The Sublimation Hour (or Hours)

sub·li·ma·tion \ˌsə-blə-ˈmā-shən\ noun 1 a: sublime 1 archaic : to improve or refine as if by subliming 2: to divert the expression of (an instinctual desire or impulse) from its unacceptable form to one that is considered more socially or culturally acceptableOnce again our trip to Ashville began with a simply smashing day that dissolved into storms right as we drove out of Charlotte. This time, however, we were not escorted out by rainbows but what looked early tornado formations. Later someone told me there were tornadoes spotted in the area we drove through.

Haven't we seen this before? Every time we drive to Ashville, H insists I take pictures of the mountains. They are lovely but I think I may have over a hundred pictures of the Smokies. But I had to share this picture as it does reveal the reason behind the name "The Great Smoky Mountains."

As we drove up this time, we did listen to music. I hadn't really listened to the new Destroyer album, Trouble in Dreams and since we were going to see him, it did seem I ought to get to know the album a bit. I have to say that there's very little from Destroyer that I just don't love, and this album is no exception. Bejar, whether he likes it or not (indication seems to point to "does not") creates pop music for the intellengstia (not really a term I love but there you have it). His quirky lyrics set to almost discordant harmonies croaked out in a voice that one has to learn to love surprise, delight, and mystify. But they are lyrics that are appeal to those who love academic puzzles, to those who love to analyze, tear part, critique. They are not lyrics that one necessarily wishes to whisper to their lover, or that make an emotional appeal. Rather they are lyrics that hit your head first, and maybe if you're fucked up just enough, your heart. My favorites from this album are Blue Flower/Blue Flame and Foam Hands. When I listen to Destroyer I find myself contemplating things like time. There's something about his music that makes me wonder about how time moves us in these bizarre directions. Like shouldn't I have been doing shows way back when I was young instead of now? What does it say that at 36 I'm finally opening up to this whole new musical world? What most people realize at 18, I'm find out now. Maybe it's his lyrics or maybe it's just that he's the first really indie band I was really into....but his music makes me feel that time is not linear in the least.
And we'd definitely seen this place before....The show was at the Grey Eagle Tavern which I have to talk up a bit. This is a great venue, and if you read my blog from NC please give them some business. These are the kinds of places that help keep the indie music scene alive and vibrant. The place has relatively cheap beer, a nice outside patio area for smoking, a roomy but intimate stage area, and the best bar kitchen I've ever seen (Cajun!). The staff is cool but unpretentious as is the crowd for the most part. And they're bringing in great shows. Totally worth the 2.5 hour drive from Charlotte.

This time we knew some people there! Our friend Amber (the coolest HE manager EVEA) and her friend Dylan meet us at the show. We had a few beers, hung out on the patio, listening to Dylan tell stories (guy is a great story teller). Then Amber and I went in, prepared to bully our way to the front. I was a tad disappointed that there was a big clearing for us right up at the front. I've yet to do a show in NC where the crowd fights to get close to the stage. People are so polite which is, hey, good for me. We had a good time waiting for Destroyer to come on...taking silly pictures, fooling around, etc.

And then, in a rush so fast and shy I wouldn't have noticed except that Amber grabbed my arm and said "There he is!" And indeed, there he was:

He said nothing...just slung on his guitar, and launched into "Rubies." It was as H noted in his entry, an electrified, heavy hitting version of the song. It was...sublime. If there is one thing that Destroyer does it refines but they do not turn things into acceptable sounds. They shatter your expectations and give you something you want but didn't know you wanted. Bejar's voice is the same live as recorded but there is something very raw about him live. He's so unassuming. He hardly looks at his audience, his head down, his hair covering his face. He turns away often...Bejar's voice is like Dylan's and Neil Young's in that you don't like it at first...it grows on you, weaves it's way into your head until it's the most beautiful thing you have ever heard.

And the music...amazing. The drummer was simply incredible. Everything worked together, it was fast, moving you. It was impossible to stand still. One had to move to it...let it envelop your body, propel you outside of your mind into your body. You could feel it in your blood, in your muscles as you danced. You didn't stop to think about his lyrics...you just let them inside you. The kind of intellectual thought that I always invested in when listening to the albums disappeared in the dark little club.
Bejar is intense. You could feel it as he sang. He's also very shy on stage. He said very little to the audience. But at some point, he began to smile. Just these tentative smiles that opened up a kind of joy in everyone. The crowd loved him. People all around us were singing his songs...they knew all the words. Half of us had these dopey in love smiles on our face as he performed. And it seemed that he responded to this love. His keyboard player at one point said "Way better than New York" which rose a great response in the crowd. North Carolinians are not often compared in a favorable way to New Yorkers. And when he came out to give his encore, Bejar commented: "Maybe it's the acoustics in this place but it sounds like there is a 100, 000 people out there."

And I think it felt that way because the crowd just loved him. He didn't need to impress us. He just had to sing for us, and that was gift enough.

Out of Hiding

It's been a hell of a week. Last week between doing two shows (Destroyer review to come) I had to write two small papers, and finish a project. The project involved creating a game using material from my class "Witches, Saints, and Heretics." It was stressful towards the end but we came up with a cool game that I'm pleased with. We were able to avoid the kinds of labeling conducted by authorities of the time but still showed that labeling worked. I never realized how hard it is to come up with a game that is fun but that conveys certain ideals. Now we'll see if the class likes (they play it tonight...I'm blogging from school!).

But all my work is done, and I'm ready to sleep for a couple of days. The end of the semester is always such a relief to me. This one ending I rarely feel sad about. But I'm trying to not go too much into summer mode as I have a lot to do...packing up our house, getting thesis material ready to travel to Mexico with me (may need a separate suitcase for my books), designing a syllabus. But I'm also trying to balance this with: VACATION. Relax Ginger. I want to enjoy our time in Mexico not be all stressed out with worries concerning my thesis.

In other news...I'm fat. Fatter than ever. Maybe fatter than when I started WW last summer. For some reason, this fact has hit me heavily this week. I went shopping a few weeks ago and bought clothes that I loved and felt good in but this week that doesn't even matter. I remember when I decided to leave WW I asked myself: "What's the worst thing that can happen?" And I answered: "Get fat." At the time, I thought I could handle it. So basically I spent a week bashing myself, and just wondering if I should diet.

But the other day, I ate a few Hershey kisses from the kids' stash and realized when I went back for more that I wasn't hungry. And amazingly that was enough for me to turn away. It hit me last night that I'm actually not overeating. I'm not eating until I feel sick. I'm not always making healthy choices but I'm not gorging myself to explosion either. And yeah I've been using food a bit to get through this stressful time but I don't feel bad about that. I know this time will pass and I won't want these comfort foods for awhile.

And I also realized that Saturday night at the Destroyer show I didn't think once about my weight. I felt sexy and acted sexy. It didn't occur to me that I might not be sexy:) It was a good to be able to feel this without immediately knocking it down by thinking about my weight.

All this to say that I have come along way in the last few months.

Uncle Al Makes Ginger's Ears Bleed

No my ears didn't actually bleed but they did ring for two days.

Thursday night I went to see Ministry with my friend D. Three things I know for sure: Al Jourgensen is freakin' nuts, Ministry is very, very loud, and I'm not really into whole metal scene anymore.

Last night was for me an indulgence--indulging a certain nostalgia for the past. The first time I heard Ministry was when I was about nineteen. It was the Psalm 69 album. My brother and I used to play it to drive my Evangelical mom crazy. I haven't listened to Ministry steadily since that period of time but I own the last two Ministry albums (Piper loves them), Rio Grande Blood and The Last Sucker. They're both, in my mind, metal orientated although The Last Sucker does have quite a bit of mixing and sampling. The albums are loud and heavy with those super fast guitar riffs and bass lines that vibrate your old shitty car. His voice amplified and distorted with machines, Uncle Al's hate of Bush punctuates the music. They're not bad albums but I'm finding myself not really interested in that kind of music anymore (despite really liking loud). Regardless, I couldn't miss Ministry's last tour.

The show was at the Tremont, a Charlotte venue and one at which I've never seen a show. D and I were a bit later than planned, and we had to park about two blocks away. There was a line when we arrived. We could hear Hemlock, one of the opening bands from outside. It was straight metal. There was a wide range of people: "normals," metal heads, punks, goths, and what my friend D calls "That guy." My favorite of the night was the guy in the cowboy outfit complete with cowboy hat. I wanted to tell him he was at the wrong show.

We made it in without getting burnt by the crazy drunk guy behind me. The Tremont is an old warehouse, and it still has both the look and the feel. In order to get in, you have to walk a long ramp in the dock area which still looks like a...docking area. Inside it's cavernous. There are still the glassed in booth where truckers checked in their cargo. There are two stages, a smaller one to the left and then a large area to the right. Smoking is allowed so it was too smoky (no ventilation). And it was hot!



We saw the last two Hemlock songs. Next up Meshuggah. I am not sure what to say about them. They would open with these great guitar licks that were definitely interesting, and a departure from most traditional metal bands. But suddenly, the singing would kick in along with the bass, and you lost the good thread; it was drowned out by everything else. At this point, it just sounded like thrash metal to me--not my thing.
The crowd loved them though, and there was a large "circle bang" (ummm...okay) which began to expand, at one point, up to where D and I were standing. All I could think was "Great we're about to become part of the Mosh pit of death." Now granted, this is Charlotte so there wasn't really all that much to fear.















After Meshuggah, the floor cleared up (everyone was running for beer). At this point, it was unbearly hot and I was sticky. The smoke was unbearable, and I felt like I was inhaling about ten cigarettes at a time. But D and I pressed on towards the front. I'm sure D was ready to kill me because I moved us front but toward the side. We didn't have a great view of anything but the very front of the stage as there were ceiling to floor speakers blocking our view. D was blinded by the strobe light a few times. Worst was the fact that we were about two feet from said speakers. Not a problem until the show started.


The show was super loud. When the bass started in, everything INSIDE my body started to shake. The riffs were fast, and there were these screeching crescendos that were almost unbearable. Uncle Al screeched into the mike, voice distorted and deepened. When he talks he has a surprisingly high pitched, kind of squeaky voice. The first set was all songs from the last two albums. They sounded amazing, and while there was a definite metal feel to the music, it was tempered with samples, talented players, interesting melodies, and a bit of electronic distortion. This was a different noise then say, APTBS. It was not so much creative noise as just really loud. It was not a noise that moved you, transported you, or altered your reality. It was a noise that continually hammered you into the floor. The music was an assault. I made it through three songs before I felt like I was going to vomit. I felt beat up. My ears were ringing, and I had to almost lean on my friend D to make it to the back. As we stood in the back for the rest of the set, there were many others stumbling to the relative safety of the back.






















Al was in fine form. He started off one song with "Here's a song for our fucking idiot president." He referred to said president as the idiot for the rest of the night.
He then went on a rant about Christians: "This is for all you fucking Catholics,
Evangelicals, Christians." and slammed us with "I'm Still Waiting." After this song he started to fight with someone in the audience. It wasn't clear to me what was going on. I heard later that he was saying "Fuck Charlotte." He started to taunt someone (individual or crowd I don't know) and urged them up on the stage: "Get up here! I'll kick your ass." Then he went about how "Yeah I see you hands in the air. Big fucking deal." And then he spit on the crowd. During the next song, people started to tear one of the fences down. The guards (who at this point had been merely telling people to not take pictures) came running in and started slamming the crowd around. Al loved it. And thus proved himself a big ass rock star.There was no way I could not compare to this show to A Place To Bury Strangers. First, the noise. I told H that A Place to Bury Strangers was like BDSM. It's rough but you like it, and it's planned out, almost ritualized. Ministry is just like assault. APTBS is all about loud but it is a planned loud, a loud created with skill not just in playing but in creating electrical gadgets. Ministry is a loud that involves cranking up the amp, playing really loud and fast, and screaming into a mike. I KNOW that this is considered an art from by many (and yes I can appreciate it) but I don't always get it.

Second, the show itself was very different. I realized I have no desire to be a rock star groupie...maybe just a groupie to indie bands! Looking at the two performances, and thinking about the sheer...I don't know humbleness of both the venue and the band at the APTBS show...that made the whole experience. Al's taunting and then pleased reaction to his fans going nuts and subsequently being beat down just brought out the worst in the rock star mentality. Morrissey does this as well, and it's disgusting. It's this power play over fans.

Basically, I'm all about the really really small venues and maybe about those bands that just haven't made it to the big time. I get REM fans' feelings now when REM started to get airplay. There's a part of me that wants APTBS to make it big but another part that just loves that I can go see them in some small club.

Overall Ministry is professional, slick, and quite good but the intimate feel that APTBS brings to a show is seriously lacking.

Beautiful Boy

There are times when the sheer beauty of my children shakes me. Sometimes it is in the way they move around the room, or in the curve of a tiny hip as one lays sleeping. Other times it's watching them race wildly around the park, their strong, young legs propelling their smooth, brown bodies through the woods or across a field. And then sometimes there is no reason, they just turn and I gasp, impacted with their beauty.

I suppose, this seems common place. Most parents think their children are beautiful. I just never expected to feel this so intensely. At times, it as if I am lifted out of myself and looking afar at these creatures. At these moments, I realize they are not mine. I don't own them, can't own, don't want to own them. These are the glimpses of their absolute alieness from me. And yet due to the paradoxical nature of life, they are mine. I may not own them but I have a sacred responsibility to them. It still leaves me stunned that I somehow produced these creatures....that from me came such beauty.

This all comes about from watching Umberto play the other day. He was running away from me, and I called to him to tell him we had to leave soon. He stopped running, his body still vibrating with movement, half turned toward me, sulky and defiant. I was silent for a moment lost in the sheer gorgeousness of my own child. I smiled, and his sulky pout broke into a smile that left me a bit wounded.

That's Mr C to you.

Hey all. Some of you may have noticed that H's blog has been closed to open viewing. No worrries. H has not become exculsive. He's applying for teaching jobs which means that he has appear to squeaky clean (note the word "appear"). Just email me (email is in my profile) and I'll pass along the information.

Minor Threat

I went to a small private Christian school for most of high school. My graduating class has fifteen people. I choice to go here for reasons that remain unclear to me although I am sure it is connected largely to it making my mom happy. I was a mess at sixteen. I had been living with my dad after leaving my mother's house. My stepmother didn't really like it and since my dad was on the road a great deal she was one who dealt with me. It was a dark time, and towards the end of my stay I spent a lot of time smoking and doing nothing—just staring into space and listening to music. School was hellish. I was unpopular. The only bright moment was a great teacher who did special advanced English classes with me. He was the one who introduced me to books that were more than escape. Towards the end of my stay, my dad hooked with a girl not much older than me, and my life at his place fell apart. My mom did not seem to really want me back unless I had some kind of conversion experience. I needed some place to go and being a Christian was what was going to give me that place. At the time though it was a real conversion experience, and I latched onto being a Christian with fervor.

Initially there were some doubts about me getting into the school. I was pretty wild, and the teachers there seemed to doubt my sincerity. But the principal let me in, and for a year I was a good Christian. However by my Jr. year I was having doubts about the whole Christian thing, and a summer mission trip to Haiti left me disillusioned. I started my senior year with these doubts which only grew as I expanded my circle of friends. My friend Jason dated a girl for a bit who was the first real "indie" girl I ever meet. She was older and we became friends and stayed friends even after she broke up with my friend Jason. She introduced me to R.E.M and foreign films. I liked hanging out with her and she opened up a new world for me. We sat around a lot, drinking coffee, talking about books and films. I realized there was this whole world filled with people who did not quite fit in to the mainstream. It was exciting.

At my school, there were few alternative kids. Most of the students were very into being Christian, and that meant no R movies and definitely no "secular" music. But there was kid named Kevin. He was two grades behind me, a skater. I'm not sure how we even started talking but I think it was over a discussion of "Pump Up the Volume." He was a hard person to have a conversation with as he was so invested in being odd. But we managed to have a few talks about music, and he introduced me to new music: Minor Threat, The Butthole Surfers. We were the only kids in the school that were different and because of that we latched onto each other. He was a skinny kid with floppy blonde hair, and he always seemed dirty. I remember his big controversy was masturbating in class. None of the teachers caught him but the rumor spread all over the school. When I asked him if it was true, he just grinned.

He was the first indie kid I ever had a small crush on but he was younger than me (in high school three years seems like a lot) and we were already entering the era when the pretty girls were becoming indie. He had a small following even in our tiny school not that he seemed to notice. Sometimes we'd bump into each other at the local library and I'd watch him skate with this friends. I was embarrassed by my attraction to him. He was someone different on a skateboard. Bold and graceful. Even when he wiped out. But he also seemed so young and vulnerable. I remember when we talked; he'd lean forward so that his hair would cover up his delicate features which had not developed into that hardness which seems to make male adulthood. I felt very old around him, and it wasn't really that three year age difference. Despite Kevin's attempts to be different, he was really an innocent kid like most of the kids I went to school with. At this point, I had recovered from heavy drinking and drug use. I was probably the only nonvirgin in the school. My past always kept me at a distance from the kids around me who were so naive compared to me. And Kevin despite what he thought was still one of those kids.

My school did not have a prom. Dancing was not Christian. Instead we had an awards banquet. Everyone dressed up, and went to eat a "nice" dinner at a restaurant. My last year I decided not to go. I had nothing to wear and felt done with the school at that point. Two of my friends talked me into it, as they knew I was getting a reward. I felt hypercritical receiving it as at this point I had decided I was done with Christianity. But I went, and smiled and thanked everyone. Later we ended up Kevin's house. We stood around in the dark, fooling around, being stupid, giddy that school was now done. Someone suggested a game of hide and seek in the dark which is really just a cover for overly shy kids to grope. I felt stupid, and out of place, too old for the game. I remember walking around, and finding Kevin behind a tall bush that abutted the house. He put his finger to his lips, and then pulled me in. We crouched there facing each other, and there was that moment…that feeling that comes right before you kiss someone, or before they kiss you. Later, if the kiss never comes, you'll question the feeling, casting doubts on it. Our heads moved closer, and I got up and left.

That night, I regretted leaving. I had wanted to kiss him. He was only a boy but he also was someone who understood the increasing alienation I felt happening between my present and my future. He was beautiful and strange. But I also felt like that kiss would have destroyed something in each of us. Even now I can put a finger on why I felt this way. And part of me let my insecurity push him away. I was fat and pimply, and maybe he thought I'd be easy because of my past. I couldn't imagine this boy really wanting to kiss someone like me. He was too pretty for my world.

He signed my yearbook with "I'm only a minor threat."

Back to Our Regular Broadcasting

Okay so that was exciting, yes? I've never thought much of my show/concert reviews. I have a hard time putting those kinds of things into words. For one thing, I don't know nearly enough about music to write intelligently about it, and because I read so many music reviews, this ignorance is quite clear to me. And I really feel moved by music. I love it. I've loved it ever since I was 13, and discovered that music could speak to places inside you that nothing else really could. Particularly punk and metal. As an outcast, pimply, fat teen this music made me feel like I might have a spot in the world. It gave voice to a deep anger and resentment, and it made me aware of my situation in ways that reading (although it started to as I got older) never did. Reading was an escape; music was fuel for living. Thus music is very special to me, and when I find something that really fucking shakes my world, like APTBS, then excitement is a mild term for what I feel. I hope they got that from my review.

But life must go on...and unfortunately it's a life that doesn't involve me hopping a plane in two weeks, and heading for London. Don't suppose there's a way to make being a APTBS junkie a living? Well it's a thought right? Plus the only kid who likes them is Piper, and I'm not sure what their sound would do to the budding ear drums of a three year old (and yeah she REALLY likes them..them and Ministry).

So I'm back to the "real world." For those who read regularly, my adviser dilemma was top news last week. Well we spoke on Monday (yes Monday when I was so fucking tired I could barely drag my ass to class). It was not as horrible as anticipated nor was it as pleasant as it could have been. It was actually rather ridiculous. It involved her telling me I was an idiot for taking another semester, and me trying to explain why without saying "You drive me crazy and I think you're nuts." She made me very uncomfortable at times by suggesting that therapy would help my writing process, and trying to make my decision an intensely emotional one connected to my issues. It was like breaking up with someone which is not something I've ever been good at. But it's done, and I'm moving forward. New thesis has to do with media discourses that shape what constitutes normal and abnormal religions, and how apostates' memoirs get wedged right in the middle of these discourses. And yes.... oh yes, the soundtrack to my thesis will contain APTBS. Nothing like writing about Mormons to the sonic feedback of "Ocean."

It's a busy two weeks ahead: book review, close reading, game to plan, plus a new proposal, Ministry on the 24th, Destroyer on the 26, and Radiohead on May 9. Then we have to pack up, put everything in storage, and head for Mexico on June 3rd. Oh, and we have a few birthdays tucked away in there as well. I'm going to try to post as I have some things want/need to write about but I have to put computer usage on the back burner.

Here's some photos from our time wasting last night:

Cyber Threads

When I was twenty I really got into William Gibson's works. Whenever I read one of his novels or short stories, I imagined the world like a great green grid with lines of light zig zagging, connecting, spreading out all the world. Everyone in his story, whether they knew one or another or not, were somehow connected to the plot. Now of course fiction is a contrived creation...it's a bit easier to make those connections logical. Life often seems about random. The connections made here do not often make much sense to the plot of one's life. But still I enjoy them.

Last night H showed me how my blog review of A Place To Bury Strangers was moving up on the Google results list. He said "People must be reading the review." I checked out my little world map and indeed I had many more hits than normal (I don't get many so it was a noticeable difference). I noticed that one of the hits was from where APTBS was playing that night. I did my own search and found a website that seemed to have a compulsive listing of APTBS web links. I started to explore the page, and found...gardening posts. Then I somehow managed to get on the Flickr site...and after a bit of exploring we discovered we were on Oliver Ackerman's father's site. It was cool last night...there was some great pictures of New Foundland, and we found...family photos. But today I feel like maybe I violated some kind of line, some kind of privacy. It felt too much like stalking.

Now I wasn't necessarily out to find this information. I was really just curious who was reading my blog. And I admit to feeling a bit "tickled" that perhaps the man himself had read my review. But then this morning, I wondered the price we pay by opening ourselves up to the web. What kind of ethics of viewing come to play in this cyber world.

A Place To Bury Strangers

Warning: I am incapable of just giving a concert review. I am compelled to tell a story about it. This is likely why I make such a sucky essayist. This story will be accompanied, of course, with plenty of pictures.

The whole day was quite lovely until right before we left. The sun was out, and while crisp, it was warm enough to be out without a jacket. We brought the kids out to the park, and then had an early dinner of pizza and beer. I wasn't excited though as I felt awful. I was afraid that my general feeling of yuckiness would ruin the show for me. But luckily, by the time we dropped the kids off at my mom's house I was feeling better. As we left Charlotte, a storm broke out, and we had to drive through some rain. We saw a rainbow, and this is the sight that urged us forth.

We headed West towards the mountains. I love driving this route as the landscape begins to look more and more like Maine. This was a glorious ride up as the alternating rain and sunlight created rainbows. Rainbows coupled with sunset creates one amazing light show. I told Horacio after seeing yet another rainbow, "This would be a great sign if we were going to Radiohead." We brought along a few cds: Liars, Yeasayer, and naturally, APTBS ,but we didn't end up listening to them. Instead we talked--about education.

The show was at the Grey Eagle, a neat little club in the "very hip oh so cool" mountian town of Asheville. It was freezing and as we were hurrying to get into the warmth of the club, we meet the guy who booked the show, Matt. It was his birthday present to himself, and we thanked him for having a birthday. The club itself is a smallish gray building with a great bar and a neat little kitchen hosting more than simple bar food. The crowd inside was very indie, and they obviously all knew each other. It was hard not to feel a bit like we didn't quite fit. We had a beer, and then wandered into the stage area to check out the opening band, Knives and Daggers. They weren't bad but not really great either. But low and behold as we wandered about there he was: Oliver Ackerman himself. Okay so I know I gave Horacio some shit about not talking to him at the Chapel Hill show but I got cowardly myself. Thus we kind of stood around and I watched but we made no moves to approach him.

Instead we got more beer. Then we went back to the stage area to stake out a spot. And Horacio, emboldened by beer, approached Oliver. I had no clue what H was doing as he just started to beeline in on the guy. H introduced us. Oliver, for the record, is a nice guy. He shook our hands, asked us our names, and talked with us for a bit. For all the Mexican fans, we told him the band has a fan base in Mexico City. He said he'd love to play Mexico (hear that...LOVE to play Mexico). I told him I was writing my thesis to his music, and he asked me what my thesis was on...when I told him Mormon Fundamentalism, he was speechless;) He left us to go set up...

The magic partly comes from these little gadgets. Top photo are Jono MOFO's pedals for the bass. Bottom picture are Oliver's pedals for the guitar.
And then the magic...we were up fairly close to the stage, and I wasn't sure how long we would be able to stay. We hadn't had a chance to buy ear plugs(and for the record, they must not have been as loud normal as I stayed up front for the whole show sans earplugs). The music starts out soft, and then suddenly, and you if you've heard them before you know it's coming, that sonic blast that just slams through you. It's not really the loudness that off centers you. It's the way that the sound becomes twisted through the amplifiers, shaking you, knocking you off balance, moving through you. They started with a new song (fucking awesome). And after birthday wishes to Matt, they went right into "To Fix the Gash In Your Head." The crowd was pretty stoic although there were some guys at the front that were swept away. It was hard not to be swept away.

They started out...I don't want to say slow...but maybe a bit reserved. There was a kind of control that seem to restrain their performance. But sometime after the third song, sonic annihilation happened. Suddenly, the lights went out, and for a few seconds there was only the smoke and the sound. You could no longer see the band, and then the strobe lights kicked in. There was this ghostly moment when you could only see Oliver in bits. One flash, an arm, another flash, a leg, another flash, the guitar. He was in and out of the smoke as his voice (oh that voice) and the screeching reverberations of his guitar washed over you. But it was a ghost singing to us then...a sonic ghost.And then during Ocean...pure ecstasy. The band was no longer with us. They were transported as were we. Oliver was on the floor wrapping the guitar in cords, making it produce sonic feedback that ran up your spine, literally making the hair on the back of your neck stand up, the next moment he was beating the shit out of the guitar.... Jono MOFO was ripping the bass, and the drummer was fucking nuts. The rhythm section stands out live. I mean, the recording is awesome but live...they were just stellar.
At this point, I managed to squeeze into a small space in the front of the stage. This gave me a great vantage point to snap shots of JonMOFO (bassist). In fact, I even got down on my knees, leaning against the stage for a few pictures(I felt quite the professional).

But the best...this moment of noise heaven ended with an eight minute electronic jam. The music just went on and on..pouring over us, drawing us in and sending us away.

Above photo is my favorite shot of the night.

When I was younger, I didn't really do shows. I hardly ever went to concerts period. I just wasn't aware that one could go to a concert that wasn't in an arena. For a bit, I hung out in punk clubs in Rochester, but that was mostly for the pits, and not for the bands. It never occurred to me to that someone I listened to daily might possibly play a small venue. A venue so small that I could get right up to the front. A venue where the leader singer is walking around, and chats it up with you. Being this close to the music is exciting. It makes you feel like you are an integral part of the whole experience. And of course some of this is that I am such a fan girl. I realized that I've really got a "thing" for rock stars (no matter how indie). I told my friend today that if I was hot enough I'd have been a groupie. Being in a small venue, getting to meet Oliver (swoon) was just too much.

And after the show, we saw him again. He was talking with a kid, and then trying to put off the obligatory drunk girl who was trying to hit on him (he did so kindly). I screwed up my courage (cause in reality I'm kind of shy) and approached him. I told him about the blog, said I wanted to write about the show, and asked him if we could get a picture. "Yeah! Of course," he agreed enthusiastically. Then he gestured to H and I "Come on don't you want to be in it?" And so I asked the scornful looking indie kid behind us (I don't think we were acting cool) to take. H apologized for being a "fan boy" and Oliver just laughed and put his arm around us. He told the indie kid "Come on take it!" at which point the indie kid had no choice. Hilarity ensued as the kid fucked around with my camera. Oliver was swing H and I around, cracking jokes, and just really being very cool....

So yeah I was a total fan girl, and yeah I sort of have a big crush on this guy, but I did get my picture of the mad noise scientist himself. And H and I are not that big...the guy weighs like 80lbs! Oh and there's a ton of pictures here.

Skinny Dreams

I realized today, as I walked to my car from the library, that I've spent much of my life in anticipation. This thought came naturally enough as I am a high state of anticipation for tomorrow. But I realized this anticipation is a bit deeper than eagerly awaiting an event. Rather my indication centers around weight. Or at least it used to.

For much of my life, I've fantasized about what I would do if I was thin. The future I always envisioned rested on on the condition of me being thin. Thus any fantasy, say becoming a published writer, necessarily envisioned me as a thin woman. And this was true for any imagined situation: concerts, moving to a city, getting married, etc.

And this fantasizing, of course, had its effects on real life. I started to really believe that none of these things could happen unless I was thin. But some of these things started to happen: I was a fat girl when I meet Horacio and married him. I was fat through all of my pregnancies (and yes it is possible to be fat and pregnant not just fat because you're pregnant). I was fat when I began grad. school (and likely will be fat when I finished). As I walked to my car, I realized that at least 90% of the things of which I'm so proud happened while I was fat.

Worst! All of these events were tinged with just a trace of sadness because of this fat. I was supposed to be thin when I got married! I was supposed to be thin with a baby bump when I was pregnant! When I imagine my thesis presentation I am always thin! My fatness made these events seem less. They weren't perfect because I wasn't perfect.

I try to imagine ways to relive these moments as a thin person...like redoing our wedding vows. I have other excuses, no one in Mexico saw our marry so we'll do a ceremony in Mexico, but really it is because the image of my perfect wedding is in an image in which I am thin.

Today I realized that I can't live my life like this anymore. I have to embrace those moments and accept the body that I had was the body that I had. Never once did that fat body stop me having these beautiful moments. I hooked up with and married the most beautiful man as a fat girl. I had all my three beautiful children as a fat girl (and despite all of my drs warnings about weight had relatively easy, drug free births). I entered and succeeded as a grad. student as a fat girl.

But there are many things I don't do because of my weight. I don't wear the clothes I really like. I don't go to shows when I do I hide in the back. I don't allow myself to imagine myself as traveling, writing, etc unless that imaging is about a thin girl. I don't speak up for myself. All these things because of my weight.

I'd love to end this with: Now I'm going to live my life no matter what! I'm free! And I am moving in that direction but this is not something that happens overnight. But I did make a big move in just seeing how much I allowed my weight to be an excuse for not living, and as a reason for not enjoying those moments I've had. Maybe some of this revolves around also not feeling like I deserve happiness.

Spring Returns

Spring hid herself in gray for the last few weeks. But today she flashed some pink. It was a sad pink tinged with brown. Already Summer's sultry heat over takes Spring.

Later I saw her through the slotted lines of the blinds.....

Hiding in the golden light of a hazy moon.

My Girls are Faries

Sometimes I think my girls are changlings.

Haters

Is it possible to love homeschooling and not be overly fond of homeschoolers? Must be as this is the space I'm currently inhabiting.

I homeschool because I think it is the best choice for my kids, and luckily I have the resources to do so. I am aware that my choice not a viable option for most families for a vareity of reasons and that angers me. I am also aware that upon making this choice that in many, perhaps too many, ways I was sheltering my children from other kinds of people. In some cases this might not necessairly be a bad thing but in other cases it is. But I've taken the risk and have attempted to combat it by joining various homeschool groups all of a secular nature.

Now I joined secular groups for a couple of reasons. A, I don't want to preached at or looked down due to my "bad" morals and B, I thought secular groups would be more liberal thus more tolerant. I also thought secular groups would be more likely to take a liberal stance towards things like racism. I knew that without a doubt I was unlikely to meet anyone who was poor, uneducated, or even from a different ethnic background (rich or poor). I know the statistics of secular homeschoolers: white, middle-class, educated. But considering my other options (CMS schools) I decided we'd have to go with it.

Let me be clear that not all homeschoolers suck. In fact, many of them are tolerant and open minded. Many practice a live and let live attitude. And, perhaps surprisingly, for some many of these tolerant people are Christians. Some even conservative Christians. For the most part, once they find out I'm secular they either decide to not hang out with me or we agree to not talk about religion. I have no desire to convert them to the secular way of life. Their beliefs concering God do not bother me so long as they are not pushed on me. Just I have no desire to push my beliefs on them.

I'm not going to lie. I found Jesus Camp pretty horrifying too. I also think it's the height of ignorance to believe in creationism. And yeah I find many Evangelical beliefs to be repulsive especially concerning things like women and homosexuality. But I also know that the media does love a good story, and inflating the numbers and the threat of Evangelicals is a great story. I'm not one for paranoia. Nor do I find myself too worried about being persecuted by Evangelicals. I find myself persecuted for a variety of reasons by a vareity of people. So my tolerance is really just that tolerance. And let me assure that if an ADULT Xian wants to get into with me, I'm ready. And if a child or an adult ever sprouts hateful language in front of me or my child, I'll speak up. But if there is a live and let live vibe? Im fine. I don't have to be best friends with the parent's of my kids friends.

Thus I walked into the homeschooling world, I thought, prepared. And while I should know at this point that most people suck, I still end up disappointed. Secular groups are as equally intolerant, paranoid, and ignorant as Xian groups. Stupidity and fundamentalism do not belong merely to Xian groups. H keeps telling me I shouldn't be so shocked but I am. And I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed that these are the people that represent secularism in the world. In addition, these same groups that have no tolerance for religious difference are TOLERANT of racism.

Specific incident: On a secular email group a woman writes a post about how a "Mexican" family has moved next door. She's initially excited because her daughter will have playmates who will "teach her Spanish." And imagine this poor atheist's dismay when she discovers that the family is Evangelical. Her husband and she decide they must be Evangelicals in "an attempt to assimilate to the broader culture." The group goes on a rampage about how horrible Evangelicals are and about how the mother should "plant the seed" of evolution and other ideas in these "Mexican" children's minds. They rant about the threat of Evangelicals to their children's beliefs. The paranoia is disturbing and a bit psychotic. A few of us suggest that tolerance might be the best approach on the part of thee parent, and also point out that it is not the place of this woman or any one to challenge the beliefs of a child. I am called psychotic. Me. For suggesting tolerance.

And worst is that everyone ignores the racial stereotyping!!! I brought it up twice yet everyone is more concerned that I'd suffer an Evangelical to live. No one gave a shit that the original poster made several racist comments. I mean she assumes that the family is Mexican, she said she had not talked the parents or the child so I wonder how she knows this. Does she has some kind of sensor or are all Hispanic people Mexican? And then she assumes they speak Spanish and not only that but hey it's free lessons for her kids. How great is that? Hell maybe they'll have a grand old time learning some culture too. Wouldn't that be cool? And Evangelicals? Aren't all "Mexicans" Catholic? How bogus! What a disappointment! My second favorite part is that this woman reports that one of the "Mexican" children said that "Halloween is the Devil's birthday." And another woman writes back: "I can't understand why a Mexican would believe that when they have this charming holiday called "Day of the Dead" that all Mexico celebrates." (head hitting table). No one, no one, can see this as racist. I was not trying to suggest that the woman was racist but rather that she harbored her own intolerance and her own stereotypes....the same thing she saw in Evangelicals.

This all makes me question the wisdom of homeschooling but is the broader society any better?

Haters

Is it possible to love homeschooling and not be overly fond of homeschoolers? Must be as this is the space I'm currently inhabiting.

I homeschool because I think it is the best choice for my kids, and luckily I have the resources to do so. I am aware that my choice not a viable option for most families for a vareity of reasons and that angers me. I am also aware that upon making this choice that in many, perhaps too many, ways I was sheltering my children from other kinds of people. In some cases this might not necessairly be a bad thing but in other cases it is. But I've taken the risk and have attempted to combat it by joining various homeschool groups all of a secular nature.

Now I joined secular groups for a couple of reasons. A, I don't want to preached at or looked down due to my "bad" morals and B, I thought secular groups would be more liberal thus more tolerant. I also thought secular groups would be more likely to take a liberal stance towards things like racism. I knew that without a doubt I was unlikely to meet anyone who was poor, uneducated, or even from a different ethnic background (rich or poor). I know the statistics of secular homeschoolers: white, middle-class, educated. But considering my other options (CMS schools) I decided we'd have to go with it.

Now let me be clear that not all homeschoolers suck. In fact, many of them are tolerant and open minded. Many practice a live and let live attitude. And, perhaps surprisingly, for some many of these tolerant people are Christians. Some even conservative Christians. For the most part, once they find out I'm secular they either decide to not hang out with me or we agree to not talk about religion. I have no desire to convert them to the secular way of life. Their beliefs concering God do not bother me so long as they are not pushed on me. Just I have no desire to push my beliefs on them.

Now I'm not going to lie. I found Jesus Camp pretty horrifying too. I also think it's the height of ignorance to believe in creationism. And yeah I find many Evangelical beliefs to be repulsive especially concerning things like women and homosexuality. But I also know that the media does love a good story, and inflating the numbers and the threat of Evangelicals is a great story. I'm not one for paranoia. Nor do I find myself too worried about being persecuted by Evangelicals. I find myself persecuted for a variety of reasons by a vareity of people. So my tolerance is really just that tolerance. And let me assure that if an ADULT Xian wants to get into with me, I'm ready. And if a child or an adult ever sprouts hateful language in front of me or my child, I'll speak up. But if there is a live and let live vibe? Im fine. I don't have to be best friends with the parent's of my kids friends.

Thus I walked into the homeschooling world, I thought, prepared. And while I should know at this point that most people suck, I still end up disappointed. Secular groups are as equally intolerant, paranoid, and ignorant as Xian groups. Stupidity and fundamentalism do not belong merely to Xian groups. H keeps telling me I shouldn't be so shocked but I am. And I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed that these are the people that represent secularism in the world. In addition, these same groups that have no tolerance for religious difference are TOLERANT of racism.

Specific incident: On a secular email group a woman writes a post about how a "Mexican" family has moved next door. She's initially excited because her daughter will have playmates who will "teach her Spanish." And imagine this poor atheist's dismay when she discovers that the family is Evangelical. Her husband and she decide they must be Evangelicals in "an attempt to assimilate to the broader culture." The group goes on a rampage about how horrible Evangelicals are and about how the mother should "plant the seed" of evolution and other ideas in these "Mexican" children's minds. They rant about the threat of Evangelicals to their children's beliefs. The paranoia is disturbing and a bit psychotic. A few of us suggest that tolerance might be the best approach on the part of thee parent, and also point out that it is not the place of this woman or any one to challenge the beliefs of a child. I am called psychotic. Me. For suggesting tolerance.

And worst is that everyone ignores the racial stereotyping!!! I brought it up twice yet everyone is more concerned that I'd suffer an Evangelical to live. No one gave a shit that the original poster made several racist comments. I mean she assumes that the family is Mexican, she said she had not talked the parents or the child so I wonder how she knows this. Does she has some kind of sensor or are all Hispanic people Mexican? And then she assumes they speak Spanish and not only that but hey it's free lessons for her kids. How great is that? Hell maybe they'll have a grand old time learning some culture too. Wouldn't that be cool? And Evangelicals? Aren't all "Mexicans" Catholic? How bogus! What a disappointment! My second favorite part is that this woman reports that one of the "Mexican" children said that "Halloween is the Devil's birthday." And another woman writes back: "I can't understand why a Mexican would believe that when they have this charming holiday called "Day of the Dead" that all Mexico celebrates." (head hitting table). No one, no one, can see this as racist. I was not trying to suggest that the woman was racist but rather that she harbored her own intolerance and her own stereotypes....the same thing she saw in Evangelicals.

This all makes me question the wisdom of homeschooling but is the broader society any better?

Indie? Who Me?

I'm not even going to try to define Indie in a way that will make everyone happy. Go check out Urban Dictionary. They're having a great time over there with the term.

For me Indie does have a particular meaning, and it's not a nice meaning. For me indie represents all those cool kids that I was never quite cool enough to hang with. They were yet another group from which I could experience rejection. I never quite got the look down, or listened to obscure enough music. I remember my friend R making fun of me because I had a Bush album. And there was always something just a tad off about me. I didn't quite hammer the look down. I always looked like a poseur or a wannabe even though I just really wanted to hang out with people who saw the world in a slightly funkier shade like I did.

And oh those indie girls. I alternated between hating them and having the hots for them. They were so beautiful. In fact, I always thought that they were the ones who would have been cheerleaders in the right context. They had the same look and attitude only indie. You know cool. They went to all the shows, listened to the right bands, dated the guys with the horn rimmed glasses, wore the right clothes, had the right hair. I remember one friend telling me how weird it was to be suddenly hot after years of being ignored. And that's what it seemed like. By the time I got to the indie scene, you already couldn't be fat, and needed to have that creamy skin zit free all accomplished a la natural.

But now at the age of 35 nearly 36, it seems I've suddenly hit it. The indie kids in my classes all want to hang out with me. They're asking my advice about music. I listen to bands that no one else has heard of. I say "show" instead of concert. When inviting a friend to a show I said "This guy writes these quirky lyrics set to discordant melodies." Whoa! I seem to wear the right clothes or am at least unapologetic enough to not care anymore. And I'm riding the fat is trendy wave. Who would've ever guessed?

And I also realized that I'm also riding the indie wave in terms of writing. And for me this is the coolest. This is where Indie stopped being a scene for me and started being about a really revolutionary way to live life. Yesterday H showed me this video on pitchfork which involved Oliver (my love...sigh...) giving a tour of Death by Audio, his company. It was gross! I mean dirty gross. Dirty dishes, couches, etc. There were couches everywhere too...and just all these people mingling around. It was kind of neat, in a dirty way. This was not what I imagined as the "rock star" life. But these guys aren't rock stars really. They're on an obscure label, they don't have the high production of the major labels bands, and they defintely don't have the money. I realized that this is what I imagined indie being my whole life. Lots of people just doing something they love. None of these people are making shit for money. And yeah some of them are hangers ons but who cares. They're all together doing this art stuff.

Driving to school, I realized that not only had I arrived at an indie moment in my coolness factor but that I was on my way to becoming an indie writer. I realized that I get a lot of satisfactions writing here. I like it even more that I have an audience. It doesn't matter that it's a small audience. I'm writing what I wish with only the editorial commentary from my readers. This is part of indie writing I think. Just as are the small presses, and the writers publishing on them for nothing. We're creating for the sheer love of creating. And we've created a community around our art.

Maybe I'll publish my memoirs after all...

Hump Day Post

I think every hump day needs a post just because it's hump day.

This Wednesday has been pretty good. Let's see I sewed a bunch of gnomes up for the kids yesterday and it was nice to see them taking over my counter this morning. Made me smile despite the little sleep I got. I'm starting to get super pumped about going to see A Place to Bury Strangers on Sunday. To further along my excitement, H showed me this video this morning. Then I listened to them on my way to school, and have to admit I'm kind of in love with Oliver.

Lately I've been doing a lot of thinking about being wimpy. I too often avoid confrontations, and always end up looking bad for doing so. As a result, I let people push me into decisions with which I'm not always comfortable. I have a really hard time speaking up for myself. And a lot of my weight issues revolve around this fact. Eating is how I stifle the feeling that I should stand up for myself. This is the problem with my thesis.

You see, initially I felt flattered that my current adviser A wanted to work with me. She is brilliant and engaged in the theory I love. I thought it a compliment that she wanted so much to work with me. So much so that I allowed myself to be pushed into taking her on as my adviser. And I dropped my old adviser in a totally wimpy way. I should have seen that she didn't know anything about me, and likely her motivation was to get at my old adviser, S, whom she hates. As that semester went on, I alternated between loving and hating her. This feeling as only intensified. I feel like she left me out to dry on my thesis. She left right after taking me on, and now she's taken a new job. Throughout this year, I've had no guidance, no respect for my writing process, just: This is how all theory people write. I don't write this way. I have to know where I'm going before I can write. It's okay to end up on another direction but I need to be at least pointed somewhere.

I've been finding it nearly impossible to write on my thesis. I have no idea what the hell I'm trying to say. I don't feel comfortable tackling testimonal culture as I know next to nothing about it. I'm not really big on the theories I'm using except for the Foucualt. Problem is that I can figure out how to use Foucault. This leads to the other day: I read over my thesis, and think "How in the hell did I get here?" You see this is not the thesis I wanted to write. I found a brief sentence that I wrote when I was still with S, and it summed up what I wanted to do. And this idea really works with Foucault which is likely why I got all excited about him in the fall. Yet I just wrote 120 pages of stuff I hate. Stuff that makes no sense to me. Stuff that I think might be A's thesis not mine. I have comments all over my thesis that say things like: "Discourse is not what you mean." And I'm thinking "Ummm...yeah it is." And in addition, I don't want to write about desire, Freud, etc. I want to write about media discourses and how they construct certain religion identities.

Thus when I got to school, I went right to S, and said "I'm going to take another semester, will you work with me?" He gladly agreed, and reminded me that he had no problem working with Foucault (he doesn't really like Foucault). Then I checked in the prof. I TA for and asked him if he would be willing to do an independent study with me. He said no problem. I talked to our graduate director, and he was fine with it, even asked me if I wanted the TAship next year.

The ball is now rolling. I'm excited again. But scared to break up with A. I'm likely just going to tell her that I'm going into another semester, and she can't be my adviser if she's gone. But I will tell her over the phone that I'm reorganizing my committee. She'll never tolerate being on it if she's not in charge, and I can't have that. I need to get this done, and that will happen with S. I just need the strength to not be wimpy.

Piper Mountain

How could I resist these words? John has slayed me again...


Click to enlarge.

Updates...

To those interested, I've been updating Umberto's blog. I'm trying to urge H to do as well. He has a whole lupdate about "pony shows".

World Citizens

As I'm sure most of our readers know in order to travel between Mexico and the US one needs a passport. Due to our summer plans to fly to Mexico this summer, we had to get passports for all three kids. This proved an interesting and amusing experience. Umberto and Camille sat willingly for their pictures but Piper was not having it. She refused to look at the guy taking them. We had to go to another drug store, and the woman there let me take the picture. Then we had to stand in line at the Post Office with all three kids which was a nightmare. They were all over the place, and we were trying to sign stuff, etc. Then there was the huge amount of money we had to pay to get them...but two weeks later they arrived. And they are adorable...who would ever think of passport as adorable. But there was something neat about having passports so young.

Maybe this sense of wonderment I feel has something to do with what I see passports as meaning. They are a concrete sign of boundaries and belonging. This document gives a material feel to being a citizen. It tells you and everyone who sees that you "belong" to a country. On the other hand, this is what allows you to experience the world as a bigger place. This bit of paper opens up the world. It is the ticket that allows you cross boundaries.

I know it opens up the world because it did so for me. I was sixteen when I received my first passport. I was going to Haiti with my high school. I remember holding it my hand and how exciting it felt. I suddenly could imagine the possibilities of going elsewhere. Maine got a lot smaller in that moment. My family has rarely left the state much less the country. In fact, most of my family members do not have a passport. The idea that one could leave Maine to go elsewhere was not something we considered a great deal. Like most poor people in the U.S., moving involved trekking from apartment to apartment not from country to country.

And it blows my mind, that my kids, my babies, are already open to so much more. And they will further screw with these boundaries when they have their official Mexican citizenship as well. They will have two passports, two countries to belong to, and better yet, a whole world to explore.

Conversations With Umberto

Umberto: What would happen if there were no letters?

Me: There would be no books or writing.

Umberto: That means I wouldn't have a name. My name wouldn't be Umberto. It would be nothing.

Vulnerablity

I wrote a poem/story once about my fat being an armor. I remember I read it at a gathering filled with the friends/family of my "Writing the Body" class. It was a year before I meet Horacio. It was also right after heartbreak due to my looks (as told to me by the heart breaker: "You're not pretty enough."). I read the poem/story in a black slip, knee high Doc Martens, and white make up. I felt exposed in multiple ways.

Being fat has worked me and not worked me. In some ways my fat is an armor. I feel stronger, more protected when I'm layered as opposed to when I'm thin. On the other hand, being fat also exposes me to ridicule. It has been the foundation of many rejections. J, the horrible lover from past stories, spent most of our time together commenting on my fat which was barely nonexistent but the time I ended the relationship. Fat has also been the basis upon which I based a large chunk of my self hatred.

My mom gave me a book (yes I have an abiding love and addiction for self-help books...do you think there is a self-help book for that addiction?) about learning to love your body. One of the exercises is to imagine that you wake up to discover that your weight is frozen. You will never gain or regain ever again (I read that part with great terror). The catch is that everyone accepts your weight. There are no judgements. Then they ask: What would you do? Wear? Would you continue with your exercising regime? How would you eat? There was a certain shallowness to my initial responses. I'd wear a bikini...zits, fat and all. I might wear slinkier clothing once in awhile without being totally self-conscious about it. But the most revealing answer came almost unbidden: I'd not be ashamed to be seen with H.

You see I feel like people see H and I together and wonder why such a nice looking guy is with me. When H and I first hooked up the girls at UMF would literally throw themselves at him. Sometimes in front of me. My friends would say things like "It's a good thing that H likes smart women." Everyone assumed that there must be some other reason H liked me besides my looks. And there was this big part of me that thought so too. H never said that and has always told me (and still doess) I wasbeautiful but I just couldn't believe him. I lost weight thinking not that I'd be more attracted for him but rather that other people would think I was attractive enough to be with him.

Another component came up as I thought about how I felt being thin. As I lost more and more weight I felt more and more vulnerable. I felt fragile. It seemed okay at that weight to want someone to take care of me. People take care of small things. They don't take care of big things. And honestly, I think I've spent much of my life in this ambiguous space between wanting care and rejecting it. There is a part of me that yearns for someone to take care of me but another part that just does not except people to do that. I never ever let go fully. I never ask for help. I rarely show myself as vulnerable.

And I think it's because no one ever really came through in the caring area. My mom was not much of a caretaker (better, much better now) and obviously neither was my dad (even less so than my mom). My grandmother would sometimes give me care but I wasn't around her enough for that to be anything but a special treat. I learned pretty young that self care was key. But this self care had to be done without attracting much notice to one's self. I remember burning myself on an iron when I was about seven. I hid in my room, chocking back tears with this horrible burn on my stomach. I don't think I ever told my mother. Independence was not anything to be proud of. And then there were the lovers...especially J. One of his main attractions was that he kept promising to take care of me. This never materialized of course. And there were others. It's become very hard for me to lean on other people or to even admit I need help. I've broken through that some with H but not totally.

New focus: Attempting to work through being independent and vulnerable. I'm trying to learn to balance these two ways of being.

Free Fall

I've not written about the thesis in awhile because there was not much to say that didn't sound like whining. I finished it minus conclusion two weeks ago. Since that momentous moment, the thesis has been pretty much dead in the water. I tried to rewrite my introduction, ended up sobbing one night for something like two hours after my advisor sent me a note expressing concern over my poor writing skills. I feel this intense frustration as I have this idea in my head that is not translating into any kind of communicable language. And this in turn dredges up intense feelings of inadequacy and insecurity. When I talked to my adviser on Monday, she assured me this was normal. She encouraged me to keep going, that it was okay to let things sit, etc. We talked about my obsession with writing my introduction over and over. She suggested I was trying to build up ground beneath me and that this might not be the place to be doing that.

I like this idea of being in a kind of free fall space. And it does capture what I'm feeling. I'm not comfortable in this kind of space especially in terms of writing. I'm a writer that usually has an elaborate outline with tons of notes, and an organized approach. In fact, my blog is one space where I let go of that sort of tight control over my writing (which is why I seem scattered, disorganized, and often employ poor writing skills!) This thesis was written in a way similar to how I blog write. And I feel very lost....or up in the air. Now I feel like I'm falling, like I've lost control of this thing, and right now I'm sure if my wings are going to sprout.