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in-betweens

If I waited for something important to say before I wrote, there wouldn’t be anything here. But the sum of the parts really is greater than the parts.

The cheese sandwich post becomes a point in a sinuous line of highs and lows and mostly middles plotting the ordinary and occasional extra-ordinary. So it is good to write even when there isn’t much to say.

Posted 03/05/2010
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waiting for Spring

Opened the boxes in backwards order. I did not expect hidden chrysalises sprouting butterflies. Maybe just dust. I found neither. Just ordinary men. Not demons. Just some guys who were probably doing the best they could as I was. I suppose if I thought about it they all represent some lesson. I cannot say it was worth it and I would do all again.

For a low maintenance chick you can sure hold a grudge. But that edge too is wearing away along with whatever else was sharp or shiny or gold. Hanging out with friends is enough. No demands on the ego or heart. And when they have filled me up, I will be ready for first kisses.

Posted 03/03/2010
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letting the days go by

into the blue again. How do I work this?

Up at four to lie next to Gabriel until a coughing spell was done. Don’t think he even woke up. But I am awake, surprised at lucidity.

Sun salutation. Sit ups. Wondering at the mechanics of how this body works, getting reacquainted. I am not my age. I am what I’ve got. Too early in the morning to decide to change my life. Maybe later. After coffee.

Posted 02/28/2010
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the end is nigh

Tona gives the sign, that palm in front of the face saying, “we’re that close.”

Students and faculty alike are sighing, gulping air, swimming for the surface. We’re that close.

And Winter is almost over, and on the other side of the next few weeks the Spring will start and we’ll shed our layers and show our colors. And I will definitely dance.

Posted 02/24/2010
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it all gets pretty basic

I think Gabriel is done. He hasn’t eaten anything since I picked him up yesterday afternoon, but other than that he seems okay.

It hit Aidan pretty hard so he went to bed as soon as we got home. That left me and Connor with dinner for two.

It hit Connor an hour later.

So I have channeled mom. Mom is my mom. I am not a mom. I am weez with kids. So I channel mom, and get a cold compress and put it on their foreheads, and rub their backs as they retch in turn in different bathrooms.

I ask Aidan, “do you want me to rub your back?”
He gives a weak, “No. I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.” And I rub his back until he falls asleep.

Connor is gracious enough to wait a few minutes before he succumbs again. Then it is his turn. He decides to sleep on the bathroom floor. I make a nest of blankets for him. Rub his back until he’s asleep too.

And nothing else matters for a while. I run downstairs and field panicked questions from students and run back upstairs again when another wave of nausea crashes down on someone.

Contrary to Elissa’s nomination for mother of the year, this isn’t heroic. This is what you do. And I know (I know) she does the same when her kids are sick.

Posted 02/23/2010
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lost weekend

Between the medication, the allnighter with my students, and…was it sleep eventually? I have lost quite a few days in a stupor.

A few things- the cough suppressant prescribed to me is a controlled substance and I thought I was getting something that would stop the cough. I did not expect it to knock me on my ass, make the room spin, and make it so I could feel Jazon Mraz’s guitar riffs on my skin. That was fun. Maybe part of the reason for the stupor, ya think?

The Friday night to Saturday morning allnighter in the labs was well worth it. At one point there were up to fifty students with me. It trickled down to a dozen die hards at seven in the morning. Pretty impressive. Only two melt downs and four actually finished their project before leaving. Actually had to kick two of them out because they were done, and what the heck were they still hanging around for? “Go sleep!” I do have to give serious thanks to Steve O who was my TA and didn’t have to be there, but did and he was like the cavalry all night. There were lots of questions and problems and he had my back. I owe him dinner. Speaking of…Rusty, with an assist from Claude showed up at 8 with pancakes for us. How awesome is that? We’d already cleared out, and I was just about to go to bed when I got the text that they’d been so kind as to actually make breakfast. I went back to RIT and had pancakes.

I love my job. I love my students.

And it is Monday and I am lucid and can breathe again. It’s an amazing thing.

Posted 02/22/2010
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after midnight

No good bits. Fasting,. Just a request from the doc that young women of my age should have their blood checked to make sure they are not low on oil, coolant, or need their filter changed,.

I pinch my tire. Get some air. Get this done so I can have breakfast.

Posted 02/18/2010
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cheat post

The time is now 8-0-8
can you feel that B-A-S-S, bass?

My voice is down an octave. Got to love that.

The last time to the doctor was seven years ago and it was for exactly the same thing - bronchitis. Got meds? It’ll clear it up in a few days. Contemplating taking that cough syrup and going to bed (again). When you see me online, it will be in my jammies.

/end the daily post

Posted 02/17/2010
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you get what you need

Rise up this mornin’,
Smiled with the risin’ sun,
Three little birds
Pitch by my doorstep
Singin’ sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true,
Sayin’, “This is my message to you-ou-ou”

I thought it was the Stones, but no. There’s no cynicism, it’s all ire.

The universe seems to be conspiring to tell me in myriad ways that we are connected, and these little tweets, and chats, and pings are like songbirds. And if you ask for what you want, sometimes you get what you need.

Posted 02/16/2010
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Food recommendations for the week

(topic from Itzel)

Comfort food would be the ticket. This is that list o’ things my illin’ self will make when I have the energy to make it. (Mom, I miss you.)

Oatmeal-
Not the instant kind. The pour-it-in-and-wait-for-five-or-more-minutes-until-it-thickens-and-possibly-boils-over stuff. With toasted pecans, and honey, and craisins and milk.

Tinola-
A Filipino chicken ginger garlic and spinach soup served over white rice.

The rest of the week, sans children will be a sad affair of salads and white rice crackers. Although, because Katie got me a bento box, this may actually be a lovely thing.

Tonight, I am making leftovers soup. Cook something long enough and slowly enough with the right seasonings and something wonderful will happen.
Sauteeing lots o’ onions in butter.
Adding chopped potato.
Leftover red wine- not sure what kind, but it will be used.
Leftover steak.
Better than boullion.
Probably some molasses. (It’s my secret cheat to smokey sweetness).

Because I do not want to leave the house, will probably call someone over for dinner in exchange for the bringing of a loaf of bread. Yeah. Sounds like a plan.

Posted 02/15/2010
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T.M.I. or More Information Please?

(topic suggestion from Peter)

“Are you still in the dumps?” dad asks.
“No. Just sick.”

And it is okay to be sick, but not to be in the dumps, I think.

According to Filipino culture, and probably many an Asian culture (Kim says it is true of the Vietnamese at least) that sadness and anger and many a negative emotion should be stuffed. Smile and nod. Suck it up. It’s not that these things are not felt, it’s just that they are not discussed, much less written about in daily snippets.

It’s a tease, these few paragraph windows into the soul. I felt the words at the time I wrote them, or I felt them weeks before and it took this long to find the string of syllables that could dredge the feeling back. And I can talk about that thing now that it has receded far enough for me to be able look a long hard look at it.

“Are you still in the dumps?”

If I am writing about it, I am out of it. Too much information. It puts a tarnish on the illusion of perfect harmony. Not enough information to get at the cause of the symptoms. Not a very factually informative place, this. But I can rely on you to fill in the blanks, and if you do not know the specifics, you’ll think of something that made you feel whatever it is you recognize, and you think you will know me, and that I would understand you. Maybe that’s why I write, and why you might read - for an illusory if not actual accidental communion.

Posted 02/14/2010
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still in bed

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Same bed. Another day.

How was your weekend?

Nothing new to report here. Not much going on in this bed. I have my good friend Puffs Plus, this laptop, and fisherman’s friend. (This is a cough drop, not some guy I picked up).

The boys have been fantastic about letting this sleeping dog lie. But then again, I might have interceded in some altercations. I’m not sure. I vaguely remember mumbling into my pillow, “Oh, just let him.” and “No.” and “Waffles.”

Posted 02/14/2010
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in bed

I gave up. No one I have to be strong for. In bed. Pitiful.

Came home from picking up the boys and went to bed. Woke up and took them out to dinner. Came back home and went to bed. Woke up and have not left the bed. It is noon now. I think I will take the boys out to eat again and then

go to bed

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Posted 02/13/2010
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not a dead dog

Who are you when no one else is around?

The different roles tease out different bits of self. There is a greater cohesion than there used to be. Not sure if that means I am less changeable or more integrated? Re-reading that blog post from seven years ago makes me remember how I used to observe life more, and live it less. Elaine said I will try again because there is a kernel of hope there. Liz says that now that I have been broken, I will never break like that again, and the wall will never come back. It is a bit of dying, but dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.

I’m not dead yet.

Curiosity

may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.

Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
do not endear cats to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.

Face it. Curiosity
will not cause us to die—
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.

Only the curious have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.

Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,
are changeable, marry too many wives,
desert their children, chill all dinner tables
with tales of their nine lives.
Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.
-Alastair Reid

Posted 02/12/2010
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alright, take two

Working through my video aversion. Took advice from Brint and Itzel and recorded Every Picture Tells a Story Don’t It?. This is my second blog post, posted June 3, 2003. I didn’t realize I’d had the blog that long.

Facebook readers, you have to go to the blog to actually see the video post. http://weez.oyzon.com

Posted 02/11/2010
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