Desire

She was enjoyed attention from other men. It made her feel sexy and desirable. She was not an easy person to love due to this need. In fact, she expected this same adoration from her husband. His compliments were never enough. She craved constant comfirmation of her attractiveness to him. And when they went out, she watched, desperate for other men to notice her. When they would leave a public place, she would intergate him: Did anyone look at her? Was that young man staring at her ass? Did you see the way that other guy stared at her tits?

He doubted her ability to be faithful. It was not that she didn't love him enough to be faithful but rather that she didn't love herself enough to be faithful. He anticipated the time it would happen. In his mind, he played out various sernaios--trying them on. He wasn't sure what reaction fit him best. He knew she would want an outrageous fit of jealously but that if he left her she would be devasted. Just as she been devasted when various other men left her due to unfaithfulness. And she wouldnt' lie. He knew that. She would need for him to know. Need him to possess her, to claim her as his. Her desire for this kind of self-affirming drama was exhausting. Her desire consumed him.

Rain, Rain Go Away

Reading England posts made me long for some gray, and someone, something must have heard those longings. We've had lovely storms for the last four days. They roll in during the early afternoon, and boom their way through Charlotte until five or six. Instead of a steam bath, they're leaving behind cool, and the smell of cut grass. It is nice to walk outside and feel the breeze against one's bare arm. If H wasn't going to hang with M tonight, I'd definitely take a night walk.

The only downside of these storms is the rain that traps. Today I was trapped in the RS office at the university. I finished my work (photocopying some interesting looking Freud articles), and was all read to go when the sky just fall apart. I know it's a cliche but it really did look like someone was dumping buckets of water down from the clouds. I had to go the library to get a book that come in on interlibrary loan. I didn't want to walk through the buckets of rain. I waited. I talked to J, the administrative assistant, about children's books (she's taking a class in children's literature). I waited some more. S, my ex-advisor came in, and we talked about movies and music (he likes punk and used to be in a punk band...he's very cool). I waited some more. I talked to another professor and S about what was worst being reborn as a cockroach or a dog. The rain was still coming down in not buckets but sheets. My new advisor A came in. We chatted a bit about meeting for my paper (yes I'm putting it off). Finally I gave up, and RAN to the library, got my book, and RAN back to my car. I wasn't too wet. Now I'm home. Sleepy, waiting for H to bring my kids back to me, and making Sloppy Joe's with fake hamburger.

Children's Books, Comics, and Other Graphic Delights

Ernesto's blog spawned yet more blog worthy thoughts. I've been thinking a bit about graphic novels lately--likely due to rereading the Sandman series. I read a lot of comics and graphic novels back when I was in my early 20s. In fact I was the only girl in Skowhegan who had her own file at the comic book store. The clerk used to call me the "Anti-Ginger." And it wasn't just "girly" comics. I was really into the Dark Knight series from DC, and I still love watching Batman with Umberto. When I got into academia, I sort of let that go along with my extensive reading of Sci-Fi and vampire novels. But now I'm starting to go back to these things.

When talking to my former advisor, S, I mentioned that I really wanted to start pursuing cultural studies in religion. We talked a bit about how cultural studies in religion is either done, a) poorly or b) condescendingly. Yet these artifacts are so vital to the religious identities of so many Americans (I do American religion so pardon the centrist here...I don't want to assume too much about other cultures). Yet these people and the things they use are regarded with disdain. They're not "real" religion, whatever that may be.

I enjoy reading Ernesto's posts on comics because I love how serious he takes this stuff. He gives the intellectual reading it deserves. And I particularly like his take on graphic novels vs. film. There is a dignity to graphic novels and comics that people who are not into them miss. The balance between image and word is a delicate balance that when done well creates something that is extremely graceful. It is a push to anticipate what the reader might have in mind as they read. This strikes me a risky maneuver. You will always alienate some while fully capturing other's visions. It reminds me of the debates that surface when casting for a movie based on a novel begins. I'm think of Interview with A Vampire when Anne Rice had a fit about the casting of Tom Cruise as Lestat. I remember myself being so outraged when I heard, and then totally changing my mind when I saw him in the role. He perfectly capture Lestat for me. It was a moment so magical and mystical that I still remember it years later. It was if a story character become reality.

While reading Ernesto's post on teamwork between writer and artist, I though immediately of children's illustrated books. There is a school of people who really think that children should not be exposed. They argue that books without pictures push children into using their imagination. John Holt, who for the most part I agree with, is one such educator. Now I always found this bogus, and I realized today it's because of my love for comics. I've always appreciated the relationship between the word and the picture. And never found that this dampened my imagination. In fact, my earliest stories where comics without words (I was six and unable to write). Now as I read to my children, I watch how the illustrations capture their imaginations. And the illustrations are so beautiful and often fun. I mean, how can one not love a book with pictures of big hairy monsters called Thelonius Monster's Sky-High Fly Pie? And then The Sound of Colors which has some of the most lovely, haunting images I've ever seen actually moved us to some sniffles. And it's not just either medium: words or pictures. They work together to hammer home beauty, ugliness, humor, seriousness, life itself.

And what's so neat is that Umberto loves comics. He's totally into the Star Wars comics (and I'm embarrassed to say this as I'm sure it makes us look like horrible parents but H has read Hellboy to Umberto. I had to put my foot down on Sandman which Umberto is fascinated by). He collects them already, and they're among his favorite things to look at and listen to. In fact, I think it was Umberto's burgeoning interest that got H and I both back into reading comics. Already my children are learning to appreciate this delicate relationship between image and word, or maybe we're all coming to an understanding that maybe there is not distinction between them.

At the Pool

We've gotten into the habit of spending our mornings at the pool. Sure it's a little cold but the pool is deserted and it gets the energy out before the heat sets in.

Another Dream

I think the universe is trying to tell me something. I took a nap after swimming at the pool with the kids all morning (what is about swimming that makes you so sleepy?). It was perfect nap weather...thunderstorms rolling through with a cool breeze through the windows. I had another short story dream. This time I was this sort of omniscient narrator, and the story flowed out before me. It was actually a good story about a woman wanting to cheat on her partner with a gay man she had just meet. I'm going to try to write it out. If ends up being any good, I'll post it here.

But I think it's so strange that I keep dreaming of short stories. H says its because I really want to write a story. Perhaps. It has been a long, long time since I wrote anything besides an academic paper or a blog entry. I want to write this story out but I have to admit I'm scared. I'm so scared it will be horrible. And then I think why does that matter? I've given up on the dream of being a writer....or maybe I haven't? I don't know anymore. I know that since I was very young, six or so, I wanted to be a writer. And when I was rejected from the creative writing program at UMF I let that dream go. I wrote a bit of fictional stuff on campus, and even published one of the small pieces. But as I became stronger and stronger as an academic, I just stopped writing the creative stuff. And now I am dreaming of writing...or being a writer...

Summer Storms

Today we are having those wonderful "pop-up" thunderstorms. The humidity is stifling, and just when it seems unbearable, a loud crack sounds. If we're lucky we get a bit of a breeze and some warm rain. Usually though the rain just seems to make everything worst. It's not like the summer storms in the D.F. which clear away the smog, and leave everything fresh and the skin cool. These storms are more like the storms I experienced in Haiti. Hot, muggy storms that makes everything steam!

Umberto is 7

Right now the little gentleman (as he used to be known) is curled up beside me on the couch, snoring slightly. Yes, he is seven today but still young enough to want to cuddle with his mama.

But in other ways he is so a boy now, and not a little boy but a big boy. He's tall with that wonderful gangly look that boys get. He swims like a fish, and last night with his black Speedo goggles, he looked bad! He fights constantly with his sisters. He hates when they knock over his Legos, or mess up his Star Wars figures ("It's hard to have two sisters!"). He sword fights with light saber sound effects. In fact, he, like most boys, is a sound effect extraordinaire as evident when I read him his new comic book last night. When he gets mad at me or embarrassed, he rolls his eyes in the most obnoxious big boy manner. But he balances that with his sharp and witty sense of humor. He cracks jokes with eyebrows raised and a knowing look in his eyes.

And still he is my baby, my first born. I remember when I used to lie him down on the bed, and stare at him. He was so tiny and fragile then. All I wanted was to protect him from the world. He used to sleep on my chest while I sat in the green recliner at my uncle's old house in Maine. Then later, in Mexico, we would hold his hand as he stumbled through stone plazas, or we would sit him in his own chair as he ate coffee cookies at cafes. Later, I would cry when I had to leave him to go to work, even though he was two. And I remember feeling so guilty when I was pregnant with Camille as I couldn't imagine having the capacity to love two as much as I did this one (you manage it amazingly enough, and then you do it for three...). I watched him grow with pride and anxiety and a fierce joy that is impossible to put into words.

Now is the time when the letting go begins. It is painful to release him slowly to the world. A hostile world. I realize I can not protect him from everything, and it angers me. I am angry when I watch people treat him differently because he is brown. I want to smack people who comment on his gentle nature (he won't fight which is a source of pride for me) as if it somehow makes him less of a boy. I want to shield him in my arms forever but that can not be done, and I am learning to let go a bit each day. I still have these mornings when his fuzzy head lays against my leg, and the nights when he curls up in my lap. I still have time to give him hope, to teach him courage, and to reinforce his already gentle nature.

My son is seven. My only son. Mi bebe.

Stealing Back...

H wrote a great entry about walking downtown Matthews while I was out with the mommies drinking copious amounts of beer. We all went down around sun set yesterday to get Italian ices. It is a very interesting downtown. It is trying to preserve its sense of being a small town but it is a suburb of Charlotte. The new buildings maintain a sort of integrity to the original structures. It's a nice place to walk despite lots of traffic, and we go there often. H has been chomping at the bit to get some night pictures for his entry so we sort of hung around until it got dark.

Here's a few of my favorite shots. For more shots go here.

Sante's a little Continental restaurant in the downtown. I had a wonderful lunch there a few weeks ago. The patio is wonderful! I know the owners:)

H and the kids in a teapot. This is not outside a tea house or a cafe but a hair salon. Go figure.

A very cool ornament on the side of a building. It was the only one and I had never noticed it before. Umberto had to get his hand in the picture of course.

I had to this last great shot I got of the gazebo with the night sky. It's not often that I wow myself with my pictures!

Art Saves?

"The assassin is one who bombards the existing people with molecular populations that are forever closing all of the assemblages, hurling them into an ever wider and deeper black hole. The poet, on the other hand, is one who lets loose molecular populations in hopes that this will sow the seeds of, or even engender, the people to come, that these populations will pass into a people to come, open a cosmos.....it may be that the sound molecules of pop music are at this very moment implanting here and there a people of a new type, singularly indifferent to the orders of the radio, to computer safeguards, to the threat of the atomic bomb."

From A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Giles Deleuze and Felix Guattari: 345-346.

We discussed this quote briefly in my reading group last Wednesday, and I can't seem to shake it. I've laid awake at night and thought about. As I read through various comic books, it kept poping up. When I listen to music, it's turning about in my mind with the lyrics.

At first, I bristled at it a bit. The same bristling that comes when I read Walter Benjamin. It's not that I don't like Benjamin because I do. It's just this idea of authentic. The idea that mass production somehow reduces something. Does my Picasso print mean less because it is a print? Does some kind of inherent value lie in authenicity? And I was suprized to read this in Deleuze. The man who calls animals artist. His idea of the assassin seems to hint at this. The bombardment of the masses with cheaply made mass produced things.

And then American Idol made it all clear. Yes American Idol. I'm not going to lie and say that I don't watch it. I do. I always get disgusted midway through and just stop watching. And while I am not one to malign popular culture (I think it is an important part of how we form identity and far be it for me to put myself on some pedestal in terms of culture), I can see what Deleuze means. AI bombards us. It purposefully creates people in the image of the popular. It smooths out all originality even as it pretends to demand it. And pop music does this as a whole. It's mindless bubble gum that does not open us to new worlds but rather closes off worlds. Someone I meet a few weeks ago, gave me his facebook address, and he said this about music "I like all music that I have to listen to. I like to listen engaged." What a wonderful way to see it. Because that's what good music does. It engages you. This is why I have such a hard time listening to music when I write. It distracts me.

And Deleuze goes on to talk about this. He talks about how "pop music" (remember this guy was writing in the 60s) plants seeds. And it's not just music that does it. Good comic books do this. Sci-Fi does this. All the genres we've tend to regulate to the lower realms of culture have the potential to open the cosmos. This idea challenges how we see things. I think of a show like Battlestar Galatica (which we're hopelessly addicted to) that raises important questions, and makes you think about things like government and what it means to be human. Or the Sandman comics which challenge how we see reality. Are these things entertaining? Yes but they also push our minds into new assemblages, new ideas, new ways of becoming.

And from the peanut gallery...

The picture is of Joseph Smith, prophet and founder of the Chruch of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. Handsome guy, yes? Supposedly he did make quite an impression on the ladies. H says he looks very intense. I agree. The photo in my book shows this intensity more clearly. One would imagine, of course, that it took some intenstity to found a religion....

The peanut gallery: As I'm reading this particular book on Mormon history called originally enough Mormonism, Umberto looks over to see what I'm reading.

Umberto: "Who's that guy?" Pointing to the above mentioned picture.

Me: "Joseph Smith. He was the founder of the Mormons."
Umberto: "He's a funny guy."

Me: "Why do you say this?" Puzzled.

Umberto: "Look at his hair. It's funny."

Me: "You know he had something 33 wives."

Umberto: "Did he have kids with all those wives?" Amazed.
Me: "Well maybe but he did have a lot of kids."

Umberto: "Whoa, did they destroy the house?"

Gotta love the perspective of a 7 year old.

Generic Updates

Nothing spectacular to write about...just the humdrum of everyday life which in our house can be speculator...both in a good and bad way.

Umberto actually asked to do some school work yesterday. I was reading to them (Bobb Fett chapter book and Go Dogs Go), and Umberto asked to play on the computer. I suggested starfall.com and he agreed. He had a good time, and the girls joined him. Then we practiced writing which he really loves. He asked to start a word notebook, and for his words picked: Umberto, apple, action figures, paper, boat, toad and frog. I drew a little picture next to each word, and encouraged him to practice writing them out.

And I'm going to bribe him to read. I know bad mom but I think it will work well for him. It's not that Umberto doesn't like books. He loves books, and he loves us to read to him. He's not however so great about trying to read on his own. I know it's because he's afraid of failure. I'm the same way. But I also know that he is going to have to take risks his whole life, and this is a safe place to fall flat on your face. So I made a deal with him last night. For every book he reads, he gets a star. At the end of the summer, we'll add up all the stars and he gets a dollar for each star. I'm going to see if my mom will match us so he can get double the money. I think this will jump start him into something he already likes to do.

Public Accountability

Or humiliation...it all depends upon on how you want to look at it. If you read my below post (shameless plugging of myself), you will note in the comment areas my dear friend Ros. Ros, who is working on her Ph.D and only, yes only, needs to finish her thesis. Inspired by my inertia, she proposed a challenge: 30 minutes a day doing something even if it's just staring at a pile of books.

I, being an unable to resist a challenge, accepted...no doubt much to her chagrin. Now to further push it, I'm going to have a little side bar where I RECORD what I did each day. And if Ros's got the "ovaries" so to speak, I'll provide a space for her, and she can email her results of the day... What'cha say Ros?

And after day one, all I can say is "Can I see the X-rated pictures?"

Ginger's Amazingly Ambiguous Feelings Toward Her Thesis

It is June, and I have done nothing, and this not merely an exaggeration, towards researching my thesis. It is only my Master's thesis but still I need to have my notes down, and be ready to write by September. I am rapidly running out of loan money, and need to start a Ph.D program by Fall '08. One would think this urgency would compel me into reading the many books on Mormon history that are now residing on my kitchen table. But no....as evident in my current state of blogging instead of reading.

H just asked why I was feeling so bad about my thesis, and I pointed out that ambiguous does not mean bad....it's just a middle ground, a neutral kind of feeling. I don't feel bad about my thesis, nor do I think it's particularly boring, etc. But I am not jumping with joy over the thought of starting it either. I find it very hard to drudge up any kind of emotion for it period. Even the theory part just feels blah to me. Normally the theory stuff leaves in a state of near giddiness.

A lot has to do with the circumstances of last semester. By the end of last December, it was apparent that my original thesis project on Hispanic Pentecostals was not going to work. First, the church I was observing was kind of funky. Whenever you study charismatics, there is the whole issue that they are going to try to convert you. And while they wanted to convert me, they wanted to convert H even more. I guess they figured they'd get my soul along with his? I felt ethically in a very strange place. I knew that they weren't going to convert either of us and felt slightly dishonest going to their church allowing them to continue to think that our souls were going to be "God's" soon enough.

Second, after doing a bunch of reading on ethnography, I started to have doubts concerning my role as ethnographer. Here I was a white woman in a Hispanic church in the South. I had creditability due solely to my marriage to a Hispanic man (and because I grew up in a Pentecostal Chruch of God), and that made me feel like a fraud. No I know I'm not Hispanic, and sure there was a time when I thought that I could somehow become "Mexican" due to my marriage but those romantic notions are long gone. I started to feel uncomfortably like a colonizer, sitting there taking my notes. Needless to say I had to stop this research. I don't know how I feel about ethnography (more ambiguousness). What role does the gaze play in such situations? Is there a way to gaze and not be a part of oppression? I just don't know.

All of that side rant lead to my having to change my thesis project two years into my MA. I had another side project I was working on: Mormon Fundamentalists. It was a piece I did on religion and media concerning Jon Krakhauer's book Under the Banner of Heaven, and it was about how media has an investment in drawing pictures of extremes. This lead to an interest in the stories of women leaving Mormon Fundamentalist groups, and the tropes of violence in these stories. After a semester working on Judith Butler, I thought I had some ideas about how to approach this topic from a more philosophical standpoint. This however lead to the very traumatic experience of leaving one advisor (who I really do like) and moving to another adviser (whom I also really like) who seem to hate each other. It was horrible, and I felt like I was going through a break up. Argh.

Top this off with preparing for my comps, applying for a TA and then learning that my mispronunciation of words was so bad I was being not considered (I did end up with the TA), and well it just all left a bad taste in my mouth. Couple this with some pretty negative impressions of academia in general built up over the last 7 years, and well, I just feel "ugh" about it all. It's hard for me to get excited knowing that so much of the work I do also rests on very superficial impressions of me. And then a lot of it has to do with the ego (super huge egos) of those who are supposed to be guiding us. It just seems very petty, and that makes me sad.

There was a time when I thought being an academic was so important to the world. I remember one of my English professors saying that we were the guardians of culture. And my religion professor said we were priests in the temple of the academy. Those ideas are grand. And really it's anything but grand. Professors act like they're gods because they're self-important not because they really care about knowledge. Everything is a blow to them. I watched friends get dropped by professors because they said the wrong thing. One wrong thing, and bam their whole academic career was flushed down the toilet. I have watched professors sacrifice their health and personal lives in their relentless pursuit of glory. There might have been something noble about this loss had it been in the name of knowledge but I'm not convinced this was/is the case. And it just really makes me ill.

Now that I've purged all that here, perhaps, I can get on my with thesis. I do love knowledge, and if I have to work this is the only work that I want to do. On to Mormon history....

Things to Do Besides Eat

I took my walk late today...around nine. We were doing things all day and by the time, I was done, it was late. The good headphones needed batteries, and the old phones were nowhere to be found. I was looking forward to listening to music after the lists on Ernesto's blog but I also felt like I needed some quiet. Normally a walk through Matthews is not quiet. Despite being a town onto itself, Matthews is really a suburb of Charlotte, and thus has the traffic of a suburb of a semi-major city. But it was late, and Sunday. It was amazingly quiet and peaceful.

The walk I normally take to the downtown is a bit dark, and isolated so I choose to walk down a busier route to the grocery store. It was a perfect night. We finally had some rain so the air was crisp and cool--a respite from the hot, hot days we have been having. There is some mysterious smell that prevades the Southern nights. You can not smell it during the day...only at night which adds to its sensual flair. It is very sweet, almost unbearably sweet. Whenever I smell it, it makes me feel the night is made of velvet. It's an amazing scent and I hope no one has tried to turn it into a perfume. My fantasy is to smell this scent while sitting on an old front porch in a rocking chair, drinking mint juleps (Horacio thinks they talk about the scent in the movie "Midnight in the Garden of Evil").

By the time I was only a block from my house, I felt relaxed. The stress which settles between my shoulder blades disappeared. And it was quiet...very quiet considering I was walking alongside a major route. I was glad I didn't have the music. I need to hear silence for awhile. And it opened me up for thinking about things. And one of the things was my obessiion with weight and food.

I realized that my horrible out of control eating was coming from my constant anxiety over food. I was eating because I was stressed about eating. It's ridicilious. And I also just had to really push into the forefront that I should be doing these things for my health not to be thin. And when I focus on my health instead of how I'm going to look in a pair of jeans, I do eat better. I also have to accept that I eat in reponse to anger, boredom and stress. And yeah I know it's insane that I feel bored but I often do. So while I walked, I came up with a list of things to do besides eating. Of course I'll eat when I'm hungry but I need to learn to listen to my body.

So when I first feel hungry, I'm going to drink a glass of water, and if I'm still hungry I'll eat. But if I"m not some things to do:

1. BLOG...naturally!

2. Listen to two songs while dancing wildly with the beasties.

3. Do some quick yoga moves.

4. Breathing exercises via Dr. Weil.

5. Do the dishes or put the dishes from the dishwasher away.

6. Fold clothes (something I actually enjoy doing).

7. Walk around the green outside our apartment.

8. Take the kids to the pool or the playground.

9. Actually start working on my collage ideas.

10. Work on my thesis.

Europe

Speaking of desire...I've wanted to go to Europe since I was ten. And I realize this year I'm going to be 35 and I have not yet gone to Europe. It is time to do something about it. Horacio and I are going to live lean over the next semester, and try to save enough to come over during our winter break. We won't be doing "Europe" per se. Just Paris and London. So any tips of getting cheap plane tickets and any recommendations for cheap sleeping places (we have three kids!) would be appricated!

Black Swan Farm

On Thursday we went on a field trip to Black Swan Farm

in Waxhaw. It was a wonderful visit. The owners were experienced guides who knew how to joke with and keep children's interest. There was lots of hands on activities, and we got a ride in the wagon behind the tractor. The kids also got to watch a goat milking, pull fur from an Angora rabbit, and feed the sheep (we also got a neat sample of wool). Camille was in heaven. She loved the goats and while she listened more than she normally would, she kept running back to this pen to pet this goat. At the end of the tour, the woman let a bunch of goats run with the kids in a corral. Camille had a grand time carrying the kids around. Umberto said "It's an animal party."

Camille and Piper petting some more goats. The goats were very friendly, and they smelled nice. The girls loved it when one goat escaped and I chased it down.

The boys after getting squirted with goat milk. They were quite excited about this. Also a big hit was Farmer Gary's seat. It was like a metal bike seat with a spring on the bottom that attached around your waist with a belt. I thought it was something all mothers could use.

Piper petting one of her favorite animals, chickens. This particular chicken laid green eggs!

There's more pictures here.

Dreams

Piper woke me up at five to nurse for an hour before we both fell back into exhausted sleep. It is usually during these times that I have my most vividly remembered dreams. This morning I had an American Idol dream. I dreamt that I was in a contest writing short stories. There were three judges and one of them was Simon Cowell. He was his usual assholey self. Somehow I had made it to the final three. My story was science fiction, and involved a captive woman, aliens and the man who captured her. He raped her at the end of the story. I had to read the story to the judges over speaker phone, and my house was in total chaos. When I began to read, I could see that it was a very rough draft, hand written, with lots of arrows to show where paragraphs should be moved. I stumpled over my reading, and knew that I was going to lose. I ran to the bathroom in the middle of my reading, and came up with a paragraph about how the woman dyed her hair blonde, and got manicures. In my dream, it was a brilliant paragraph but I can't recapture it here. I continued to read, and at the end Cowell told me "It's shit. At this stage in the competition you should be writing genius."

Desire For the Other

Horacio is writing a paper using Lacan via Bruce Fink. In fact, he's looking up a quote for me as I type. Really we do have such a collaborative marriage (when we're not debating the finer points of theory).

"'Le desir de l'homme, c'est le desir de l' Autre,' Lacan reiterates again and again. Taking the second de as a subjective genitive for the moment, the following translations are possible here: 'Man's desire is the Other's desire,' 'Man's desire is the same as the Other's desire,' and 'Man desires what the Other desires,' all of which convey part of the meaning. For man not only desires what the Other desires, but he desires it in the other; in other words, his desire is structured exactly like the Other's. Man learns to desire as an other, as if he were some other person"(Bruce Fink, The Lacanian Subject: Between Language and Jouissance, 54).

Despite an annoying tendency to use Man to represent human (H and I just had a heated debated over this), this is an interesting quote. And it perfectly describes what occurred this afternoon--an afternoon with the mommies. Today we had a homeschooling field trip. It was not only with my friends but with a group of women that particularly set me on edge about my life style. They've never said anything but I always imagined this sort of silent disapproval being directed at me. One of them inspires in me a horrible case of house envy. The other just has a husband who makes a lot of money so she pretty much gets to have and do what she wants. So I was not overly looking forward to an afternoon spent with them.

We drove out into the middle of nowhere to a really neat place called Black Swan Farm. The owners basically keep the farm afloat by offering really great educational tours (see Umberto's site for pictures and more details). The only downside is that it was hot...really hot....like hell hot. And it was a bad air quality day so just breathing was difficult. I had to keep moving to the shade because the girls were overheating, and Piper wanted to nurse. Of course all the scary mommies were there. I geared myself up and determined to not feel insecure about our lifestyle. I remembered all the kind of words shared on this site.

Some how the conversation turned to Florida. A woman mentioned loving it there. So I asked if she had been to Gainesville as we were thinking of applying to school there. Another woman told me her cousin went to school there, and loved it. But it was really hot...hotter than here (I'm thinking "NO!!!!!!"). Then they asked me where else I was applying. I mentioned Madison, WI, Chapel Hill, and Princeton. And then I said "If we don't get accepted we were thinking of putting everything in storage and trying to get jobs teaching English in Eastern Europe. " I was waiting for that moment of silent disapproval. Instead I get "You know I have some friends who are traveling all over Central America, and they just love it. I always feel envious when they tell me about their moves," "Wow, I just admire how much you guys live life, and how you just pick up and move," "Sometimes I feel like home ownership is a trap, and I think let's sell the house and move around." I was stunned. These women I have been envying, whom I thought thought we were freaks, actually desire what we have. I guess that in someways desire does work towards/in relation to the Other. Here we all are probably imagining that most people are happy, content with their lives only because we want those lives. Really they too have imaginings and yearnings towards difference.

I'm trying to work something out about desire. Horacio and I are at odds so I'll keep you all updated as we work this on through. I argue that this kind of thinking about desires is always about loss and want. What you desire you never really have. Really it creates a desire machine. Deleuze claims that capitalism has exploited this....

White Boards and Self-Promotion

Okay so I totally stole this link from Neil Gaiman's site. It's great what writers will do to sell their book. Seriously this rules, and it's hilarious.

http://noonebelongsheremorethanyou.com/

Melancholy

She knew that all she had to say was "No, you're right. This is crazy. It's silly. Let's be happy." If she said these things everything would be okay. But she couldn't. It would be a lie, and she did not want to lie. No, what she really wanted was to lie on the bed, and feel miserable. She mourned the loss of possility and he could not understand that mourning. He mourned the concrete while she mourned the phantsom of the future. And beneath her sadness, she knew that the only lie in his desired sentence was the happy part. He was right. It was crazy to mourn nothing....but still, all she desired was to lie here drowning in the sounds of something depressing like "Human Drama."

Later they went out. She was fine. Her anger, her mourning, gone.

Sister Love

The Bike

We almost went out to buy another umbrella stroller. Then I realized that for Piper's birthday we had bought her a tricycle with a stroller handle. Duh. Of course it was in pieces in the box which is why I had "forgotten" about it. So today I dragged it all out for two reasons. First, I wanted to get the huge box of my bedroom, and second, I wanted to go for a walk with the kids in the evening.






So I opened it all up. The instructions were of course cryptic. I'm not a pictorial learner so the lack of words drove me insane. And add to this three utterly fascinated children....it was nuts. Horacio and I started snapping at each other of course....this always happens we deal with putting things together. Oh, and the instructions put the bell on before the bike is completely finished. Yeah, the kids kept coming over and dinging the bell.



But the final result was pretty cool. And Piper loved it. She was annoying as hell trying to get everyone to push her around the house, and dinging that damn bell. Camille was a bit jealous but she's really ready for a two wheel bike. And Umberto was so thrilled by this contraception that he decided he wanted a bike for his birthday. I'm pretty excited as he's never been interested before. He's giddy about riding downtown with us as we walk the girls. Of course he'll have to practice more before he's there but it's great that he has a goal.





And we got our evening walk. It was a lot of fun. Umberto had a grand time pushing Piper. We walked to downtown Matthews to the library. We're going to try to do this every night.

Signs of the South

"A railroad is like a lie--you have to keep building to it to make it stand. A railroad is a ravenous destroyer of towns, unless those towns are put at te end of it and a sea beyond, so that you can't go further, and find another terminus. And it is shaky trusting them, even then, for there is no telling what may be done with trestle-work."Letter to the San Francisco Alta California, printed May 26, 1867.

"I complimented this police force in a letter some time ago, and felt like a guilty, degraded wretch when I was doing it, and now I am glad I got into the Station House, because it will teach me never to so far forget all moral principle as to compliment a police force again."-Letter to San Francisco Alta California, dated May 18, 1867. Letter to San Francisco Alta California, dated May 18, 1867; published June 23, 1867

A Southern Gentleman

"When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not; but my faculties are decaying now and soon I shall be so I cannot remember any but the things that never happened."- Mark Twain's Autobiography

A Perfect Homesick

H came home, happy, smelling of the sun, read my post, and played me the most perfect song.

Mundane Matters

Memorial Day weekend (how stupid a phrase is that?) is half way over. Only one more day to be the only people not doing anything. I slept very late this morning and a grumpy H just brought the kids to the pool. I am still finishing my morning coffee, and trying to gear myself up to eat breakfast (vanilla yogurt with Fiber One). There is a hornet trying to break through the window back to the outside. He must have flown in while the girls played on the patio earlier this morning.

I started cleaning yesterday. More like mucking out really. I do this about four times a year, and still have mounds of things to toss or give away. I suspect it is not much that we keep getting more things but that it's hard for us to let go of things so we have to do it slowly. Yesterday I put away about five loads of laundry that have been sitting on our bedroom floor. I did new laundry, and started the first of many loads of dishes in the dishwasher. I also took all my photos of albums and threw out the albums (we're switching to photo boxes). Of course I had to look at all the photos.

Looking back over photos is a surreal experience. I recognize my face but it is an awkward reunion. I am not longer that person. It is a bit like experiencing a little death. You look, and you know that this young girl with the shaved head no longer exists anywhere. She is gone forever. With her, I felt a flush of shame and embarrassment of what used to be. I did not wish her back to life. But the pictures of Mexico filled me with an intense longing. There was Umberto so little even at over a year. He was our only child, pampered and loved and adored. There was Mexico so beautiful and old. There were the coffee shops, the lovely parks, the friends we made. I wanted to go back to that life. I want to go back to Mexico.

And how true that you can never go back to the past. Even if we could move back to Mexico right now, we do not want to raise the children in the D. F. Nor would it be the same with three instead of one. We would not likely be able to recapture those relaxing moment in cafes with our three little monsters. But I looked over those pictures, and realized how much I love Mexico, and how much I feel as if it is my real home. I am homesick for a place that is really not mine to call home.

And who knows what else lays in store for me as I start the odious project of cleaning out our apartment. What other longings lay in wait for me?

Let's Get to Know Each Other...

From my friend Jessica, a bit of fun:

Please copy, paste and fill this out in comments for getting-to-know-you good times! And then take it to your blog!

1. Your Middle Name:

2. Age:

3. Single or Taken:

4. Favorite Movie:

5. Favorite Song or Album:

6. Favorite Band/Artist:

7. Dirty or Clean:

8. Tattoos and/or Piercings:

9. Do we know each other outside of the cyber-world?

10. What's your philosophy on life?

11. Is the bottle half-full or half-empty?

12. Would you keep a secret from me if you thought it was in my best interest?

13. What is your favorite memory of us?

14. What is your favorite guilty pleasure?

15. Tell me one odd/interesting fact about you:

16. You can have three wishes (for yourself, so forget all the 'world peace etc' malarky) - what are they?

17. Can we get together and make a cake?

18. Which country is your spiritual home?

19. What is your big weakness?

20. Do you think I'm a good person?

21. What was your best/favorite subject at school?

22. Describe your accent:

23. If you could change anything about me, would you?

24. What do you wear to sleep?

25. Trousers or skirts?

26. Cigarettes or alcohol?

27. If I only had one day to live, what would we do together?

28. Will you repost this so i can fill it out for you?

Some Dog Piss Music

A song to accompany the last post.

Dog Piss, Or a Meditation on Territory

"Can this becoming, this emergence, be called Art? That would make the territory a result of art. The artist: the first person to set out a boundary stone, or to make a mark. Property, collective or individual, is derived from that even when it is in the service of war and oppression. Property is fundamentally artistic because art is fundamentally poster, placard. As Lorenz says. coral fish are posters. The expressive is primary in relation to the possessive; expressive qualities, or matters of expression, are necessarily appropriative and constitute a having more profound than being. Not in the sense that these qualities belong to a subject, but in the sense that they delineate a territory that will belong to a subject, but in the sense that they delineate a territory that will belong to the subject that carries or produces them."(Deleuze and Guattari, a thousand plateaus: capitalism and schizophrenia, 316).

For Deleuze this marking, this territorialization as art, finds ultimate expression in birds. Their songs, their nests, their movements, their turnings of leaves on the ground. But as I sat, this morning, drinking my coffee on the patio, I watched dogs. There are a phenomenal amount of dogs in the apartment complex in which I live. Every morning and every evening (when I drink red wine as opposed to coffee), dogs, dogs, and more dogs prance around the green pissing on everything. I never stopped to think about their markings as art. What a concept. How can piss be art? Well, you could stick a crucifix in a vial of it...but the act of pissing? The act of dog pissing? Art? It is easy to see in the songs of birds, their movements, their nests, an act of art. Dog piss is not so easy.

And yet I think "If we can see art in dog piss, we can see art in property." Property that ultimate value in Marx encounters in Deleuze something of a higher value. Art is primary not property. And how can this be for a Marxist like Deleuze? He does this by transforming art as first, beyond human, and second, as expression. Property is thus not what belongs to humans but rather it is what belongs to actions of various sorts. As an act, as a becoming, property becomes expression as opposed to that which gives expression. And really, if we can see the art in a dog pissing to mark his place, then art becomes something much different than the paintings at the museum. Just as property ceases to be a belonging. It is not the signature that makes a subject. A signature never denotes ownership. A signature merely holds a place. This is what Deleuze claims for art And a dog pissing is all about the constant becoming of territory.

When you live in a small place filled with dogs, you can see how territory is always about marking and remarking. There is no ownership; no alpha dog to assert his authority. The dogs do not mix enough to sort out this hierarchy (although such a show down might be interesting). Instead, the dogs continually piss all over other dogs' marks. They mark their territory only to have to remark later in the day. There is a virtual grid on the green in front of my patio. A grid of dog piss that makes that green belong to no one dog but to all the dogs. It is a grid also overlaid with the scent of cats, the markings they make of their fur against the small trees. The mockingbirds constantly patrol, alert to invaders, ready to defend their piece of property. And human children, my own included, run about this piece of land, terrorizing and territorializaingwith their laughs, toys and dances. It is the ultimate communal property, and it is created through multiple acts of expression....emergences of art.

One last quote from Paul Park's A Princess of Roumania. In this novel, one of the main characters has become a dog. The following is a bit of narrative written from her dog mind."As she left the clearing and moved away through the thin woods, she felt she was pushing through a net, each cord of which was the circle of urine marks that each dog had drawn around the fire. Her instinct was to stop often, restrained by the net, but she pushed through. On the far side she filled her lungs with cleaner air, which was nevertheless scented with a myriad of small traces of animals and men. They seemed to draw glowing lines in front of her on the snow"(242).

A Bit of Shamless Bragging

I passed my comps with an accumulative grade of high pass. Now on to rock my thesis.

Seeds

Umberto actually dictated a journal to me! This is an exciting development as before, he really just played along with me. This time he was excited, and actually composed something interesting and lovely.

Translation: May14, 2007I had fun. Camille found a snake skin and it was cool. Daddy found a dead baby snake. We saw three turtles and we saw their faces poking out of the water.

He's become more interested in language in the last few weeks. And I'm trying to jump on that. In addition to getting him reading, I'm hoping to start both of us on learning Spanish.



In addition to word seeds, we also planted some plant seeds. Umberto choose the biggest seeds he could find: Monmouth Sunflowers and pumpkins. They sprouted in their Jiffy pots within a day, and quickly grew roots systems to the other Jiffy pots. We are now awaiting my friend's return from the beach so that we replant them in her garden. Next we have basil and cilantro which should be a bit more manageable. Umberto is now totally into plants. He fusses over the seedlings like they're babies. He also has a great knowledge of plants, and can rattle off lots of arcane facts. I see a greenhouse visit in our near future.

Wine.

"We have a huge barrel of wine, but no cups.
That's fine with us. Every morning
we glow and in the evening we glow again.

They say there's no future for us. They're right.

Which is fine with us."

Rumi "Who Says Words With My Mouth?"

My friend Kristin's comment reminded that I needed to pull out my Rumi. And when I did, look what I found. With a glass of red wine in hand, I smiled as I read this poem. How wonderful that we, at least, have cups even if we don't have a barrel, only a really big bottle. But what made me smile the most were the last two lines. Sometimes both Horacio and I worry that we're not doing what we should be doing. We should own a house, have nicer cars, staple careers, etc. And I know that many people look at our lives and do think that we are failures, or at least see us as a bit odd maybe even irresponsible. So when I read that line, it makes me pause a moment to look over our life. I read snuggled against Horacio, with Camille on the couch besides him, Piper snoozing on the carpet, Umberto in his room watching "Garfield." We were sipping red wine, reading bits of poetry to each other. It was one of those beautiful, quiet nights that just make me feel at peace. And I thought "We are fine. We are happy." On nights like these, it is fine that we have no future. The present is too beautiful to wish away.

A Poem for Next Week

Next week

I am only

going to

eat

soup, and

fruit.

For Jessica

This post is for my friend Jessica but anyone who wants may read it.

I promised my throwing things story and it should make you feel much better about the mug. When I am pregnant, I am an unpleasant woman ( a mild understatement). Horacio and I got into a fight. I can't remember what about. Something totally ridiculous I'm sure. End result was that I started to sob, yelled, slammed the door shut, and when Horacio kept arguing with me, I hurled a lamp at the door. Amazingly the lamp didn't break but the bulb did. I cleaned it up, sobbing, while Umberto sat on the other side of the door crying as well. Later that month, he wrote a story in preschool. Luckily his teacher translated it wrong: "A lamp broke, and I cried." The story came illustrated. I was mortified when the teacher said "I'm not sure what he's talking about." I did not enlighten her.

And if that wasn't bad enough, we had a hole in the wall at our last apartment where I threw the cordless phone at the wall. I could go on but I'll cease to embarrass myself further.

Okay so ten things that make me happy:

1. The smell of Piper right out of the tub.
2. Camille's huge, crazy smile.
3. Umberto running around like a mad man with his light saber.
4. Horacio...most of the time.
5. Bic fine point pens preferably in black.
6. Rainy days with a good book.
7. the pool.
8. Outside cafes.
9. Strawberries.
10. My Cuisinart.

Camille is Four

Camille is four. No longer a baby, she became a child so quickly. Of all the children, she is the most like me. She's quirky, independent, and a bit bad tempered. She's also amazingly creative, and smart. She loves dinosaurs. She loves the human body. Mostly she loves her daddy but she'll grace the rest of us with a bit of love now and then.

Camille the dinosaur with the help of Piper's shoes.

Camille's Stats:

Favorite Toy(s): Her hundreds of plastic dinosaurs

Favorite Music: None...it's all too loud

Favorite Movie: Land Before Time (1-12).

Favorite Quote: "Be careful of my human body."

A Roomful of Children

"In bad weather, home was a bedlam. Children dashed in and out of the rain, to the puddles under the dismal yew-trees across the wet flagstones of the kitchen, whilst the cleaning-woman grumbled and scolded; children were swarming on the sofa, children were kicking the piano in the parlour, to make it sound like a bee-hive, children were rolling on the hearthrug, legs in air, pulling a book in two between them, children, fiendish, ubiquitous, were stealing upstairs to find out where our Ursula was, whispering at bedroom doors, hanging on the latch, calling mysteriously 'Ursula!' 'Ursula!' to the girl who had locked herself into read And it was hopeless. The locked door excited their sense of mystery, she had to open to dispel the lure. Then children hung on to her with round-eyed, excited questions"(The Rainbow, D. H. Lawrence, 247).

And so Lawrence describes my house! My house is always bedlam though, rain or no rain. The children do not have one room which is theirs. They mark their territory with toys. The tub toy storage thing is in the living room. My room boasts various plastic dinosaurs and Little People farm animals as well as numerous board books. The dining room holds not just the dining room table but all of Umberto's home school material (textbooks, craft supplies, crayons, etc). Sometimes I feel like poor Ursula--hiding out in the bathroom. Yes the bathroom. For some reason I can close the door on the bathroom without hysterical sobbing (which is what happens when I go into my bedroom). Yes, they knock and stick little fingers but at least they don't sound like they're dying.

Having two children was rough. I mean, I felt a bit overwhelmed at first. But it worked out after a few weeks. Granted, Camille was just a dream of a baby. Really sweet and mellow. Umberto was a big boy. I used to go the pool alone with them all the time! Things were in control We could take naps together. Things could be quiet. Then we just had to go with three. My dentist when I was pregnant told me "Man, three will kill you." And he was right. I was calling my mom in tears within a week. And now my house is just crazed. Loud, messy, and chaotic. I clean, and they literally follow around me sprinkling toys like seeds. Yes, three definitely sent us over the edge. Once they outnumber the adults, things go down fast. Of course we wouldn't return any of them but we would like a night out once in awhile....

Ginger Is Free

I am free! I took my last comp test Friday morning. All papers are handed it, grades received, and now the long blissful summer ahead of me. Okay so not really. I have a ton of reading to do for my thesis as I must start writing in the fall. But I have at least a couple of weeks in which to read what I choose. Plus I realized that even during the semester I have to make sure I'm reading something fiction just to keep me grounded. There is definitely something more concrete about fiction. Theory often works on such abstraction that it is easy to forget the world of flesh. So new commitment to myself: read at least one fiction book a month during the school year.

Why I get like that I don't know. I really love theory, and it's not as if good fiction doesn't involve huge amounts of brain power. But I really just feel so deprived if I can't read fiction. Okay so some of it in all honesty is that most theory is just deathly dull to read. I mean, it's interesting to think about but the actually reading can often be tedious. Fiction does seem to coat these same ideas in beauty...much easier to swallow. Of course this does not apply to all fiction...Tom Jones ,for example ,was NOT a pleasure to read.

In other news beyond books, I got drunk Friday night with the "Mommies." I got drunk on FIVE beers. Is that just sad or what? And I was also hung over for the whole day. Gross. I volunteered to be our driver on the next night out. But it was fun to go out all dressed up. I looked like a plus size model but hey I was dressed up. We even got checked out a bit, and our waiter at the Thomas Street Tavern flirted with us (likely for a tip but we all appreciated it).

Currently reading: On Beauty by Zaddie Smith, a trilogy by Paul Park, and hopefully soon Ian Rankin's newest book and Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things. Any recommendations are welcomed and encouraged!

Summer School

In yet another attempt to pull ourselves together, I declared that we were having summer school. Umberto, I am pleased to say, did not run away screaming in terror. We both agreed that learning to read was a priority this time around. He's read most of his Brand New Reader books but I'd like to see him able to decode and read new easy readers not just the one he's familiar with. He's actually been playing on starfall.com (the girls love it too, and practice their letter sounds right along with him) so he's taking some action. A good sign I think as this is becoming more of something he wants as well.

Since he told us that he wants to be a scientist (I can see his Tio Ivan nodding in solemn approval), we are focusing quite heavily on science this summer. Officially, I'm creating a unit on plants. We have pumpkin and sunflower seeds we're going to start in Jiffy pots, and then move to my friend's garden. Umberto will keep a science journal to record the growth stages. I also hope to do some investigation in the woods identifying plants, etc. Horacio is going to handle insects (another request). Unofficially we have a bunch of books on the human body. This new interest can be classified as a family interest. Camille will stand in the position shown in the anatomy books, and say "Look at my human body!" And Piper now walks about telling everyone where her brain is. Very silly stuff. I am considering taking at least Umberto to see Body Worlds, the Gunther Von Hagens exhibit with real human bodies. I find it totally disturbing yet strangely compelling. Umberto is a bit freaked but said that as long as they didn't move, he'd go. I do think it would be an awesome chance to see this exhibit. It certainly won't be shown anywhere else in the South.

In addition to all the science, we'll be starting on Mexican and U. S. history. I'm not sure of the how and what but I'll write more as we develop the curriculum. Basically we need to get a schedule going so that we don't' let things fall apart when school restarts for Horacio and I.

Current Interests: The Clever Cat, Bobba Fett, Dinosaurs, puppies, The Human Body, swimming.

Happy Birthday Piper

Happy birthday to you Piper Blue. Sounds like a Dr. Seuss book.

Well yes my baby is now two. She looks three but she's only two:) What a year it has been. She is so sweet, loving, and cuddly but also stubborn and demanding. A true Taurus, she really is like Horacio. It is so amazing to watch them grow into these personalities. You have this little mewing thing that you get to watch become a person. How neat is that? Pretty freakin' neat!

Quickly her "stats":

Favorite quote: "'Mille hit me!

Favorite food: broccoli and hot dogs

Favorite toy: her little dog figurine and what ever Camille is playing with

Favorite book: "Big Fat Hen"

Favorite kind of music: hardcore (she takes after her mama)

Why I married...

Horacio...I mean really how sexy can one man be? Jeez....

Memory

"What was memory after all, but the recording of a number of possibilities which had never been fulfilled?" D. H. Lawrence, The Rainbow, 91.

Ah...when you need real answers turn to literature. How beautiful is this quote? Sometimes, I forget why I studied literature initially, and then I read something like this. Of course it's a bittersweet moment....a loss so to speak. Literature has become a balm for me. I look forward at the end of the spring semester to reading literature throughout the summer. I feel safe wrapped in those kind of words. Of course it is an odd safety. Literature with its rich words, and jeweled stories does not keep one safe from hurt, loss, but it opens those doors in such a gorgeous way.

So I'm reading The Rainbow, and right after I wrote my post about gaps, I find this quote. How fateful? I love how all of Lawrence's novel are so present. There is an immediacy to the events and to the characters. Those who live in the embrace of the past are dead to life. In order to be alive, really alive, one must be constantly in the now. And this idea that memories are but the regrets of the past. Why live in such a dead place? Lawrence asks this is each novel. Passion, life, and love destroy us but they destroy us in ways that make us more alive.

Ahh...Lawrence....