"You got your brain back," my mother says, obviously pleased. "But that doesn't mean you can be an ass."
Thursday, September 29, 2016
The "American Sniper" Dilemma
The English instructor takes time out of class to address his criticism made on all our essays (specifically to me the one I wrote about Victoria's Secret). He says, "I spend twenty to thirty minutes on each paper...you do the math." He argues that if he didn't care, our compositions would be nakedly free of correction.
I still find the process discombobulating. Here I am, ego and all, trying to write some higher art--taking the assignment one step further (I feel like I accomplished this by analyzing the influence of fashion on women in the social context, which was the first few paragraphs of the paper). However, this wasn't exactly the assignment, and while I felt somewhat clever, I was punished for it. It's oddly humbling.
Throughout my career in college (and latter years of high school), I've been able to write one draft of an essay, and turn it in for an A or, at worst, a B. This is no more. I now spend hours on a single work, and have multiple drafts--for essentially the same grade--at a community college. Some would say this is great progress (after all, we can all improve our writing through dedication), and some would say, it's just a grade, what the fuck?
But nevermore. A grade isn't just a grade, and an essay just isn't an essay. It all has some notable significance on me as a writer. It says something about me as an individual and as a student. Part of this pressure comes from the very first comments the English instructor wrote on my first essay in English 156. I had the feeling, fortunately or unfortunately, that he held me to some higher standard, and my duty as a writer was to not only meet that standard, but to consistently exceed it.
I don't feel this way about my papers in English 201B, although this is the more advanced class. I just write what I write, and along with the professor's approval, I say, "good enough." We're not trying to write something publishable for The New Yorker.
Pressure is both good and bad (of course!), but largely its merit depends on how much is applied. I feel this burden as I wrestle with my essay on the film "American Sniper" (for English 201A, and for the same instructor I had in English 156). I believe that almost every major news source (and many minor blogs) wrote about "American Sniper" with a wide range of responses. It's all covered ground, but I was asked to write something "original." Some of the reviews were brilliant (I've quoted them here), but most just repeated tried avenues, either seeing Kyle as a hero or as a psychopathic killer (honestly, I lean more towards him having Antisocial Personality Disorder, in other words, a psychopathic killer).
What would be "original"? Well, so far, I haven't written anything on it that would qualify (my introduction is a re-reading of several different reviews, all very popular).
Not only do I have to write something maverick, but I have to write above and beyond your average college freshman. Which is fine, because I'm a junior at a major state university. However, all of this, is to win some English instructor's approval (who is very intelligent and an excellent writer/poet himself).
What do I have to prove to other people or to myself? It's college, for Christ's sake. No one ever said I resembled Virginia Woolf.
That being said, I still look at an analysis on "American Sniper" as some major feat, made for the New York Times.
I still find the process discombobulating. Here I am, ego and all, trying to write some higher art--taking the assignment one step further (I feel like I accomplished this by analyzing the influence of fashion on women in the social context, which was the first few paragraphs of the paper). However, this wasn't exactly the assignment, and while I felt somewhat clever, I was punished for it. It's oddly humbling.
Throughout my career in college (and latter years of high school), I've been able to write one draft of an essay, and turn it in for an A or, at worst, a B. This is no more. I now spend hours on a single work, and have multiple drafts--for essentially the same grade--at a community college. Some would say this is great progress (after all, we can all improve our writing through dedication), and some would say, it's just a grade, what the fuck?
But nevermore. A grade isn't just a grade, and an essay just isn't an essay. It all has some notable significance on me as a writer. It says something about me as an individual and as a student. Part of this pressure comes from the very first comments the English instructor wrote on my first essay in English 156. I had the feeling, fortunately or unfortunately, that he held me to some higher standard, and my duty as a writer was to not only meet that standard, but to consistently exceed it.
I don't feel this way about my papers in English 201B, although this is the more advanced class. I just write what I write, and along with the professor's approval, I say, "good enough." We're not trying to write something publishable for The New Yorker.
Pressure is both good and bad (of course!), but largely its merit depends on how much is applied. I feel this burden as I wrestle with my essay on the film "American Sniper" (for English 201A, and for the same instructor I had in English 156). I believe that almost every major news source (and many minor blogs) wrote about "American Sniper" with a wide range of responses. It's all covered ground, but I was asked to write something "original." Some of the reviews were brilliant (I've quoted them here), but most just repeated tried avenues, either seeing Kyle as a hero or as a psychopathic killer (honestly, I lean more towards him having Antisocial Personality Disorder, in other words, a psychopathic killer).
What would be "original"? Well, so far, I haven't written anything on it that would qualify (my introduction is a re-reading of several different reviews, all very popular).
Not only do I have to write something maverick, but I have to write above and beyond your average college freshman. Which is fine, because I'm a junior at a major state university. However, all of this, is to win some English instructor's approval (who is very intelligent and an excellent writer/poet himself).
What do I have to prove to other people or to myself? It's college, for Christ's sake. No one ever said I resembled Virginia Woolf.
That being said, I still look at an analysis on "American Sniper" as some major feat, made for the New York Times.
Pictures And Morpheus
I want to tell him that every moment I had with him (that I can remember), I treasure.
But I figured, that would just confuse the picture.
But I figured, that would just confuse the picture.
Profit in Death
"If I shall die before my time, I count that
a profit. How can such as I, that live
among such troubles, not find a profit in death?"
--by Sophocles, "Antigone"
a profit. How can such as I, that live
among such troubles, not find a profit in death?"
--by Sophocles, "Antigone"
Shitload of Coffee
"Of course it's important. It's a metaphor," the English instructor says to me, after all the other students have filed out. He's talking about a student who questioned the significance of the opening scene in "Frozen." He's writing quickly on a pupil's paper, seemingly distracted.
I feel his frustration. No student in class ever fucking understands me or any opinion or position I might have on a topic (most of the time, luckily for me, I don't have a judgment on the various readings we do because I don't have enough information to form an intelligent interpretation--this includes our daily journal entries).
"If I can just get through the next twenty-four hours," he affirms, changing the subject.
He reminds me sometimes of a person with bipolar disorder (although I admit probably a mild form), the way his speech is occasionally too fast, his lack of sleep or need for it (as observed by the outside--maybe he only gets by with a shitload of coffee), his desire to take on a bunch of projects at once (bipolars tend to overextend because they have so much energy).
I'm only seeing these traits because they remind me of myself.
I feel his frustration. No student in class ever fucking understands me or any opinion or position I might have on a topic (most of the time, luckily for me, I don't have a judgment on the various readings we do because I don't have enough information to form an intelligent interpretation--this includes our daily journal entries).
"If I can just get through the next twenty-four hours," he affirms, changing the subject.
He reminds me sometimes of a person with bipolar disorder (although I admit probably a mild form), the way his speech is occasionally too fast, his lack of sleep or need for it (as observed by the outside--maybe he only gets by with a shitload of coffee), his desire to take on a bunch of projects at once (bipolars tend to overextend because they have so much energy).
I'm only seeing these traits because they remind me of myself.
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Stigma On Divorce
Morpheus explains, "Out of the twenty or so friends I know, only three or four have gotten divorces, not fifty-percent."
Is there still a stigma attached to divorce?
Is there still a stigma attached to divorce?
The "Bad" Woman
"Even the 'bad' woman posed a threat, since marriage often uncovered the clinging 'good' girl underneath."
--by Robert B. Ray, "The Thematic Paradigm"
--by Robert B. Ray, "The Thematic Paradigm"
Stealing Books
My mother stands in my room, and comments to the haphazard stacking of books on my small dresser, "Are you stealing books from the library?"
I don't respond. They were $.25 a piece, I couldn't resist.
I don't respond. They were $.25 a piece, I couldn't resist.
Feels Like a 'D'
"From the way you were talking, I thought he gave you a 'D'," my mother responds to my story about the essay on Victoria's Secret.
It feels like a 'D,' isn't that enough?
It feels like a 'D,' isn't that enough?
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Miss Him Greatly
Mostly, I'm just trying to avoid pain.
"If he went back to his wife, but said that he could see you once a month, would you do it?" The LSU Professor proposes to me the last time we saw each other.
Until Morpheus sent me that email on Jan 26, I was in a place where, hey, I didn't think of him everyday, and I felt some sense of closure that didn't come because of anything he said or did, but because of my mental capacity for healing. I felt that he was better off with his family, with his wife, and that being with me was a mistake, and therefore I needed to just leave him alone--no more emails.
Hearing from him just inflamed all those hidden fantasies I had about us--how he was going to divorce one day, and want to be with me. How everything was just going to work out somehow.
These fantasies are still here, deep in my psyche, just waiting for a little wayward water to be thrown on them.
Morpheus told me during the last time we saw each other on September 9th that he didn't look at me as a mistake in his marriage.
He brought up the "Facebook message," referring to the one I sent to the Wife, telling her about our affair.
I replied, "I just want to apologize for doing that. I never wanted to hurt you."
He said, "Don't put that on yourself. It turned out to be a good thing."
Always the dilemma. How do you tell yourself that you should move on when you are so happy with that person and miss him greatly?
"If he went back to his wife, but said that he could see you once a month, would you do it?" The LSU Professor proposes to me the last time we saw each other.
Until Morpheus sent me that email on Jan 26, I was in a place where, hey, I didn't think of him everyday, and I felt some sense of closure that didn't come because of anything he said or did, but because of my mental capacity for healing. I felt that he was better off with his family, with his wife, and that being with me was a mistake, and therefore I needed to just leave him alone--no more emails.
Hearing from him just inflamed all those hidden fantasies I had about us--how he was going to divorce one day, and want to be with me. How everything was just going to work out somehow.
These fantasies are still here, deep in my psyche, just waiting for a little wayward water to be thrown on them.
Morpheus told me during the last time we saw each other on September 9th that he didn't look at me as a mistake in his marriage.
He brought up the "Facebook message," referring to the one I sent to the Wife, telling her about our affair.
I replied, "I just want to apologize for doing that. I never wanted to hurt you."
He said, "Don't put that on yourself. It turned out to be a good thing."
Always the dilemma. How do you tell yourself that you should move on when you are so happy with that person and miss him greatly?
How English 201A Whipped My Ass
I received a 8.8/10 for my essay on the marketing strategies of Victoria's Secret.
When I got back my paper from the English instructor, there were huge chunks of it simply scarred and crossed off.
When I got back my paper from the English instructor, there were huge chunks of it simply scarred and crossed off.
Single And Childless
Most of us are more comfortable viewing ourselves as victims rather than the perpetrators in a relationship.
We say to ourselves, "I'm a good person, and therefore I act accordingly."
But often, especially in the heat of the moment, we say and do things that are hurtful and wrong. This does not mean, however, that it re-defines you as a "bad person," but only that you are capable of doing bad--or acting selfish and unkind.
And we all do.
I've wondered frequently over the last few days (since I cut off communication with Morpheus on last Friday by telling him "goodbye") if I am not sensitive enough to his desire to be with his children, being that I am single and childless, and frankly don't fully understand parenting. Throughout most of my life, I've never wanted children, and recently, it's become very clear that I can't have kids because I would be forced off my medication (preferably before) during pregnancy and after for breastfeeding. That would likely make me unstable, which in turn would make me an unfit parent (although people with bipolar disorder and other serious mental illnesses do go off their medications for pregnancy, and survive).
Case in point (via TXT-message):
Me: "Okay. Are we going to see each other again?"
Morpheus: "Think I'm moving...Just had an offer on the house...And I really miss the kids."
Me: "Does that mean you don't want to see me again?"
All I was really interested in, at the time, was: how is this going to affect us, our relationship, etc? I wasn't thinking about his strained relationship with his kids.
We say to ourselves, "I'm a good person, and therefore I act accordingly."
But often, especially in the heat of the moment, we say and do things that are hurtful and wrong. This does not mean, however, that it re-defines you as a "bad person," but only that you are capable of doing bad--or acting selfish and unkind.
And we all do.
I've wondered frequently over the last few days (since I cut off communication with Morpheus on last Friday by telling him "goodbye") if I am not sensitive enough to his desire to be with his children, being that I am single and childless, and frankly don't fully understand parenting. Throughout most of my life, I've never wanted children, and recently, it's become very clear that I can't have kids because I would be forced off my medication (preferably before) during pregnancy and after for breastfeeding. That would likely make me unstable, which in turn would make me an unfit parent (although people with bipolar disorder and other serious mental illnesses do go off their medications for pregnancy, and survive).
Case in point (via TXT-message):
Me: "Okay. Are we going to see each other again?"
Morpheus: "Think I'm moving...Just had an offer on the house...And I really miss the kids."
Me: "Does that mean you don't want to see me again?"
All I was really interested in, at the time, was: how is this going to affect us, our relationship, etc? I wasn't thinking about his strained relationship with his kids.
Impossible to Avoid
If you are fraught with insecurities, you are going to take everything someone says in the worst possible way.
I fall into this trap, but the troubling aspect is, I have to make some sort of judgment about someone else's diction--whether or not that judgment is balanced.
You have to interpret the language of others, this is impossible to avoid.
I fall into this trap, but the troubling aspect is, I have to make some sort of judgment about someone else's diction--whether or not that judgment is balanced.
You have to interpret the language of others, this is impossible to avoid.
Social Expectations
Unfortunately, we superimpose our expectations of others unto them, often in confusing ways (because we can be out of touch with our own drives). This is what makes romantic relationships so difficult.
We've all heard of the three-day-rule, in which after you go out on a date with someone, "he" (usually this speaks to males in a heterosexual setting) contacts you within three days or on the third day.
Not two weeks later (okay, so it wasn't two weeks I went without hearing from Morpheus after we got together, it was a week and five days).
Social expectations for everyone (males and females) provide some sense of solace in what can be a stressful start for a relationship (because of the "unknown" factor).
We play by these rules because it's usually better for everyone involved.
So, what does that say (about you, about the other person) when your messages are ignored after meeting up with someone?
Maybe it says nothing, and this is the part of the story that I get wrong. However, I run on the bias that if you really want to see a person, you keep in contact with said person. Yes, work can take up a lot of time, and so can parenting children, but it's relatively easy to send a five-second TXT-message, along the lines of "Sorry, I'm busy, but will call you on Tuesday."
And then you make good on that promise by calling on Tuesday.
These are simple reassurances that I need--and help to quiet some self-disparaging thoughts.
After all, if you don't hear from the person, you are left with many intrusive cognitions, including "If I didn't hear from him, he must not like me/want to see me."
We've all heard of the three-day-rule, in which after you go out on a date with someone, "he" (usually this speaks to males in a heterosexual setting) contacts you within three days or on the third day.
Not two weeks later (okay, so it wasn't two weeks I went without hearing from Morpheus after we got together, it was a week and five days).
Social expectations for everyone (males and females) provide some sense of solace in what can be a stressful start for a relationship (because of the "unknown" factor).
We play by these rules because it's usually better for everyone involved.
So, what does that say (about you, about the other person) when your messages are ignored after meeting up with someone?
Maybe it says nothing, and this is the part of the story that I get wrong. However, I run on the bias that if you really want to see a person, you keep in contact with said person. Yes, work can take up a lot of time, and so can parenting children, but it's relatively easy to send a five-second TXT-message, along the lines of "Sorry, I'm busy, but will call you on Tuesday."
And then you make good on that promise by calling on Tuesday.
These are simple reassurances that I need--and help to quiet some self-disparaging thoughts.
After all, if you don't hear from the person, you are left with many intrusive cognitions, including "If I didn't hear from him, he must not like me/want to see me."
Being a Smartass in English 201A
I raise my hand.
"Yes, [Jae]," the English instructor says.
"I don't know if you want to dodge this question, but I recently read an article on porn in the New Yorker, and I'm wondering what this author might think about porn," I say. I wait a second. "Should we turn this into a class discussion?" When I said, "this author," I was referring to an article that was required reading about how art morally corrupts (this was debated by said author).
The woman up front with me in the next row visibly shakes her head.
"Yes, [Jae]," the English instructor says.
"I don't know if you want to dodge this question, but I recently read an article on porn in the New Yorker, and I'm wondering what this author might think about porn," I say. I wait a second. "Should we turn this into a class discussion?" When I said, "this author," I was referring to an article that was required reading about how art morally corrupts (this was debated by said author).
The woman up front with me in the next row visibly shakes her head.
Sunday, September 25, 2016
Understanding
I once wrote to Morpheus--a couple of months ago--that if he didn't like talking to me, then that was a good indicator of how he felt about me.
Last time I saw Morpheus in person, I arrived at his house around nine pm. We talked until three am.
He did most of the talking, like he had been saving it up over the months, for the right and safe opportunity, to let it spill.
He would look down at the island in the kitchen, and say, "I'm talking too much." He'd pause for a second or so, and then he resume speaking.
Last time I saw Morpheus in person, I arrived at his house around nine pm. We talked until three am.
He did most of the talking, like he had been saving it up over the months, for the right and safe opportunity, to let it spill.
He would look down at the island in the kitchen, and say, "I'm talking too much." He'd pause for a second or so, and then he resume speaking.
Saturday, September 24, 2016
Many of Which I've Already Expressed
I have many fears, anxieties and insecurities surrounding my relationship (however defined) with Morpheus, but probably the one that stands out most clearly now is my trepidation of just being used for sex by a man who is largely emotionally unavailable--and dealing with being displaced by a large gap in the power dynamic.
There are genuine, honest reasons for this fear--all of which I've documented in various journal and/or blog entries. It's not some horror film invented in my brain purely out of magic dust.
In nine years, we've never been on a single date--and naively, I assumed this would change as soon as he had separated from his wife. We'd go places, do things, and act traditionally romantic--we'd be rushed with enthusiasm, unable to contain ourselves. Unlike the tortured months of no-communication that I dealt with while he was married.
Things would be different.
I would gladly promote, endorse his reunion with his wife if it meant that the messages and/or emails about how lonely he is, about how he's not use to being by himself, how divorce was the worst fucking thing in the world--if those stopped, I would excessively praise for them to get back together. Like the lover I am, I feel his pain and loneliness, and only seek to remedy it.
I could be there for him--or he could return to his wife--either way, he wouldn't be alone.
I'm not a particularly selfless person--honestly there are dueling attitudes inside me, and one that rightly says, stay the fuck away from your wife, she's making you miserable! You want to move up there to be with her, why?!
I just can't stand to be witness to his depression over the situation. I want to be cheeky and clique, and tell him this is an opportunity, not a failure. But what right do I have to suggest that? It's not like I've ever been through divorce.
But as I told him in a recent email, I have been alone, sad and gaining weight. I've been in dark places, unable to rescue myself. I've suffered in many ways. I can understand suffering.
And that's what this is--suffering. On all sides--his, mine and, of course, the Wife's.
There are genuine, honest reasons for this fear--all of which I've documented in various journal and/or blog entries. It's not some horror film invented in my brain purely out of magic dust.
In nine years, we've never been on a single date--and naively, I assumed this would change as soon as he had separated from his wife. We'd go places, do things, and act traditionally romantic--we'd be rushed with enthusiasm, unable to contain ourselves. Unlike the tortured months of no-communication that I dealt with while he was married.
Things would be different.
I would gladly promote, endorse his reunion with his wife if it meant that the messages and/or emails about how lonely he is, about how he's not use to being by himself, how divorce was the worst fucking thing in the world--if those stopped, I would excessively praise for them to get back together. Like the lover I am, I feel his pain and loneliness, and only seek to remedy it.
I could be there for him--or he could return to his wife--either way, he wouldn't be alone.
I'm not a particularly selfless person--honestly there are dueling attitudes inside me, and one that rightly says, stay the fuck away from your wife, she's making you miserable! You want to move up there to be with her, why?!
I just can't stand to be witness to his depression over the situation. I want to be cheeky and clique, and tell him this is an opportunity, not a failure. But what right do I have to suggest that? It's not like I've ever been through divorce.
But as I told him in a recent email, I have been alone, sad and gaining weight. I've been in dark places, unable to rescue myself. I've suffered in many ways. I can understand suffering.
And that's what this is--suffering. On all sides--his, mine and, of course, the Wife's.
Just So You Know, Part III
What is the most pathetic part of this whole ordeal, nine years in the making, is that it all came down to a few fucking TXT-messages, not even live conversations over the phone--little, tiny blips of miscommunication in our ever-so modern world.
Does everyone deal with this shit?
Does everyone deal with this shit?
Just So You Know, Part II
Writing like the bitter ex-lover I am--
Never, in recent TXT-message history has he said, "Hey [Jae], how the fuck are you doing?"
I'm doing great, take my two antidepressants and my big load of Seroquel every day, and I'm just grinnin' from ear-to-ear.
"Sorry to hear about the dead dog, by the way." (Never said)
Never, in recent TXT-message history has he said, "Hey [Jae], how the fuck are you doing?"
I'm doing great, take my two antidepressants and my big load of Seroquel every day, and I'm just grinnin' from ear-to-ear.
"Sorry to hear about the dead dog, by the way." (Never said)
Just So You Know
"Sorry I'm heading out for the weekend"
--Morpheus, via TXT-message yesterday, at the beginning
In other words, don't bother me.
--Morpheus, via TXT-message yesterday, at the beginning
In other words, don't bother me.
Oh, Paranoia?
"There
also exists a long history of collaboration between Hollywood
filmmakers and the US government, who see American military depictions
in film as powerful advertising and a weapon in today's information war.
Entertainment is a useful conduit for management about conflict and the way it's historicized on the home front."
--by Jason Huettner
(http://www.warscapes.com/reviews/american-sniper-and-good-war)
--by Jason Huettner
(http://www.warscapes.com/reviews/american-sniper-and-good-war)
As It's Obvious I'm Writing a Paper on "American Sniper"
"To paraphrase another great American war movie, Apocalypse Now, charging a man for lying in a movie about a war based on a lie is like handing out speeding tickets at the Indy 500."
--by Chris Mccoy
( http://www.memphisflyer.com/memphis/american-sniper/Content?oid=3812207)
--by Chris Mccoy
( http://www.memphisflyer.com/memphis/american-sniper/Content?oid=3812207)
Glory Is
"Glory is for civilians, politicians, patriots, home-front blowhards.
Glory is the reason supplied by those who weren’t there, when those who were
there know too much, have seen and done too much, to put it into platitudes."
--by Ty Burr
( https://www.bostonglobe.com/arts/movies/2015/01/15/bradley-cooper-stars-clint-eastwood-american-sniper/e1ZyR9HoVuguTb9eqJJ1AI/story.html)
--by Ty Burr
( https://www.bostonglobe.com/arts/movies/2015/01/15/bradley-cooper-stars-clint-eastwood-american-sniper/e1ZyR9HoVuguTb9eqJJ1AI/story.html)
Sympathy
"So I think we are going to have to euthanize one of our elderly dogs today. He just got really sick plus he can't move much because of some neuromuscular disease."
--TXT-message sent to Morpheus on 9/13/16, 11:57am
At 6:31pm, I continued, "The dog died. It was really sad."
No response from Morpheus at all that day--or even the day after.
--TXT-message sent to Morpheus on 9/13/16, 11:57am
At 6:31pm, I continued, "The dog died. It was really sad."
No response from Morpheus at all that day--or even the day after.
Lying in the World of Nonfiction
"Autobiographers
cannot lie because anything they say, however mendacious, is the truth
about themselves, whether they know it or not..."
--Stanley Fish
--Stanley Fish
Argument for Argument's Sake
"I have to deep dive into work and kids and figuring out how to keep making their practices..I guess this divorce really was the worst thing ever..."
--Morpheus, sent via TXT-message yesterday
My response:
"No excuses [Morpheus]. YOU decide how you align your priorities and how you spend your time. No one else does. I'm not important to you although I have intrinsic value as a person...If you really hate this divorce, go to [the Wife] and tell her. Tell her you'll do anything to get your marriage back. Work on your marriage...And then leave me alone. [The Wife] is predictable, reliable and the mother of your kids. You have a stabilizing force with her. You don't know what you're going to get with me or someone new...You avoid answering any questions about how you feel about me, and that is very difficult for me to deal with...If you really loved me, cared about me, you would have said so...We should go back to being e-pals and emailing each other every six months. Not see each other. It's just [too] hurtful to spend time with a man who doesn't love me back...Hope things work out for you [Morpheus]. Want you to be happy. Goodbye."
--Morpheus, sent via TXT-message yesterday
My response:
"No excuses [Morpheus]. YOU decide how you align your priorities and how you spend your time. No one else does. I'm not important to you although I have intrinsic value as a person...If you really hate this divorce, go to [the Wife] and tell her. Tell her you'll do anything to get your marriage back. Work on your marriage...And then leave me alone. [The Wife] is predictable, reliable and the mother of your kids. You have a stabilizing force with her. You don't know what you're going to get with me or someone new...You avoid answering any questions about how you feel about me, and that is very difficult for me to deal with...If you really loved me, cared about me, you would have said so...We should go back to being e-pals and emailing each other every six months. Not see each other. It's just [too] hurtful to spend time with a man who doesn't love me back...Hope things work out for you [Morpheus]. Want you to be happy. Goodbye."
Terministic Screens and Partisan Audiences: A Burkean Cluster Analysis of Clint Eastwood's American Sniper
"All of us are limited by the vocabularies that we use to understand the world."
--Daniel Merwin
--Daniel Merwin
Friday, September 23, 2016
More Days Like This, Part IV
"I don't want someone to take care of me. I want a partner who will give 50% in time commitment. You have to decide if that's a deal you want...I want to be a priority--not top priority, obviously--but important to someone. I think we all need and want that."
--my conversational starter for the afternoon, sent via TXT-message to Morpheus
--my conversational starter for the afternoon, sent via TXT-message to Morpheus
More Days Like This, Part III
"And you are an important person, I just have priorities right now...Be important and empowered, and use that...strength..."
--Morpheus in a TXT-message conversation, several hours ago.
I recognize therapeutic bullshit when I see it. You are important? Of course, I'm important. But that's not what I'm asking.
My response: "I'm not important to you although I have intrinsic value as a person."
--Morpheus in a TXT-message conversation, several hours ago.
I recognize therapeutic bullshit when I see it. You are important? Of course, I'm important. But that's not what I'm asking.
My response: "I'm not important to you although I have intrinsic value as a person."
More Days Like This, Part II
"I guess this divorce really was the worst thing ever..."
--Morpheus, from a few hours ago
--Morpheus, from a few hours ago
More Days Like This
Losing Morpheus was the single most destructive and despairing act in the history of my psychology. It beats out a psychotic episode that unfortunately ran for months, the lingering depression over school and family as a child, my severe and almost terminal back and leg pain that I was prescribed morphine for (and lead to my first serious suicide attempt on August 20, 2008), disappointments at the university level, any other break up with a romantic partner, and even beats out the day-to-day illness of schizoaffective disorder.
It paralyzed me into this endless loop of regret, sadness and, I'm afraid to admit, loneliness. My mourning never really stopped. It has just re-defined me as an individual, every day since.
Being with him--even after years of not seeing each other--still makes me happy, and gives me this natural high I have never felt with anyone else.
If I had any say about it or if he asked me, I would move into his home, and fill up those empty spaces with my love and care--I've never lived with anyone besides various, nameless roommates and my parents. I've never shared a bed with anyone, much less had a ring on my finger.
I'm not one of those people who believes everything works out for a reason--or that there's some good, gentle Hand guiding us through life--or that pain has meaning--because life experience tells me that life, the good and the bad, is much more random and out of our control. We live and we suffer and we're happy for no reason at all.
And when we die, we die.
Relationships end before we have time to recognize such, before our feeble minds can grasp the end--because when we love, we live in partial fantasy--always seeing the mirror, never behind the looking glass.
I almost cried the other night about Morpheus--almost--I haven't cried for years. Nothing seemed worth crying about--except the loss of the love of my life.
"Knowing you as well as I do, your love for [Morpheus] is unique," the LSU Professor commented a few hours ago as we met for coffee.
I now have memories of him, ever vivid and clinging to my elbow, pulling me side to side. I can see his beard, only a few days old, with little flecks of gray near his chin.
I can see his smile.
It paralyzed me into this endless loop of regret, sadness and, I'm afraid to admit, loneliness. My mourning never really stopped. It has just re-defined me as an individual, every day since.
Being with him--even after years of not seeing each other--still makes me happy, and gives me this natural high I have never felt with anyone else.
If I had any say about it or if he asked me, I would move into his home, and fill up those empty spaces with my love and care--I've never lived with anyone besides various, nameless roommates and my parents. I've never shared a bed with anyone, much less had a ring on my finger.
I'm not one of those people who believes everything works out for a reason--or that there's some good, gentle Hand guiding us through life--or that pain has meaning--because life experience tells me that life, the good and the bad, is much more random and out of our control. We live and we suffer and we're happy for no reason at all.
And when we die, we die.
Relationships end before we have time to recognize such, before our feeble minds can grasp the end--because when we love, we live in partial fantasy--always seeing the mirror, never behind the looking glass.
I almost cried the other night about Morpheus--almost--I haven't cried for years. Nothing seemed worth crying about--except the loss of the love of my life.
"Knowing you as well as I do, your love for [Morpheus] is unique," the LSU Professor commented a few hours ago as we met for coffee.
I now have memories of him, ever vivid and clinging to my elbow, pulling me side to side. I can see his beard, only a few days old, with little flecks of gray near his chin.
I can see his smile.
Referring to "Selma"
“Artful falsehood is more dangerous than artless falsehood, because fewer people see through it.”
--by Maureen Dowd
(http://www.filmlegacy.net/blog/2015/01/19/decoding-selma-and-american-sniper/)
--by Maureen Dowd
(http://www.filmlegacy.net/blog/2015/01/19/decoding-selma-and-american-sniper/)
Always Later
What I would realize later is the fact that the twenty-five dollar bottle of wine (as bitter as it was) emptied my checking amount to a literal $0.00 until next month when I receive my disability payment.
Of course, I didn't mention this fact to Morpheus.
"I remember when you told me 'I don't want your money'," he tells as we're divided by a marble island in the kitchen.
The money is the backdrop to his life in the way money never was for my parents even when they were multimillionaires.
We lived in a small house in a poor part of the state on a mere five acres. However, my parents spent thousand and thousands of dollars on horses, horse trainers and horse equipment. And riding lessons.
Growing up, I never wanted for anything materially, much the same way Morpheus' kids never go without and are constantly entertained by ball practice and other children events.
I had my horses, and that was the best part of growing up because home and school were not happy places.
Morpheus' house is a big sign, "I made it out of ordinary income and now I'm above people with less ambition and less smarts."
As a family, we never needed a fancy place to stay. We had our horses and our new trucks and cars (including an awesome Cadillac STS that sucked you back in the seat whenever you passed someone on the freeway).
Are we less content with less money (combined incomes among the three of us--as Dad hasn't earned a penny all year--) that makes us barely middle-class?
We do without on a lot of big benefits, from being unable to afford a herd of horses to me having to rely on government and state ran insurance, which is particularly bad for treating mental health. If only I could have private insurance. We don't eat out all the time like we did in the 90's and early 2000's (growing up i never remember anyone cooking). Dad drives a new truck, but Mom and I drive little pieces of shit, both Mazda's.
My mother would be thrilled if I could marry someone upperclass because she was relatively poor growing up.
The truth is, rich people marry other rich people and all have their rich friends to match.
Unlike my mom, I never wanted to rely on someone else's income, because it skews the power balance. All through high school and my college career, I wanted to make my own money by being a vet or physician.
I just never got there.
The subject of money is a mostly avoided topic between Morpheus and I, largely due to the fact that because of the Wife's background (family apparently has old money), she has never held down a job in her life (but does have a Bachelor's). Morpheus gifted her a brand new Denali before they were even married.
I can't get the guy to buy me a cup of coffee.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
New Day, Early Morning
The ding of my cellphone woke me up, which is unusual because I normally sleep right through my notifications (which tend to be strange, late emails coming from the LSU Professor because he's living in a different time zone--or from the English instructor who works nights).
In my medically-induced haze around nine thirty pm, I sent Morpheus a scathing TXT-message, full of the anger that had been swimming and suffocating in my lungs and drowning my innards. "The sad thing is you would never treat [the Wife] the way you treat me. You obviously have no feelings for me (hey, I hate being ignored!) I want more from my life than being someone's fucking afterthought."
Now lightly awake, I check my cellphone and the time. It's past one am. I have three TXT-messages from Morpheus. To his credit, he didn't seem to get angry back (or at least was hiding it well).
Incredibly, he side-stepped talking about his feelings for me--at all.
He did, however, talk about the Wife. "There is no [the Wife], so that's off the table for sure now...I'm over it also now."
Not knowing what to say, as I assumed my "crazy" message would go unanswered, I just responded, "I'm sorry I'm upset."
And tried to go back to sleep.
In my medically-induced haze around nine thirty pm, I sent Morpheus a scathing TXT-message, full of the anger that had been swimming and suffocating in my lungs and drowning my innards. "The sad thing is you would never treat [the Wife] the way you treat me. You obviously have no feelings for me (hey, I hate being ignored!) I want more from my life than being someone's fucking afterthought."
Now lightly awake, I check my cellphone and the time. It's past one am. I have three TXT-messages from Morpheus. To his credit, he didn't seem to get angry back (or at least was hiding it well).
Incredibly, he side-stepped talking about his feelings for me--at all.
He did, however, talk about the Wife. "There is no [the Wife], so that's off the table for sure now...I'm over it also now."
Not knowing what to say, as I assumed my "crazy" message would go unanswered, I just responded, "I'm sorry I'm upset."
And tried to go back to sleep.
"What Too Many Americans Don't See..."
"In America, great popularity of mostly uncritical commentary on American
Sniper, reinforcing the regressive national mood of glamorizing bloody
military exploits as the most admirable expression of true patriotism.
Elsewhere in the world the perception is likely to be quite opposite:
American Sniper inducing anti-American attitudes either out of fear or
resentment or both, solidifying the global image of the United States as
a cruel geopolitical bully. That is, American Sniper is wildly
pro-American for most domestic viewers, and severely anti-American for
most foreign viewers. This gap in subjectivities exhibits the degree to
which Americans are living in a bubble of their own devising."
--by Richard Falk
(http://www.commondreams.org/views/2015/01/29/what-too-many-americans-dont-see-when-they-watch-american-sniper)
--by Richard Falk
(http://www.commondreams.org/views/2015/01/29/what-too-many-americans-dont-see-when-they-watch-american-sniper)
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Every Day, Part II
"Can call you later...and no it doesn't mean I don't want to see you," Morpheus responds.
"I'm sorry. I'm just upset right now," I send him. A few hours later, I message, "You don't need to call me. I get it. You need to be with your kids. You're a good father."
Because that's what I'm suppose to say. Out of all things, I don't want to come across as crazy, even though I am crazy.
"I'm sorry. I'm just upset right now," I send him. A few hours later, I message, "You don't need to call me. I get it. You need to be with your kids. You're a good father."
Because that's what I'm suppose to say. Out of all things, I don't want to come across as crazy, even though I am crazy.
Today is Like Every Day
Everyday I try to find some feelings of self-worth, perhaps one of my greatest problems and a precursor to my almost life-long severe depression.
And most days, I find my hands empty.
In a recent email, the LSU Professor said that I had a "bright future"--a statement I immediately wanted to dispute.
I have schizoaffective disorder-bipolar type. I will always be on medications for it.
It keeps me from performing in school and in life.
What future do I have? Recurring episodes of depression or manic or even psychosis.
It's almost guaranteed.
In light of that view, I feel like I have little to give someone else.
"I deserve a fucking answer [Morpheus]. And the least you could have done was call me."
That was my initial response to news that Morpheus is likely moving north to be closer to his kids. He got an offer on his immensely large house in Yuppieville.
The real hurt is I don't get a say. I don't have the choice of whining, "Please don't go."
What's more important than family? Could I make the argument that he needs to stay for me?
And most days, I find my hands empty.
In a recent email, the LSU Professor said that I had a "bright future"--a statement I immediately wanted to dispute.
I have schizoaffective disorder-bipolar type. I will always be on medications for it.
It keeps me from performing in school and in life.
What future do I have? Recurring episodes of depression or manic or even psychosis.
It's almost guaranteed.
In light of that view, I feel like I have little to give someone else.
"I deserve a fucking answer [Morpheus]. And the least you could have done was call me."
That was my initial response to news that Morpheus is likely moving north to be closer to his kids. He got an offer on his immensely large house in Yuppieville.
The real hurt is I don't get a say. I don't have the choice of whining, "Please don't go."
What's more important than family? Could I make the argument that he needs to stay for me?
"How American Sniper is Like Rambo"
"First, it's going to force Americans to face, again, that the war was
fought in the first place. And then it's going to reintegrate the
soldiers who fought it back into society — but instead of doing so by
metaphorically confronting their pain, it's going to do this by
insisting, forcefully, that they were good men and that because they were good men, their cause was just."
--by Todd VanDer Werff
(http://www.vox.com/2015/1/21/7865145/american-sniper-review)
--by Todd VanDer Werff
(http://www.vox.com/2015/1/21/7865145/american-sniper-review)
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Animation
"I'm an open book," he says to me as we are standing in the brightly lit kitchen, him sipping on the wine, and me with my ice water, which he politely keeps re-filling.
I would argue otherwise. No man has held more mystery for me, which has to be some of the seductive appeal.
If I knew the pages of his alluring memoir, would my fascination for him hold? Or would it dissipate like watching wind carry away paper in a whirling force of Nature?
I've left messages to him, TXT and real live calls, all to no vail. He has simply vanished from my animation.
I would argue otherwise. No man has held more mystery for me, which has to be some of the seductive appeal.
If I knew the pages of his alluring memoir, would my fascination for him hold? Or would it dissipate like watching wind carry away paper in a whirling force of Nature?
I've left messages to him, TXT and real live calls, all to no vail. He has simply vanished from my animation.
"American Sniper": A Film of Love and Ignorance, Part II
"We see, at a glance, one of a million men in the vastness of our
existential desert searching for a purpose, for that non-material
motivation, for the mysterious force that assails or empowers the most
sophisticated and simplest alike – an inherent enthusiasm that corporatocracy has managed to dull into nonexistence or channel to less worthy/more profitable ends."
--Paula Schmitt
( http://972mag.com/american-sniper-a-film-of-love-and-ignorance/104683/)
--Paula Schmitt
( http://972mag.com/american-sniper-a-film-of-love-and-ignorance/104683/)
"American Sniper": A Film of Love and Ignorance
"While wars are essentially motivated by money and decided by the few
holding it, wars are mostly validated by the approving masses...The individual – who in his singularity is worth nothing and never
profits from war – is a key piece of the herd that becomes the war’s
final guarantor."
--Paula Schmitt
(http://972mag.com/american-sniper-a-film-of-love-and-ignorance/104683/)
--Paula Schmitt
(http://972mag.com/american-sniper-a-film-of-love-and-ignorance/104683/)
Monday, September 19, 2016
Film Review: "American Sniper"
"Because at the heart of hegemony or the systematic control of a people
is the use of media and education to change and control the national
narrative in a way that is decidedly skewed in the favor of those in
power."
-- by Gregory Shafer
( http://thehumanist.com/arts_entertainment/film/film-review-american-sniper)
-- by Gregory Shafer
( http://thehumanist.com/arts_entertainment/film/film-review-american-sniper)
"Love Medicine" Part III
"You see how all the everyday things you counted on was just a dream you had been having by which you run your whole life."
--Louise Erdrich
--Louise Erdrich
Sunday, September 18, 2016
"The Birth-Mark" Part III
"It was the sad confession and continual exemplification of the shortcomings of the composite man, the spirit burdened with clay and working in matter, and of the despair that assails the higher nature at finding itself so miserably thwarted by the earthly part."
--Hawthorne
--Hawthorne
Friday, September 16, 2016
For the Family's Sake, Of Course
I asked the big, burning question in the back of my mind for weeks. What if the Wife suddenly wanted to come home--not only to return as a spouse but also bring the kids back into their comfortable nest--for the family's sake, of course.
This seemed to upset him a little. "That trust is broken...that ship has sailed," he replied.
The childrens' bedrooms are completely vacant, and neatly, freshly vacuumed. There's a hollowing now where once was filled with the busyness of early morning breakfast before time to go, harried voices from the parents saying, "Hurry up now, school--" Moments of solidarity before the unit is broken back into pieces--little legs scurrying along to the car, the repetition of days-after-days of slamming doors and starting motors.
A life now gone.
This seemed to upset him a little. "That trust is broken...that ship has sailed," he replied.
The childrens' bedrooms are completely vacant, and neatly, freshly vacuumed. There's a hollowing now where once was filled with the busyness of early morning breakfast before time to go, harried voices from the parents saying, "Hurry up now, school--" Moments of solidarity before the unit is broken back into pieces--little legs scurrying along to the car, the repetition of days-after-days of slamming doors and starting motors.
A life now gone.
"A Rose For Emily"
"So the next day we all said, 'She will kill herself'; and we said it would be the best thing."
--Faulkner
--Faulkner
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Do Hookers Lie? Part III
"You just danced, right?" He asks me in the suffocating, clinging darkness.
"Most of the time."
"Most of the time."
Toil and Pain
"It was the fatal flaw of humanity which Nature, in one shape or another, stamps ineffaceably on all her productions, either to imply that they are temporary and finite, or that their perfection must be wrought by toil and pain [emphasis my own]."
--Hawthorne
--Hawthorne
Difference in Things
"Things would have been different if I was single, if you were single or if I was married but didn't have any children," he confesses.
Do Hookers Lie?
We're in the lighted kitchen. He's standing on one side of the island, and I'm on the other. He has in his hands a whiskey glass filled with that twenty-five dollar Cabernet I picked up before I showed up at the house.
"You're the best sex I've ever had," I say absolutely.
He's looking down at the marble, and he doesn't believe me. "Just give me a range," he says as he widens his arms out away from his sides. "I don't need a number."
"You're the best sex I've ever had," I say absolutely.
He's looking down at the marble, and he doesn't believe me. "Just give me a range," he says as he widens his arms out away from his sides. "I don't need a number."
"The Story of an Hour"
"When doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of joy that kills."
--Kate Chopin
--Kate Chopin
"Love Medicine"
"You see I thought love got easier over the years so it didn't hurt so bad when it hurt, or feel so good when it felt good. I thought it smoothed out and old people hardly noticed it. I thought it curled up and died, I guess."
--Louise Erdrich
--Louise Erdrich
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
What Not To Say From the Master of Experience
He's sitting up in bed, next to me.
I'm feeling clumsy, and I'm avoiding his face while trying to explain why I can't just have a casual sexual relationship with him. "I'm in love with you," I say finally as if this is evidence enough.
"I'm flattered," comes his reply.
I pretend to be angry. "Okay, when someone says they're in love with you, the correct response is not 'I'm flattered.' "
He's smiling now, giving himself a derogatory name, and saying he's sorry.
I'm feeling clumsy, and I'm avoiding his face while trying to explain why I can't just have a casual sexual relationship with him. "I'm in love with you," I say finally as if this is evidence enough.
"I'm flattered," comes his reply.
I pretend to be angry. "Okay, when someone says they're in love with you, the correct response is not 'I'm flattered.' "
He's smiling now, giving himself a derogatory name, and saying he's sorry.
Man's World When Left Stranded
He opens the refrigerator.
I start to giggle as I lean in the doorway. "Is that spaghetti in a zip-lock bag?" There it was, noddles, sauce, and everything lying horizontal on the shelf--little baggy of nutrients like you could open up your stomach and IV it in.
"Yeah," he says. "It saves on how many dishes I have to do."
I start to giggle as I lean in the doorway. "Is that spaghetti in a zip-lock bag?" There it was, noddles, sauce, and everything lying horizontal on the shelf--little baggy of nutrients like you could open up your stomach and IV it in.
"Yeah," he says. "It saves on how many dishes I have to do."
"The Secret's Out" and Other Silly Slogans
Mom and I are driving somewhere in my abused little Mazda SUV.
"So what grade did you get on your paper?" Mom asks, referring to my Victoria's Secret marketing essay.
"A 'B'," I say.
"What for?"
"I didn't fulfill certain requirements of the assignment."
"Oh," Mom comments, "I would have thought you'd get a 'C'."
"Well, I did do a complete re-write from the copy you read."
"He must really like your writing."
"It was a huge blow to my ego."
"So what grade did you get on your paper?" Mom asks, referring to my Victoria's Secret marketing essay.
"A 'B'," I say.
"What for?"
"I didn't fulfill certain requirements of the assignment."
"Oh," Mom comments, "I would have thought you'd get a 'C'."
"Well, I did do a complete re-write from the copy you read."
"He must really like your writing."
"It was a huge blow to my ego."
Monday, September 12, 2016
The Room Turns Black
We're on the bed. I slide over on top of him, and I see his smiling face--he has been smiling almost the entire time I've been there.
Then he shuts off the TV. The room turns black. His countenance disappears.
"I want to be able to see you, turn it back on," I ask.
Then he shuts off the TV. The room turns black. His countenance disappears.
"I want to be able to see you, turn it back on," I ask.
Worrying Over the Ballcap
I keep running my fingers through his dark hair, over and over again, which reminds me of the times as a cowboy, I would stroke the manes of the horses, and it would quiet them a little.
His head is close to mine (but not touching), as we are both in bed, and watching the flashes of pictures from a TV, not bothering to make sense of it.
He repetitively talks about how he needs a haircut, and worries over his ball cap.
His head is close to mine (but not touching), as we are both in bed, and watching the flashes of pictures from a TV, not bothering to make sense of it.
He repetitively talks about how he needs a haircut, and worries over his ball cap.
Sunday, September 11, 2016
No Need
"I guess there is no need for further discussion," I say, slightly frustrated. I get up and walk off, away from the bedroom. We are debating something related to sex, something I don't remember clearly.
He finds me to the door, and says, "It's two-thirty in the morning, why don't you stay?"
He has this look on his face, one I can't easily explain, a little knowing smile on a dazzling, handsome face. I have an overwhelming urge to kiss him, so I do.
He finds me to the door, and says, "It's two-thirty in the morning, why don't you stay?"
He has this look on his face, one I can't easily explain, a little knowing smile on a dazzling, handsome face. I have an overwhelming urge to kiss him, so I do.
Saturday, September 10, 2016
Haven't Heard in Years
It's something like eight-thirty in the evening and I'm completely beguiled by his voice over the phone--it's fast, and there's a flighty procession of thoughts that he spills out relentlessly, sounding out of time or out of breath, I can't tell. He's swiftly charming, talking business and deals and displaying his acute intellect that I haven't heard in years.
I hang up the phone, promising I'll be at his house in thirty or forty-five minutes.
I turn to the clothes in my closet, the vast majority of which I can't fit into. I keep the small jeans and tight shirts like fair won prizes.
I have nothing to wear, and the shirt I have on shows spots of sweat and smeared make up. All of my nice shirts are in the laundry--I wore them first for school.
I'm left with one causal long-sleeved sweater, and I decide to keep my jeans because, of course, I'm not having sex or undressing at all tonight. I promptly cover my sweater with a University sweat-shirt so my figure is almost completely hidden.
I freshen up my make up and re-comb my hair back into a short ponytail.
I have been ruminating about the moment he recognizes me in the door--me with shorter hair and glasses and, of course, the added weight.
Will I see something in his eyes like a twitch of rejection?
I hang up the phone, promising I'll be at his house in thirty or forty-five minutes.
I turn to the clothes in my closet, the vast majority of which I can't fit into. I keep the small jeans and tight shirts like fair won prizes.
I have nothing to wear, and the shirt I have on shows spots of sweat and smeared make up. All of my nice shirts are in the laundry--I wore them first for school.
I'm left with one causal long-sleeved sweater, and I decide to keep my jeans because, of course, I'm not having sex or undressing at all tonight. I promptly cover my sweater with a University sweat-shirt so my figure is almost completely hidden.
I freshen up my make up and re-comb my hair back into a short ponytail.
I have been ruminating about the moment he recognizes me in the door--me with shorter hair and glasses and, of course, the added weight.
Will I see something in his eyes like a twitch of rejection?
Like All the Others
We are in bed, together, with just the glow of the TV on for light.
"Why can't you compartmentalize?" He asks me.
"I can, but then you'd be just like all the others."
"Why can't you compartmentalize?" He asks me.
"I can, but then you'd be just like all the others."
I'd Marry You
"I bet you don't even want to get married," he says after talking about the Wife.
I'd marry you, I want to say.
I'd marry you, I want to say.
Sex and the Upset
He stops in the middle of sex, sitting up. "You're shaking. You're upset. You're anxious. I don't want you to be upset because of me."
"I'm fine," I defend myself. I didn't even notice I was trembling.
He just repeats himself, and pulls away.
"I'm fine," I defend myself. I didn't even notice I was trembling.
He just repeats himself, and pulls away.
The Awful Cab
As I was getting ready to leave and drive across town to see him, I notice an email from him, asking for me to pick up a bottle of wine (if I want any, he says, because he's out).
On the way, I stop at a little upscale liquor store. I hastily wander around the aisles, having no idea what he drinks. I finally settle on a bottle.
He opens it in the kitchen, and pours two glasses even after I tell him I don't drink. I sip on the cab, and then gag. "Oh my god," I say with my hand protectively on my throat. "This is awful! I'm so sorry."
He then sips, and says flatly, "It's fine." A little while later, he asks how much I spent on it.
"Twenty-five dollars," I respond.
"Why!?" He seems genuinely shocked. "Don't ever spend that much on a bottle of wine for me again!" He searches around the house for cash to pay me back, but never finds any.
On the way, I stop at a little upscale liquor store. I hastily wander around the aisles, having no idea what he drinks. I finally settle on a bottle.
He opens it in the kitchen, and pours two glasses even after I tell him I don't drink. I sip on the cab, and then gag. "Oh my god," I say with my hand protectively on my throat. "This is awful! I'm so sorry."
He then sips, and says flatly, "It's fine." A little while later, he asks how much I spent on it.
"Twenty-five dollars," I respond.
"Why!?" He seems genuinely shocked. "Don't ever spend that much on a bottle of wine for me again!" He searches around the house for cash to pay me back, but never finds any.
Somewhere in The Dark
"Are you saying you weren't in love with me?" I say boldly, holding myself tightly by crossing my arms.
Morpheus is somewhere in the dark, in another room.
I can hear him gliding towards me.
Morpheus is somewhere in the dark, in another room.
I can hear him gliding towards me.
Dogs in Heaven
His golden retriever jumps up on the bed with me, happily wagging his tail.
Earlier in the kitchen, the cream colored pup held my hand in his mouth, just applying enough pressure so I know he's got me, but not biting down hard.
"Is he usually allowed on the bed?" I ask because his other dog, who died years ago, wasn't even wanted in the house at all.
"No, he only gets up there when the kids are around," he replies. Then he directs the dog, "Get down from there." He repeats himself. The dog just pants and wags, and finally as if it was his idea all along, he leaps off the bed and runs to Morpheus, who stands in the doorway.
Earlier in the kitchen, the cream colored pup held my hand in his mouth, just applying enough pressure so I know he's got me, but not biting down hard.
"Is he usually allowed on the bed?" I ask because his other dog, who died years ago, wasn't even wanted in the house at all.
"No, he only gets up there when the kids are around," he replies. Then he directs the dog, "Get down from there." He repeats himself. The dog just pants and wags, and finally as if it was his idea all along, he leaps off the bed and runs to Morpheus, who stands in the doorway.
Moments with Morpheus
He's sleeping soundly, snoring slightly (a murmur that is similar to that of Beck sleeping), curled up on his side, facing me--but not touching.
I wonder briefly if it could be like this forever or maybe just for a few precious, irreplaceable years.
But I'm not wondering, the wondering comes later. I'm just resting my head on the pillow, watching the outline of him in the dim dawn.
I wonder briefly if it could be like this forever or maybe just for a few precious, irreplaceable years.
But I'm not wondering, the wondering comes later. I'm just resting my head on the pillow, watching the outline of him in the dim dawn.
Friday, September 9, 2016
Forty Pounds Heavier
I generally don't advertise the fact that I have gained weight, especially not how much.
The Nurse Practitioner reads over the paperwork I had just filled out--pausing briefly on my list of medications and then turns to another page, which on it was a simple question, "have you lost or gain weight recently?" I responded "yes" and then wrote "40lbs."
She looks up at me, incredulously, "You've gained forty pounds?"
I nodd.
"Did the doctor mention why? Is it the meds?"
"They said it was the meds," I agreed. I didn't start gaining weight until Stanford put me on Seroquel. You don't have to search very hard before you find an innumerable amount of personal accounts of gaining weight on Seroquel.
The Nurse Practitioner reads over the paperwork I had just filled out--pausing briefly on my list of medications and then turns to another page, which on it was a simple question, "have you lost or gain weight recently?" I responded "yes" and then wrote "40lbs."
She looks up at me, incredulously, "You've gained forty pounds?"
I nodd.
"Did the doctor mention why? Is it the meds?"
"They said it was the meds," I agreed. I didn't start gaining weight until Stanford put me on Seroquel. You don't have to search very hard before you find an innumerable amount of personal accounts of gaining weight on Seroquel.
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Why I Am Being Difficult in English 201A
I'm staring at her tits as she's talking to the English instructor (the same individual who taught English 156). She's obviously proud of them, letting them bulge behind a short, white t-shirt. Sex that might be for sale, depending on the bidder.
Does anyone of us ever really know the extent and severity of our sexual prowess?
Out of all people, I shouldn't judge what someone else wears. After all, I used to dress up and play stripper--back when I was younger and thinner--oh! A long time ago!
Sometime during the same class period, the English instructor walks over to the desk I'm temporarily occupying (because we've been forced into groups for peer review of our essays, and I had to blindly join a preordained few female students, together already discussing glumly and humbly their works of art), and he places my essay next to me. I don't read his remarks, only notice the frequency of them--and my precious lines that he's crossed out.
All of the sudden I'm flooded with a mixture of anger, despair, and embarrassment. After all, I have to write the best essay--I have to top those eighteen year olds in some aspect in life even if I can no longer have their tight thighs and wary waists! I spend hours doing research on marketing strategies because I had no background in the subject. I then spent hours writing the fucking essay. For a mere ten points. I slide between desks and walk toward him. "Is there anything about this essay you liked or maybe I should just start over?" I can't tell if this is my attempt at humor.
I end up arguing with him, which is something you never want to do with a professor if it's over an assignment. Professors make up the rules, and you, in varying states of glee, are supposed to follow them for the sake of everyone getting along in this caste system and for, of course, the reward at the end--the grade.
I care about a lot of things. I care about my relationship with the English instructor, which is why I sent him an email same day, apologizing for my behavior.
"I want more of your voice," he said to me about my paper, not a harsh criticism. More like a gentle push in the right direction.
But what I possibly care more about is not sounding like an idiot, typing away on a subject I don't know, and in my own ignorance not even noticing my literary limitations. That is embarrassing. I have to become a quick expert on the subject of intimate apparel, and write a commanding essay.
I value an intelligent analysis over even the grade.
I have no deep or profound thoughts about Victoria's Secret's marketing and packaging, which is why I read other people's points of view and opinions. Then I started into a textbook on marketing so I could understand why Victoria's Secret did the tricks they did and how that affects profitability. All of this takes research. By myself, I only have so much to say about walking through a VS store. Yes, they use skinny models, yes they play pop music in the background, yes, they hire employees who wear heavy make up, and that's about it. Nothing interest or profound, and then, at worst, I write a paper that sounds just like the rest.
Can't you see my bitter agony?
Does anyone of us ever really know the extent and severity of our sexual prowess?
Out of all people, I shouldn't judge what someone else wears. After all, I used to dress up and play stripper--back when I was younger and thinner--oh! A long time ago!
Sometime during the same class period, the English instructor walks over to the desk I'm temporarily occupying (because we've been forced into groups for peer review of our essays, and I had to blindly join a preordained few female students, together already discussing glumly and humbly their works of art), and he places my essay next to me. I don't read his remarks, only notice the frequency of them--and my precious lines that he's crossed out.
All of the sudden I'm flooded with a mixture of anger, despair, and embarrassment. After all, I have to write the best essay--I have to top those eighteen year olds in some aspect in life even if I can no longer have their tight thighs and wary waists! I spend hours doing research on marketing strategies because I had no background in the subject. I then spent hours writing the fucking essay. For a mere ten points. I slide between desks and walk toward him. "Is there anything about this essay you liked or maybe I should just start over?" I can't tell if this is my attempt at humor.
I end up arguing with him, which is something you never want to do with a professor if it's over an assignment. Professors make up the rules, and you, in varying states of glee, are supposed to follow them for the sake of everyone getting along in this caste system and for, of course, the reward at the end--the grade.
I care about a lot of things. I care about my relationship with the English instructor, which is why I sent him an email same day, apologizing for my behavior.
"I want more of your voice," he said to me about my paper, not a harsh criticism. More like a gentle push in the right direction.
But what I possibly care more about is not sounding like an idiot, typing away on a subject I don't know, and in my own ignorance not even noticing my literary limitations. That is embarrassing. I have to become a quick expert on the subject of intimate apparel, and write a commanding essay.
I value an intelligent analysis over even the grade.
I have no deep or profound thoughts about Victoria's Secret's marketing and packaging, which is why I read other people's points of view and opinions. Then I started into a textbook on marketing so I could understand why Victoria's Secret did the tricks they did and how that affects profitability. All of this takes research. By myself, I only have so much to say about walking through a VS store. Yes, they use skinny models, yes they play pop music in the background, yes, they hire employees who wear heavy make up, and that's about it. Nothing interest or profound, and then, at worst, I write a paper that sounds just like the rest.
Can't you see my bitter agony?
"The Birth-Mark"
"Much as he had accomplished, she could not but observe that his most splendid successes were almost invariably failures, if compared with the ideal at which he aimed."
--Hawthorne
--Hawthorne
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Chapter 2: Brought to You B(u)y
"Males know that the idea of anonymous women lusting after them, eager for sex without commitment, is fantasy."
--Signs of Life in the USA, pg. 188
Obviously, the authors have never visited a bar on a weekend night nor stayed up to date on certain internet avenues for casual sex between two consenting adults
--Signs of Life in the USA, pg. 188
Obviously, the authors have never visited a bar on a weekend night nor stayed up to date on certain internet avenues for casual sex between two consenting adults
Sunday, September 4, 2016
"Bartleby, the Scrivener" Part Ii
"It is not seldom the case that when a man is browbeaten in some unprecedented and violently unreasonable way, he begins to stagger in his own plainest faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely to surmise that, wonderful as it may be, all the justice and all the reason is on the other side. Accordingly, if any disinterested persons are present, he turns to them for some reinforcement for his own faltering mind."
--Melville
My Podiatrist, Part II
She's looking right at me with my feet in her hands. "You know what you do in med school?" She raises her brows for me. "You study your ass off."
About English 201A, Part III
He's leaning over my paper with a pen in his hand. He makes a few marks, which are indecipherable to me. He writes a partial box around the paragraph. "I don't understand this here." He is pointing. "What did you mean?"
Fuck, if I know. I'm just trying to be clever.
Fuck, if I know. I'm just trying to be clever.
My Podiatrist
My podiatrist is fiddling around with my feet, and wanting to make casual conversation to distract me from the pain.
"What are you studying?" She nodds her head over toward the marketing book on the chair in the corner.
I explain.
"What do you want to do with it?" She asks, referring to my plans to get a BA at the University.
"I have no idea," I confess. "Originally I wanted to go to med school."
She talks to me about the challenges of med school, even adding that "everyone thinks that they can't do it, and cries." It will be the most difficult thing you've ever attempted. She tells me not to be discouraged about the 36 hour shifts during residency. "They've changed the laws now, four years ago, they can only keep you so long and then they kick you out for at least eight hours."
She indulges that she didn't start med school until she was thirty-eight years old because she had a family first.
Finally she adds, "We need strong women."
"What are you studying?" She nodds her head over toward the marketing book on the chair in the corner.
I explain.
"What do you want to do with it?" She asks, referring to my plans to get a BA at the University.
"I have no idea," I confess. "Originally I wanted to go to med school."
She talks to me about the challenges of med school, even adding that "everyone thinks that they can't do it, and cries." It will be the most difficult thing you've ever attempted. She tells me not to be discouraged about the 36 hour shifts during residency. "They've changed the laws now, four years ago, they can only keep you so long and then they kick you out for at least eight hours."
She indulges that she didn't start med school until she was thirty-eight years old because she had a family first.
Finally she adds, "We need strong women."
Thursday, September 1, 2016
"Bartleby, the Scrivener"
"They err who would assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent selfishness of the human heart. It rather proceeds from a certain hopelessness of remedying excessive and organic ill."
--Melville
--Melville
In Lab
I'm sitting in the computer lab that is directly across from the college's library, reading Melville for English 201B when I hear a loud, boisterous laughter behind me.
He seems quite giddy.
Someone quickly speaks, raising his voice slightly, "Hey, shut up."
After a while the woozy gentleman responds, "Sorry for laughing so much," to no one in particular.
He seems quite giddy.
Someone quickly speaks, raising his voice slightly, "Hey, shut up."
After a while the woozy gentleman responds, "Sorry for laughing so much," to no one in particular.
About English 201A, Part II
They're all so young and beautiful, coming to class in chic, casual clothing and a face spray-painted with liquid foundation and the eyes done just right--dark and playful as if flirting only requires them to raise their eyebrows and wait.
How can he not be enchanted by them--these innocent darlings who grew up with access to soft porn and the Pill?
How can he not be enchanted by them--these innocent darlings who grew up with access to soft porn and the Pill?
About English 201A
We are sitting in his temporary office.
The English instructor has the first draft of my essay in his hands. He's not looking at me when he says, "What do you like about it and what don't you like?" This is obviously the standard, exploited question.
I'm back in the small, cramped room with my new therapist, who isn't even a MFT, much less a psychologist, and he says to me all too eagerly, "What are three positive affirmations you can say about yourself?"
I lie. There's nothing that I can come up with that's truthful.
In office hours I lie again, telling him what perhaps he wants to hear--which is some semblance of an answer about the positive qualities of the paper. "I've read all the news articles I could find on Victoria's Secret and my response is unique," I try.
Instead he should know that I just write, often being unable to interpret my own words when I am finish. I just write what is floating through my head like brewing clouds before a storm, ugly and thick and potentially dangerous.
"What don't you like about it?" He continues. Everything. My introduction is full but makes little sense. I do not know how I would even tie it to the rest of the paper.
I'm back in the small, cramped room with my new therapist, who isn't even a MFT, much less a psychologist, and he says to me all too eagerly, "What are three positive affirmations you can say about yourself?"
I lie. There's nothing that I can come up with that's truthful.
In office hours I lie again, telling him what perhaps he wants to hear--which is some semblance of an answer about the positive qualities of the paper. "I've read all the news articles I could find on Victoria's Secret and my response is unique," I try.
Instead he should know that I just write, often being unable to interpret my own words when I am finish. I just write what is floating through my head like brewing clouds before a storm, ugly and thick and potentially dangerous.
"What don't you like about it?" He continues. Everything. My introduction is full but makes little sense. I do not know how I would even tie it to the rest of the paper.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)