lid, which was an ounce back home. But he pulled out a bag that looked pretty big to us and helped himself to a huge amount of our dope. He said it was only fair, his commission. He ripped us off. Of course, he could have just taken our money and completely ripped us off. But after he extracted that tip, we did not buy from him again. But by then, we had discovered all the college boys in town. Or, to put it more accurately, the local university which was almost all guys in 1972 (it was a university with an engineering focus, besides sexism in a more culturally conservative country), the guys had discovered the two stoned blondes that were always roaming around town.
There were sixteen kids in our college program. None of the others ever got high. All of them knew, of course, that we were stoned all the time. And our professors knew. I am amazed we didn't get arrested. Two stoned blonde gringas with the munchies, and a trail of college boys hanging around. All the Mexican college boys thought all gringas were very sexually promiscuous. Mary Sue and I were both virgins, at least when we arrived. I don't know if she ever had sex in Mexico but I lost my virginity in Guanajuato.
After the family son took a lot of our dope, we bought from college boys, who were plentiful and all of whom were very eager to please us, hoping they would get lucky. No kidding. Mary Sue and I would stagger through the town every afternoon and evening and we almost always had a cloud of boys trailing us, waiting to wait on us.
During that fall, there was a major international cultural festival in Guanajuato. Performing arts from all over the world trekked to Guanajuato to perform dance, music and theater. And the prices were very cheap in 1972 Mexico. I am pretty sure the US dollar exchanged for about 66 pesos to the dollar so if a theater ticket cost 30 pesos, it was nothing to us. We went to lots of stuff at the cultural festival.
In downtown Guanajuato, right off the town square, there is an elaborately baroque (is that redundant?) theater, a theater a bit like I imagine Shakespeare's Globe theater was like: the main floor was not very big, the balconies rose straight up, with little booths like you see at the opera in movies. The higher up you went, the cheaper the tix and the poorer the view. The balconies of the booths had lots of gold paint, lots of elaborate paintings. And the style of the theater imitated European appearance, not Mexican. It was an odd cultural experience. We were there to experience Mexico and then we went to that international cultural festival. Troupes from Russia, China, Latin America, Europe. I don't think there were any Middle Eastern acts.
We barely did our academic work. After we got high, we'd head down to the town square, which is where everyone seemed to turn up to check to see if there was any action.
There were a couple hotels on the square, one kinda fancy.
Oh, in those days, females could not go into bars. Only men. Except the bar in the fancy hotel. The bar in that hotel had a piano. Mary Sue was a fairly accomplished piano player. She asked permission to play there and the bar was happy to let her play. We would get high, go to the bar, she'd play and I'd hang out. In the bar, the men were older. When you are 19, blonde, American, slender and stoned in Mexico, men hit on your constantly. Men in Mexico in 1972 were much more aggressive than I have ever seen men in this country. I handled the attention in a fashion similar to how I deal with panhandlers in Berkeley, which are about as ubiquitous of men trying to get my attention in Mexico in 1972: I blanked them all out.
I talked to boys some but the main reason I wanted to connect with boys was to (1) have access to buying more marijuana (2) practicing Spanish, which at first was harder while stoned and then when I got more fluent, easier when stoned and (3) the boys realized we wanted to try other drugs and a group promised us peyote, which they eventually delivered.
I started this post to write about a moment in Mexico that I have never forgotten.
We always returned home every night. Our señora had made it clear that we could not stay out all night. She was convinced that staying out all night meant we were having sex. We did not get so intimate with her that we told her we were virgins. But we got the message: we could not stay out all night. We pushed the limits. It was hard to drag outselves home when we were stoned out of our minds but we always dragged ourselves in, albiet often quite late.
One night, while very very baked (we did not use the word 'baked' back then!), we straggled in very late, maybe 2 a.m. The third gringa in our house, Miriam, must have had a very different experience of Mexico.What did she do all the time? She did not approve of our dope smoking. Did she study? Did she hang out with the other Americans? I never figured out what the other Americans did. There were several African American girls in our program. They seemed to just spend all their time with their families. We never saw the other Americans around town in our partying. And Miriam? What the heck did she do all the time? I'll never know.
We had a two room suite. Wisely, Miriam had chosen the inner bedroom. This worked well, since Mary Sue and I came in so late all the time. We could tip toe in and not disturb Miriam but the señora was like a mother hen and always knew when we rolled in. At breakfast, she would give us an angry stony silence, giving us the evil eye, signaling her opprobrium without saying much. She was not, after all, our mother. We were boarders, not even exchange students. A business arrangement. She was not the boss of us, but, in a very token way, we tried not to offend her too egregiously but we did.
So this one night, we come in. Mary Sue used the bathroom first. She always changed in the bathroom. We shared that tiny bedroom for about four months and she always changed in the bathroom. So I did too. Isn't that weird modesty? And she always went first. She was a sucky friend. In those days, I only chose sucky friends, friends who treated me poorly. I stopped choosing friends who treated me like they were doing me a favor to put up with me but used me. Mary Sue had pressured me to go to Mexico with her. She wanted a smoking partner. She turned me onto dope to train me for the trip. And she seemed to think she was in charge of us and I seemed to think so too. Now I hae friends who act like they are glad I am their friend, like they like me, with one exception. I have a 'friend' in my life these days who treats me in ways that remind me of Mary Sue. But mostly, I stopped choosing friendly enemies.
Anyway, we come in late, MS gets into her jammies and into bed and I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I would change in the privacy of the bedroom while she was in the bathroom. It was late. We were high and tired and had class early in the morning. And we wanted our breakfast and the señora would not feed us late.
I brushed my teeth. I was very very high. Instinctively, I felt fear when I would see myself in the mirror. I felt such fear. I felt drawn to look directly into my eyes in the mirror. Instinctively I tried not to look directly into my eyes but it was like a force field drew me in. I gave into the impulse and soon stared directly and closely into my eyes. I put my face as close to the mirror as I could and stared into my pupils, which, of course, were widely dilated. I stared into those black limpid pupils.
And I had a psychedelic experience, like a 'trip'. But I was only on marijuana.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
The Descendants
I went to the new George Clooney movie. He has a full head of gray hair. He looks his age.
It's a good movie. I don't think it is an all time great movie. I doubt if 100 years from now it will be on 'best movies of all time' lists but it is my idea of a good movie. It tells a realistic-seeming story about human beings. This story is set in Hawaii, giving the movie-goer pretty scenery, plus playing off some Hawaiian culture. It is always interesting to me to have glimpses of culture unfamiliar to me.
I have read that the movie is already getting Oscar buzz. One of the main characters is a teenage actress, whose name I don't know. I read that she is getting Oscar buzz so I watched her performance a little more closely. If I acknowledge that Academy Awards seem more like a marketing/popularity prize than recognition of artistic achievement, then I can totally believe the young actress will be nominated. What do I know about acting?
It's a good movie. I don't think it is an all time great movie. I doubt if 100 years from now it will be on 'best movies of all time' lists but it is my idea of a good movie. It tells a realistic-seeming story about human beings. This story is set in Hawaii, giving the movie-goer pretty scenery, plus playing off some Hawaiian culture. It is always interesting to me to have glimpses of culture unfamiliar to me.
I have read that the movie is already getting Oscar buzz. One of the main characters is a teenage actress, whose name I don't know. I read that she is getting Oscar buzz so I watched her performance a little more closely. If I acknowledge that Academy Awards seem more like a marketing/popularity prize than recognition of artistic achievement, then I can totally believe the young actress will be nominated. What do I know about acting?
The Muppets
I met The Muppets when I watched Sesame Street with my daughter. Sesame Street wasn't around when I was a kid. We became a Waldorf family. In Wally World, parents are strongly encouraged to ban tv. Some Waldorf schools literally ask parents to sign a written pledge that they will not allow their children to watch tv because if just a few children watch tv, it can influence the other children. I remember a parent information evening when a passionately dedicated kindergarden teacher told us that there were studies that demonstrated that watching television literally generated nerve damage in humans' vision system.
Like someone acknowledging their addiction in a twelve step meeting, I admit that I allowed my daughter to watch television, even when she was very young. I also want to speak in my own defense and assure my legion of followers (47? do 47 people, according to google blogger, actually follow this blog? who are they? and why?) that I did not let my kid watch as much tv as some parents.
I have never had a tv in my kitchen. When my daughter was just one, while visiting another mom and her one-year-old daughter for lunch, I saw that other mom, a very good parent, turn the kitchen television to Sesame Street. The TV appeared to be positioned so the kid in the high chair would have optimal viewing. It had never occurred to me to stream tv at my baby when she and I were alone together. You know what I did in the early years when I was home alone with my baby most of the day? I interacted with her. All day long. We did not always talk, esp. when, ahem, she was not yet talking. The first word she said that I thought I recognized was a brilliant attempt on her part to say Snuffleupagus, the big, and yet somehow cuddly, elephant-y creature then on Sesame Street. I am still sure she was trying to say Snuffleupagas. She was maybe seven months old. It was brilliant. All the baby books said I could expect one and two syllable words. My little genius started out started out with five syllables!
Although, having said that, I feel compelled to qualify my bragging. I believe babies are talking long before most of the adults in their lives clue themselves into the baby's talking.
When I was about fifteen, I dated a boy that I met at a dance at St. Leo's, a boy's high school in my teenage world. He took me to his homecoming dance. Invitations to a boy's homecoming dance were high status, just one step below a prom invite. It was my first fancy dance. This boy, whose name I have forgotten, asked for my number at some sock hop. And he called. Gosh, so many boys asked for my phone number that never called. And it was such a pleasant surprise when he asked me to a big dance, to homecoming. After the homecoming, with neither of us having a particularly good time or bad time, we kept on 'dating'. I did a lot of this kind of 'dating' in high school. A boy and I would get together on a Saturday evening, go to a movie, grab something to eat. Or do other stuff. But we never really connected. It was more like both of us were going through the motions of what we thought we were supposed to do. We were supposed to date. We dated.
So this homecoming boy and I kept dating after the fall homecoming, through Xmas and into spring. It got so 'serious' that the boy would sometimes come by my house on a Saturday afternoon, without having a date to go 'out' and we would just hang out. When this happened, though, I always had my baby sister around. Caring for her was my top priority in high school. This boy seemed okay with having my baby sister around.
One day, with this boy, my baby sister and I hanging out on a warm spring afternoon, he remarked that my sister was talking gibberish. She was not. She was talking quite a lot but nobody understood her but me. I had figured out that she had been talking for some time, but no one else in the family understood her. For some reason, I had figured out that she was rolling her verbal sounds off kilter. I will write two sentences, one in the regular language way and one to demonstrate what my baby sister was doing when she was early verbal:
I like to play in the sand. REGULAR WAY.
I ike pay sa. BABY WAY.
She thought she was saying, "I like to play in the sand" but everyone heard baby talk, gobbledegook.
Since I had that epiphany, I have always been able to understand babies before most people do. I adjust how I listen.
So, back to the boy in high school. He said my baby sister wasn't talking, that she was uttering gibberish and I was just pretending she could talk, that I was making my dialogue with the baby up. I went to our front door opened it and gestured for the guy to hit the road. I could barely speak. First I had asked him to take it back. I was so indignant that he had insulted my baby sister. I don't think I was offended for my own sake, although, in hindsight, I see that he was commenting about me more than her. I doted on the baby.
He stood up and said "You are kidding, right?"
I shook my head in solemn silence, pointing out the door like the Grim Reaper.
He left. I never heard from him again. As I have already indicated, we were not really involved with one another. We had both been going through the motions of dating without actually having a relationship.
Like someone acknowledging their addiction in a twelve step meeting, I admit that I allowed my daughter to watch television, even when she was very young. I also want to speak in my own defense and assure my legion of followers (47? do 47 people, according to google blogger, actually follow this blog? who are they? and why?) that I did not let my kid watch as much tv as some parents.
I have never had a tv in my kitchen. When my daughter was just one, while visiting another mom and her one-year-old daughter for lunch, I saw that other mom, a very good parent, turn the kitchen television to Sesame Street. The TV appeared to be positioned so the kid in the high chair would have optimal viewing. It had never occurred to me to stream tv at my baby when she and I were alone together. You know what I did in the early years when I was home alone with my baby most of the day? I interacted with her. All day long. We did not always talk, esp. when, ahem, she was not yet talking. The first word she said that I thought I recognized was a brilliant attempt on her part to say Snuffleupagus, the big, and yet somehow cuddly, elephant-y creature then on Sesame Street. I am still sure she was trying to say Snuffleupagas. She was maybe seven months old. It was brilliant. All the baby books said I could expect one and two syllable words. My little genius started out started out with five syllables!
Although, having said that, I feel compelled to qualify my bragging. I believe babies are talking long before most of the adults in their lives clue themselves into the baby's talking.
When I was about fifteen, I dated a boy that I met at a dance at St. Leo's, a boy's high school in my teenage world. He took me to his homecoming dance. Invitations to a boy's homecoming dance were high status, just one step below a prom invite. It was my first fancy dance. This boy, whose name I have forgotten, asked for my number at some sock hop. And he called. Gosh, so many boys asked for my phone number that never called. And it was such a pleasant surprise when he asked me to a big dance, to homecoming. After the homecoming, with neither of us having a particularly good time or bad time, we kept on 'dating'. I did a lot of this kind of 'dating' in high school. A boy and I would get together on a Saturday evening, go to a movie, grab something to eat. Or do other stuff. But we never really connected. It was more like both of us were going through the motions of what we thought we were supposed to do. We were supposed to date. We dated.
So this homecoming boy and I kept dating after the fall homecoming, through Xmas and into spring. It got so 'serious' that the boy would sometimes come by my house on a Saturday afternoon, without having a date to go 'out' and we would just hang out. When this happened, though, I always had my baby sister around. Caring for her was my top priority in high school. This boy seemed okay with having my baby sister around.
One day, with this boy, my baby sister and I hanging out on a warm spring afternoon, he remarked that my sister was talking gibberish. She was not. She was talking quite a lot but nobody understood her but me. I had figured out that she had been talking for some time, but no one else in the family understood her. For some reason, I had figured out that she was rolling her verbal sounds off kilter. I will write two sentences, one in the regular language way and one to demonstrate what my baby sister was doing when she was early verbal:
I like to play in the sand. REGULAR WAY.
I ike pay sa. BABY WAY.
She thought she was saying, "I like to play in the sand" but everyone heard baby talk, gobbledegook.
Since I had that epiphany, I have always been able to understand babies before most people do. I adjust how I listen.
So, back to the boy in high school. He said my baby sister wasn't talking, that she was uttering gibberish and I was just pretending she could talk, that I was making my dialogue with the baby up. I went to our front door opened it and gestured for the guy to hit the road. I could barely speak. First I had asked him to take it back. I was so indignant that he had insulted my baby sister. I don't think I was offended for my own sake, although, in hindsight, I see that he was commenting about me more than her. I doted on the baby.
He stood up and said "You are kidding, right?"
I shook my head in solemn silence, pointing out the door like the Grim Reaper.
He left. I never heard from him again. As I have already indicated, we were not really involved with one another. We had both been going through the motions of dating without actually having a relationship.
