November--Part 1

And if the lights were out
Could you even bear
To kiss her full on the mouth
(or anywhere ?) Morrissey, November Spawned a Monster

When she was about 25, one of her closest male friends told her "You're fairly hot, it's just your personality that sucks." And shortly after that another one said "Whenever you flirt with someone it's not clear if you're serious or if you're mocking them. You're a real ice queen." The monster, she decided, was inside. But the inside is never so inside. In fact, she began to disbelieve that there was even a clear boundary between the inside and the outside. The monster showed itself in both places. No, it was more that the monster was her, all of her. It showed her that there was no boundary. What she always thought of her inside: her intelligence, her skepticism...it was all impressed upon her body as clearly as her wide nose, her high check bones, her eyes....maybe especially her eyes.

As she grew older, she got to know her monster. Of course, the monster was herself but she still slipped into thinking of it as something other as if there was someone nicer, prettier, more normal tucked away into her body. But she knew that her monster did not hide anything at all. But she also knew that her monster's sin was the sin of freakishness. She/the monster lived life with a critical eye. She/the monster questioned everything, took nothing at face value, and had a hard time faking anything. She/the monster were totally abnormal even amongst the most deviant groups. She/the monster did everything with more passion, more intensity, and when she/the monster crashed they burned harder than almost everyone else.

What people rejected was not so simple to pinpoint. She knew she was not physically ugly and she knew that her personality was not so horrible. But she also knew that she frightened people. Her simple unwillingness to play the game, to look a certain way, to back down on her opinions, to not not avoid arguments. All this made her an extremely uncomfortable person to be around. And the thought of intimacy with her scared the shit out of nearly everyone she met. Her love life was a story of intense one night stands, painful love affairs that fizzled out due to an early expenditure of energy, or (just once) a plain boring attempts at a normalcy. And even these encounters were few. After the one sad attempt, she grew to accept that she was not willing to put her monster to sleep for companionship.

Ugly Girls

In high school, during the early '80s, it was easy to equate ugly with smart and beautiful with stupd. For the most part, the pretty girls acted dumb. They read "Seventeen" magazine, and spent a lot of time worrying about the height of their hair. The ugly girls sat a lone at their lunch table, and by their Jr. year either became sluts or brains. But by my senior year in high school, it was already starting to get more complicated. One could start to find pretty girls in any group. The punks had them. They were thin, wore black, dyed their slick hair bright red, and dated the punk guys. The fat punk girls were the ones in the pit but no one dated them. The new forming grunge crowd had them. These were the "indie" girls: thin, prettily unkempt, and dating all the plaid shirt wearing guys. It would have been easy to hate them but they were usually fairly nice, knew about the music, and for the most part were intelligent. But deep down, I hated them.

You see, there was me. The ugly girl. Fat, pimply, frumpy. I never could get my hair to the sleek perfection of the alt girls. I couldn't wear the clothes they way they did. What looked so chic on them looked ridicilious on me. I never knew enough about music. I never listened to the "right" bands. Really I was a social failure in every group I tried to be a part of. My teen and young adult years were spent on the fringes of groups I longed to be a part of. It wasn't as simple as wanting to be popluar. I gave up wanting to hang with that crowd my sophmore year of high school. No, I wanted to hang out with the punks, the goths, the indies. But even with these alt people, I wasn't right. And maybe it woudn't have been so bad if I wasn't social but I was social. I loved being around people, goign to clubs, dancing, etc. But ugly girls have very space for that kind of interaction. And to top it off these girls weren't dumb so there was no way to feel superior even there.

Eventually, I ended up hanging with a group of gay men and transvestites. I think we were drawn to each other because we were all misfits in someway. It was funny because these people thought I was beautiful and wonderful stylish. They loved my vintage lace gowns paired with combat boots. With them, I felt beautiful, glamarous, and daring. They appreciated my sarcasm, didn't give a shit what music I liked. We didn't often have much in common, and we spent most of our time together, drinking, smoking and being outrageous.

But of course no one wanted to date me. It was very assexual. And that's really the kicker when you're ugly. You spend a lot of your life just feeling lonely. I didn't date at all in high school. For three years, I didn't have a boyfriend. Hell, no one was even interested in me. And then after I dated a bit but not a lot. I wasn't the first girl found themselves attracted to. In college, it was the same, lots of friends but no one wanted me. I dated two guys my entire college career, and one was really just a fuck buddy.

I would look in the mirror, and wonder what it was about me. I didn't see someone ugly staring back at me. Sure it wasn't perfection, and yeah I was a bit thick but I wasn't respulisve or scary. It seemed like girls uglier than me had dates. I wasn't any smarter than the pretty alt girls. And deep down, I just wondered if there was something really ugly about me inside that somehow manifested on my face.

YeeHaw

Pictures from a home school party we attended on Friday. I think maybe all the kids hadn't seen other kids in a while (besides their siblings) 'cause it was wild, wild, wild. Appropirate I guess as the the theme was "Wild West."

What Love Feels Like

The Woman In the Doorway

She planned his last glimpse of her carefully. The door half opened to the cold morning, she on the threshold, leaning against the door but not too heavily. She wore her black silk robe, tied loosely enough to show some cleavage but not too much. Her hair was piled up on her head, with pieces falling, she hoped becomingly. She kissed him as he turned towards her. His kisses devoured her. There was nothing of departure eminent in that kiss. But she tasted goodbye.

"Wait for me." he whispered to her. She slipped her charm around his neck.

"Only if you wear this." she answered.

Every night at sundown, she laid out the instruments of her craft. The black glass bowl, fresh water consecrated under a full moon. She would sit in the dark, chanting words that no longer meant anything to anyone. And eventually, his image floated up to her. Sometimes, she saw the stars above him, and knew he was on the ship. Other times, there was a woman's face beneath his. The facies varied but not their expressions. She knew that look, the half-closed eyes, the parted lips. And she knew that his kiss would leave them hungry.

The first few women, she forgave him. She waited. His ship would come back to her. But as the women grew, she started to take a lover for each port his ship docked. She did not love them but she made love to them as if she did. She sent him dreams. He tossed under the dreams of her riding so many other men. His dreams caught her with her head thrown back, her hair caught in the dream wind, flying about her head like snakes. He dreamt her naked and laughing, beckoning first to him, but then the dream revealed it wasn't him but a strange man, a crude man with unkempt hair and beard. He woke shaking with rage, his body hard and longing for her. Every port, he tried to fuck her from his dreams. He fall in love a few times but she still haunted him. And eventually the thought of her drove him to think only of his return.

He planned his return carefully. He went through each action, each motion, each word as he worked the deck. He imagined seeing the land from a far. The cry that the port was coming into view. He would rush with the others to see the docks. After docking, he would gather his stuff, slowly, because he knew she would be waiting. Someone would carry the news to her. His walk down the street would be delayed by greetings to passing friends, merchants, and other women. He would eventually reach her gate, and she would be at the door as she had been when he left. He could see her black robe, the dark skin of her breasts half-revealed. Her hair, so thick and black, would be on top of her head, messy and waiting for his hands to pull out the long pins. Her black eyes would hold the secrets of other men. He would go into her house, and as he fucked her he would tell her about every women in every port.

But a storm came, and he meet his last lover. She dragged him under with her cold hands, her green and blue hair caught him like a net. And somewhere in a seaside village, a woman with black hair gave her love to the only woman greater than herself.

Tedious Mornings, or Everyday Is Like Sunday

"Everyday is like Sunday, Every day is silent and gray."

Another gray morning in the queen city. It's been gray all week but no sign of rain which we desparetly need. Every thing is not so much gray as brown. Sigh.

Yes, it's another mundane post. News flash time. How is Ginger managing everything without going totally insane update.

Well managing by not doing is the best way to put it. Right now I have a proposal, I promised to get out by the end of this month, about 37 tests to grade, and a big chunk of Discpline and Punish to read. But I have been thinking about things, and jotting down notes. I am starting to be able to formulate my thesis into one sentence which is an important starting place for me. I'm hoping to churn out a rough draft of the proposal tomorrow, and then begin serious writing by mid-October. My goal is to have half of this thing done by December. It is doable because once I'm at the place to write, I usually write fairly fast...it just takes me a long time to get to that point.

But the biggest relief came last night. Horacio and I decided to put off applying for graduate schools for a year. This gives us time to apply, retake the GREs and revise papers. We were making ourselves nuts trying to add this to our already busy lives. I don't think either of us were really prepared for how much work applying for Ph.D really is. I do remember our friend MTP talking about this...and we should have heeded his words then. We will also take his advice and listen to "The More You ignore Me, the Closer I Get" as it seemed to bring him most excellent luck.

Other news? Well a year off would give me some time to focus on my creative writing. I'm not sure about sending it out. H has been nagging me, and John B-R left a very nice note to me about it. I'm scared of rejection. I'm not really sure where to begin, etc, etc. But a year off would give me some time to pursue this area of my life. I updated Umberto's blog. I went to a children's party last night and survived (barely). I still love TAing even all the tests to grade. I'm feeling very benign today:P

Cheers dear readers. Hope your Saturday is nothing like Sunday.

We're Legal and Other News

Poor Umberto. His blog is frightfully neglected. There is definitely need for an update. And with pictures! Can I hear a hurrah?

First, we're legal. Yes, I finally got off my prociastrating arse and sent out the intent form. In North Carolina, once your child turns 7, you have to submit an application to run a private school (i.e, homeschool). No, it's not nearly as complicated as it sounds. It's one page, where you list the administrator and the owner, and best of all you get to name your school! We named ours in honor of Deleuze as he seems to best fit our educational philosophy: Academe les Mille Plateaux. Now we have to test each year and keep track of attendance. Umberto remains unimpressed.

Second, I bought a whole curriculum instead of just a math curriculum. H and I both decided that we were committed to homeschooling. This has been reinforced with me since beginning Foucault's Discipline and Punish. The book should be required reading for anyone with school aged children. Schools are meant to create good workers and good citizens. This is not something we want for any of our children. And yes I am aware that there many who don't have the ability to make the choice we have, which means that yes, I will continue to fight for better public education. I am not unaware of my revolutionary duties. But that said, and I will write more about the Foucault, etc....I bought a full year curriculum that covers all subjects. H felt more comfortable having each day laid out, and I knew that it was crazy to think that I could write my own curriculum on my already budgeted time. So we got a gentle curriculum called Oak Meadow.

It's a good curriculum....a little fuzzy in some areas but it's flexible enough to be worked with. It is Waldorf based and I like that it incorporates some elements of Waldorf without being totally sold on the entire theory. The lessons are presented through fairy tales and myths. So each letter has a fairy tale associated with it. The child draws a picture incorporating the letter. The same goes for math. Science tends to be nature/observation based which really works well for young children. Here's a few photos of our work so far:

This is Umberto's letter A drawing. The fairy tale was "Rumpelstiltskin" (have no IDEA if I spelt that right--this word was actually in the spell check).

Here's Camille's practice letter As. I'm not really pushing any lessons with her but she tags along. She's been asking to write letters and to read so I've been working with her until she gets bored. She loves the finger plays and rhymes that go along with the curriculum.

Third, UMBERTO IS READING!!!!!! No, it's not perfect but he's figured out that when you blend sounds together you get a word, and he's doing really really well in remembering his sight words. I feel, needless to say, quite relieved.

Fourth, all our our children are now obsessed with Morrissey. Camille was in the back of the car singing "Big Mouth Strikes Again" last night, and Umberto actually asked me to turn up "Ringleader of the Tormentors" in the car. And Piper? Well she just dances like a mad woman every time we put one of his Cds in.

Cruelty

Whenever he was like this she had to fight back rage. She supposed it was unreasonable to feel so strongly. Yet, each time he began to cry she felt, first repulsion, and then anger. It often happened after sex. They would make love, often well, and then his sobs would penertate the post-cotial fog. He would curl into a ball by her side, sobs shaking through his bony body. Initally, she cried too, curling herself around him, holding him to her. It killed her each time, this happened, made her desperate to make him feel better. After he would tell her about how much he hated himself. He was repulsive. "Can't you see how ugly I am?" He would ask her. "Why are you with me?" And he would come up with answers himself. It usually invovled his famousness. He did not think that his fame might arise from some talent of his own. Instead, the fame gave him yet another excuse for why people might be attracted to him. Initally, it made her feel slightly in awe of him. How someone so beautiful, so sexy, so talented, could hate themselves as much as she hated herself. She had imagined that having admirers at his scale would make her finally feel desirable.

Eventually, this proof that salavation did not lie in admiration made her hate him. Throughout the day she could love him. She loved watching him cook for her in the kitchen. She loved when they lounged about in the study, each with a book. She mostly loved watching him on stage. She loved the way he wrapped a character on himself. And she even loved watching the women, and men, mob him afterwards. She took a smug pride, then, in that she knew him in ways they never would. Often in the midst of that crowd, he would look up and smile at her. His mouth would be twisted into a slight smirk, and one eyebrow would be crocked.

But when they made love, after she touched his body, kissed it, worshipped it really, all the while feeling deep inside that her own body was not worthy of such perfection, he would cry. His tears came to be a mockery of her own feelings. If he was ugly, she thought, what was she. She already questioned everyday why he wanted her so much. He, who everyday had beautiful women, begging him to fuck them, choice her. Her, a rather mousy, short, blowsy kind of woman. She was no longer thick as she had been in high school but she still had large breasts and a bit of a tummy which always made her feel sloppy and dumpy. How could he cry? How dare he feel repuslisve in her presence? And ulimately, their insecurities made her cruel.

She became cruel, initally, in little ways. She would pretend to sleep when he cried. Eventually the cruelty manifested itself in greater detail. She began to critize his clothes, his cooking. She mocked his reading choices, and became superior when they discussed books, falling back on her degree when he attempted to disagree with her. She began to skip shows; especially the ones he asked her to be at. She flirted with his enemies at parties. And each small act of cruelty gave her power. Each act of cruely bonded him closer to her, until he was nothing without her cuts.

Heaven Knows I Really

Want this ice cream. Can you think of anyone else who could look at an ice cream cone with such smoldering lust? Is this what years of celibacy does to you? Suddenly ice cream starts looking really, really, really good?

Misery For the Road

Invisible Tonight

I am invisible tonight

Only certian shy women see me

All my hideous days of visibility

I longed for their smiles

Now they lean out of their shabby

plans-for-the-evening

so we may salute one another

Sisters of mine

of my own shattered people

going after third-choice lovers

they smile at me to indicate

that we can never meet

as long as we permit

this order of things to persist

in which we are the wretched ones

Leonard Cohen

Ugly in My Own Eyes

Whenever I happen to see you

I forget for a while

that I am ugly in my own eyes

for not winning you

I wanted you to choose me

over all the men you know

because I am destroyed

in their company

I have often prayed for you

like this

Let me have her

Leonard Cohen

Something Tame

Moving Bodies

"After all, I would be willing to admit that Sade formulated an eroticism proper to a disciplinary society: a regulated, anatomical, hierarchical society whose time is carefully distributed, its spaces partitioned, characterized by obedience and surveillance.

It's time to leave all that behind, and Sade's eroticism with it. We must invent with the body, with its elements, surfaces, volumes, and thickness, a non-disciplinary eroticism: that of a body in a volatile and diffused state, with its chance encounters and unplanned pleasures...Too bad then for the literary deification of Sade, too bad for Sade: he bores us. He's a disciplinarian, a sargeant of sex, an accountant of the ass and its equivalents." Foucault in Foucault Live
The Smiths were for me, as they were for most people into punk and indie music, an important foundation in my musical education. I was in my early teens when "How Soon is Now" got airplay in Maine. I liked it as I did "Panic" but kept it quiet as I was a metal head. Metal heads were not supposed to like pop. I also kept secret my love for Talking Heads. But I listened to them a lot during those early years. Then as I got into progressively heavier, industrial music, I let them go. Later when I started to do "goth" I got into Morrsisey. How could you not be goth and not love his tortured insecurity? But again, it was not quite hardcore enough for my taste.

Thus when H checked out a Morrissey CD, I was only mildly interested. I'll be honest, the first few times, I listened, I thought "Argh. It's so poppy sounding." But something happened a few weeks ago. The music crawled inside me. I felt that it was penetrating my body, and the more it entered me, the more armoured I became. His voice stopped sounding silly and began to sound sexy. The vocal plays he makes started to give me goosebumps. I found my body moving almost unconsciously. And as the sound began to possess me, the words haunted me. The loneliness, the vulnerability, and the intelligence spoke to me. Here was someone who cared about the words he put on his paper. Morrissey, it seemed to me, saw himself as a writer not just a rock star.

But love? Love came when I saw a video of his performances. Love came when I saw his body moving. It was unexpected. He's not a particularly handsome man, at least for me. He's big, bulky. The kind of person who leans towards fat as they get older. His jaw line reminds me of that stereotypical image of boxers. He looked like a meat head, a jock. But then I saw him move. I saw his gestures, the way he moved his hands. The way his body moved to the music. Unplanned, I fall in love...with a stranger. A famous stranger. I feel in his love with his fingers, his hands. I feel in love with the way his body undulates on the stage. With his old school theatrical gestures: the swept out arm that embraces the audience. The way he falls to the floor is enough to make me feel a bit weak. He has a way of looking out into a crowd of thousands of people, and making them all feel he's touched them. This unplanned love embarrasses me slightly. I'm still kind of stunned, that I cheap girl that I am, paid 80 to see him live. But I feel that I have to see him. I have to watch his body. I have to see him sing in the flesh.

And this is what amazes me about love, lust, even friendship. There is something about physicality that strikes me as vital in any relationship. As close as I feel to you, my dear readers, as much as I love to play with you, I need to know you in ways that not possible over the internet. There is something about encountering a body, be it from a distance or from nearby, that creates an unplanned intimacy. I shield myself from this, and this is what keeps me from fully embracing many people. If I threw myself open, I feel I would die from the intensity. But still I need this encounter. I want to feel the brush of hands on mine. I want to sit across from you and talk to you. I want to feel what will come, unplanned and maybe even unwelcomed. When this happens then I feel I will know you. I don't want to just know the sterilized mind but the messy body. I want to smell sweat, and the food you ate for lunch. I want the electric caress of attraction or the cold crawl of repulsion. There is only a half knowing without the body. I crave chance encounters. I want the unexpected shock of lust. It doesn't mean one has to act on it but rather that one opens oneself to what other bodies say and do.

This is a knowledge that both kills and gives live.

To A Lover

"To know life is given only to that derisory, reductive, and already infernal knowledge that only wishes it dead. The Gaze that envelops, caresses, details, atomizes the most individual flesh and enumerates its secret bites is that fixed, attentive, rather dilated gaze which, from the height of death, has already condemned life." Foucault in The Birth of the Clinic

Lying down before me, your body spreads beneath my gaze. I start at your feet, the less obvivoius place to begin such an inventory. The rough callous bottoms of short, hairy toes. The chipped nails, the one nail too long, the discoloring that comes from age. The veins rise up beneath your skin, pushing like worms through rain drenched soil. They form rivers and tributaires that divide that thin flesh into islands. The corase black hair of your legs begins to grow about the slightly protuding bump of your ankle. I part the hair to reveal hidden scars. Long, white, uneven stories of the past. Up to your knee, that rounded bump, smooth when your leg is flat. Now it's raised to cover the vulnerable softness behind. Your thighs are smooth, and strong with the muscles taut, and defined. They rise up in the front to the side making a small valley between outer and inner. And then my eye searches out that part we are told to keep secret. Right now, under my gaze, your dick is hard, standing erect from the bed of soft hair on your crotch. Your balls hang down, nestled against the start of your ass. You are curcumised, lost the protection of that extra layer of skin at an early age. The thigh creases where it joins the hip, and at the hip once can once again see bone. You are thin so the hipbone juts out, dangerous edges. Your stomach is taut, and moves slightly as you lay beneath me. The muscles are not so well-defined here but I can still make the ridges they form to the sides. Your chest is smooth with only a slight covering of hair between your breasts. Your nipples are hard nuts set in a brown pool. Your hands, lying loosely, at your side are spread out. They are long and big with even longer fingers. Your nails are short, cut, and clean. There is a bit of hair on the top of each hand. Your arms seem too long for you body, even for such a long body as yours. They are slender with the muscles defined delicately from the wrist to the shoulder. Your shoulders with that lovely cup of a clavicle entrall me but only for a moment. I must not lean down to sip from that depth. No, I must continue my inventory. Up the eyes go, sweeping over your neck, where the pulse beats so heavy it moves the skin.

Your face. The doorway to the soul they say. I say "Why the face?" Why not the lower body? Why not that clavicle? Why not the tiny bump of your wrist? But still your face is beautiful. The cheekbones, wide and flat, cup a strong nose. Your mouth with its thick lips, opened ever so slightly so that I can your teeth. Normal teeth, all staright, ready to bite. Your eyes are blackness so dark that there is no bottom. They slant ever so slightly to the sides. Above thick brows all rising to a forehead that is almost too big but not quite. Your hair is black but not silk....it's too heavy, to thick for silk.

My inventory is done. I have mapped this body as one would map a land. I have traced its bounardies with my surveying Eye. I want to claim it as my own. If I am the author of this map, who can take it from me? But sometimes, after we've fucked, I wish I could crawl inside. There is beanth that skin a secret world. I can hear it sometimes when I lie my head against his heart. But sometimes it does not feel like enough.

This kind of knowing kills.

This Morning I Ordered This...

This Morning I Listend To This...

And Be Ye Healed

At the end of my two week hospital stay, the Dr. came to talk to my mom and I about the possiblity of skin grafts. My legs looked awful...too awful for me to even look at. I would end up spending most of the next two years actively not looking at my thighs. When he came, it was a pain day. I could not focus on anything as the pain just rode my body in increasingly worst waves. The staff did not like to give me painkillers due to my age, so I mostly suffered. And I had to suffer silently or the nurses would come and yell at me to be quiet. I only heard glimpses of what the process: skin from my butt removed, and placed on my legs. It repulsed me. I already felt freaky and somehow the process would make me more of a monster. I told my mom no and insisted even when the Dr. argued with us.

"God will heal me." I said confidently. My mom beamed and the Dr. shook his head in disgust. But the converstaion ended, and I could back to the pain. If I focused and counted through the waves, it got better.

My grandmother came later that day with a Happy Meal (the first solid food I had eaten in two weeks) and green grapes. I managed to eat some of the food before the pain killed my appetite. My mom proudly told my grandmother what I had told the Dr. My grandmother began to plan the healing immediately for church that Sunday. I felt a bit guilty because really I had only said it so that the Dr. would go with his freaky suggestions. But by that night, once the pain subsided, I convinced myself that God would indeed heal me. One just had to have faith according to my grandmother. I had faith.

The hospital released me the next day. I still had to have phyiscal therapy, and my mom had to change my bandages once a day. Both were painful activities. Dread shadowed my days. We missed church for a couple of weeks. After a few sessions of physical therapy, coupled with bandage changings, I didn't feel like going anywhere. I spent most of my days, curled up on the couch watching cartoons and looking at books. I worried that missing church would be seen by God as a serious lack of faith. I prayed extra hard at night.

Finally, the pain subsided enough for me to go out in public. My mom dressed me in a brown curdory skit and a flannel yellow dress shirt covered in blue flowers. My legs were banaged from my crotch to my knee. My dad carried me to the car. My grandpa carried me into the church once we arrived. I sat patiently through the singing, and the service. I didn't even go to children's church. I was eargerly awaiting the end of the service. Finally the pastor opened up the altar. Everyone turned to me.

I got up, wobbly, holding onto the pew in front of me. I stumbled to the asile. Slowly, I hobbled down to the altar. No one came with me. I had to show my faith by walking up alone. People were mummuring , speaking in tongues, as I haunched over, bowlegged and stumbling. I couldn't walk upright yet. My legs couldn't brush together without sending me into screaming pain so I had to hold them far from each other. The muscles were weak from loss of mass. Still I walked. Every step hurt, and I held my tears back. Tears would be a sign of faithlessness. Finally, I could see the pastor, who was blinking back tears. He turned me to the congregation "God will heal her!" he declared. " We have to join our faith with hers." He laid his hands on my head and began, with the whole congregation, to pray.

I still wonder who had the lack of faith: the congregation or me.

Whiny Ginger Post

Alright you've been warned. If you don't like self-piting whining then just skip this post.

Three weeks into the semester and my to do list remains just that a to do list. I have a ton of things needing to be done. Like MY THESIS. Oh, and Ph.D applications. Nothing too major. Ha. And I keep doing these half ass things that normally get me going but this time the tricks are not working. I need to write a statement of purpose. I need to write a thesis proposal. But for some reason I feel amazingly ambigious about these projects. These projects that all have a rapidly approaching due date.

I realized today I just feel really insecure about everything. I am afraid to start writing because I've decided that my writing is childlish, well not childish, but just...I don't know...not intellectual enough? I don't use enough big words. My sentences are not complicated, etc, etc. I keep thinking "Whoever reads my statement of purpose is going to think I'm idoit." And then I start worrying about actually getting accepted. Will my pronunciation issues earn me the scorn of my fellow students? Argh, crippled by insecurity.

Mostly I just feel not enough to do a Ph.D program. It's a horrible feeling. I need to stop listening to Morrisey.

"There's a club if you'd like to go

You could meet someone who really loves you

So you go and you stand on your own

And you leave on your own

And you go home and you cry

And you want to die"

My insecurity used to lie in being alone in bed. Now it lies in being alone in my intellectual world.

City of Steeples

We have returned from Baltimore aka the city with a whole lot of steeples. No I didn't count them. But there are a lot. Anyway, it was a wonderful visit. Baltimore was cool after hot, steamy Charlotte. And also unlike Charlotte, Baltimore has not torn down every building older than 50 years.

But most importantly, the people I went to see were warm and welcoming. Ros and gang are proof that internet relationships are worth cultivating. I meet these wonderful, funny, smart women over the internet when Umberto was two and I was going to back to work. They supported me through two pregnancies, and the decision to go back to grad. school. And I also had a wonderful conversation about religion but that's for another post.

The woman in the store below totally freaked out over the kids. She kept coming out and giving us dirty looks. We weren't even going into her store. All that stress and worry for nothing.

The sex store we visited. Umberto was bummed he couldn't go into this toy store. It was very classy. And yes, I bought something but there are some secrets a girl needs to keep.

On the Road...

Like Kerouac before us, we hit the road. Unlike Kerouac, we did not hitchhike nor did we jump trains. Instead we rented a huge Ford, and packed it full of toys and snacks. No drugs. Just apple juice and M & Ms. We alternated music: They Might Be Giants for the kids (Pictures of Panda's painting and E eats Everything) coupled with Morrisey and NIN. I think H played Phish while I slept as I have foggy memory/dreams of their mellow lyrics along with those of Death Cab for Cutie.

Mostly, we talked while the kids slept. I fall in love with my husband yet again. I loved watching his profile as he drove. He's a beautiful man. And mostly there was that feeling of intense connection as we talked and laughed. I spend my days touching and loving this man. How amazing.

Images from the road:

Hey it is the South....

England comes to us...Ernesto, you there?

His licence plate says "So sexy."

And this one....

One more...Let Me Kiss You...

How I Feel Today

I have spent the whole day listening to Morrissey Live at Earl Court. I've been listening to this album a great deal but today...I don't know, it's moving something deep within me. Perhaps it's nostalgia? The music is wakening some kind of longing that has no words.

A Taste

I have so much to write about but I also have to get ready for my independent study conference call tonight. So while I'd much rather be frolicking with you, my dear readers, I have to frolic with Foucault (no not so horrible). But I had to share...

Shortly after a frantic drive to drop the huge rental car (sob...I hated to part with it), rush back home to get H off to school, there was a knock on the door. A loud knock. Delivery man always sound as if they are going to break the door down. I assumed it was a clothes order from Old Navy (or Oh Baby as U refers to it). But no...it was Fed Ex with a small package. I couldn't recall anything I had ordered through Fed Ex but there was my name. I felt some trepidation upon opening the package. How often does one get wonderful unexpected things from Fed Ex? But it was wonderful, and expected but also surprising. I had ordered a used Foucault book from an Amazon dealer. And he had sent it FedEx with all kinds of wonderful subversive things including an anarchist primer. And there was a handwritten note..."Hello Ginger, I am including some Free materials that you may also be interested in. I hope you enjoy them. thanks Thadeaus."

And I did enjoy them. I also enjoyed this bit of intimacy from a stranger. A note, handwritten with an intriguing and wonderful name. When life drops these tiny surprises on me, I am always awed and a bit humbled.

Add to this a little chat with E this morning, and life is smiling happily upon G.