Ok, help me out, people. What's the deal with autographs? I was watching images of the hoards outside a certain recent awards show, screaching for various celebrities to come sign something. I don't get it. I actually *could* understand the "he *touched* me!" thing (think swooning teenage girl straining for the elusive hand of a rock star, as they make the obligatory mass high-five reach into the crowds.) There is a sense of having made contact, there. And I guess in those cases, an autograph is a souvenir of an actual contact made.
But take, for instance, mail-in requests for autographs. If you aren't going to sell them (which is a whole 'nother rant), what's in it? (Especially since a majority are not handwritten, anyway, so contact was never made with the celebrity.) What is the thing, feeling, etc of interest?
Don't get me wrong. I'm not bashing the adoration of celebrities. (I may, at some point. But I'm not now.) There are several people I would really love to meet. I would love the opportunity to tell them what they did or made was fabulous. And it would be amazing to make eye contact with them, and hear about that experience. I just don't get that from having proof that they can, or could at one point, sign their own name.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
On motivation...
I rediscovered this morning that there's a trick to motivating yourself for those 0 (that's "zero") F runs. You only really need to talk yourself into the first half. After that, you'll realize that you are now a cold, wet (sweaty), asthmatic chic several miles from home. And getting colder and more asthmatic with every second you walk. At that point "Run home... fast!" seems like the most sensible and natural response in the world.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
f* no, part 2
The shooting in Arizona yesterday, particularly the murder of Christina Taylor Green, has really hit home with me. It is so ironic, so painfully ironic, that this took place right after my blog about how it felt to bring a newborn child into the post-9/11 US. Christina was born on 9/11, and was featured as a face of hope for our nation. I thought I was writing about the past.
I held my kids a little closer today, remembering violence isn't past tense. It can always be just around the corner. When can we heal, already? We grow a scab, then it gets ripped off again. The same old wound, a little bigger and little more resistant to healing every time.
Or maybe it's me. Maybe the world was never any different, and what I feel is only a losing battle with my own naivete. If so, I'd like my blinders back, please. This hurts.
May we honor Christina by doing everything in our power to make the world more peaceful than her too-brief 9 years in it. And now, if you'll pardon the lack of poetry, I'd really like to puke and cry a little. Dammit, we really needed our faces of hope. I hope we find our best humanity, and soon.
I held my kids a little closer today, remembering violence isn't past tense. It can always be just around the corner. When can we heal, already? We grow a scab, then it gets ripped off again. The same old wound, a little bigger and little more resistant to healing every time.
Or maybe it's me. Maybe the world was never any different, and what I feel is only a losing battle with my own naivete. If so, I'd like my blinders back, please. This hurts.
May we honor Christina by doing everything in our power to make the world more peaceful than her too-brief 9 years in it. And now, if you'll pardon the lack of poetry, I'd really like to puke and cry a little. Dammit, we really needed our faces of hope. I hope we find our best humanity, and soon.
Friday, January 7, 2011
uninvited blessings
In three days, it will be my youngest child's birthday. This is always an intense time for me, for several reasons. She is my last. Her birth was also the most wonderful birth experience I've had. I think mostly, though, it's the miracle of her very existence, and the anniversary of my giving myself over to her and to our family as it was meant to be... not as I planned it to be.
After my 2nd child's birth, my hubby was to get the Big V. We meant to get around to it, but just didn't. She was still nursing almost completely at a year old, with very little solid food. (She's still the pickiest eater!) I had not had a cycle yet. So while we meant to do it, we just... didn't.
Apparently there's an incredibly slim chance of starting to cycle while still nursing that much. And then, if you do, there's an incredibly slim chance of that first cycle starting egg first (rather than the more obvious bleeding first.) And, if you cycle, and if it starts egg first, there is an incredibly slim chance of that egg being viable and the womb being fertile enough to support the pregnancy to term. Yeah... So....
At some point, I felt strange. I had no reason to expect to be pregnant. I was exhausted and had been so ill most of my last pregnancy that I usually felt strange. But something inside said "test." So I tested. Three times. I was pregnant. I broke down and cried for hours, and I do not mean tears of joy. We were barely affording two kids, had just signed a purchase agreement on a 3 bedroom house which was meant to save us money. I had a narrowly-margined plan all lined up for how I was going to pull off my family of four. I cried, and cried, and cried. When I couldn't cry anymore, I just stared blankly ahead. I was in a depressed fog for weeks, at least. I considered abortion, and so did my husband, but we both agreed that wasn't for us. This was to be our path, even though we had no idea how to handle it.
The pregnancy was uneventful, and sometimes I even just forgot about it. It was hard to be excited since I was still absolutely terrified, and no one else really focused on it since it was my third. So the pregnancy went largely unnoticed. At some point, I decided that, since this was happening, anyway, I may as well have the birth experience I'd wanted with my 2nd child, which was changed by illness. Also, I was pretty fed up with doctors and hospitals. So I saw midwives, only as often as I had to, and arranged for a birthing center delivery. Low key. No bright lights, no wires, no drugs. I wanted to be left alone, more than anything.
On January 10th, around 7pm, I thought I had to pee. Turned out to be a head, and we got the kids back up and in the car and off to the midwife center. After about 90 minutes, my youngest child was born. I won't say it was bliss at first sight. I was still terrified. I was still, frankly, kind of ticked off. I know I was depressed. But I was curious, and that was a start. It started as curiosity, then as acceptance, then as a sort of "we're in this together, Kid" partnership. Over time, it has grown into a truly unique relationship. I watch the effect she has on people, how she draws them in and just... knows them. She is so intuitive and loving. When she grows up and puts words to her relationship with her mother, she will likely describe it as just being the baby or something. I will know differently. She is a miracle, and I am her biggest fan. She is bringing something to this world that the world needs, more than I needed my plan. And my family was never meant to be any other way.
After my 2nd child's birth, my hubby was to get the Big V. We meant to get around to it, but just didn't. She was still nursing almost completely at a year old, with very little solid food. (She's still the pickiest eater!) I had not had a cycle yet. So while we meant to do it, we just... didn't.
Apparently there's an incredibly slim chance of starting to cycle while still nursing that much. And then, if you do, there's an incredibly slim chance of that first cycle starting egg first (rather than the more obvious bleeding first.) And, if you cycle, and if it starts egg first, there is an incredibly slim chance of that egg being viable and the womb being fertile enough to support the pregnancy to term. Yeah... So....
At some point, I felt strange. I had no reason to expect to be pregnant. I was exhausted and had been so ill most of my last pregnancy that I usually felt strange. But something inside said "test." So I tested. Three times. I was pregnant. I broke down and cried for hours, and I do not mean tears of joy. We were barely affording two kids, had just signed a purchase agreement on a 3 bedroom house which was meant to save us money. I had a narrowly-margined plan all lined up for how I was going to pull off my family of four. I cried, and cried, and cried. When I couldn't cry anymore, I just stared blankly ahead. I was in a depressed fog for weeks, at least. I considered abortion, and so did my husband, but we both agreed that wasn't for us. This was to be our path, even though we had no idea how to handle it.
The pregnancy was uneventful, and sometimes I even just forgot about it. It was hard to be excited since I was still absolutely terrified, and no one else really focused on it since it was my third. So the pregnancy went largely unnoticed. At some point, I decided that, since this was happening, anyway, I may as well have the birth experience I'd wanted with my 2nd child, which was changed by illness. Also, I was pretty fed up with doctors and hospitals. So I saw midwives, only as often as I had to, and arranged for a birthing center delivery. Low key. No bright lights, no wires, no drugs. I wanted to be left alone, more than anything.
On January 10th, around 7pm, I thought I had to pee. Turned out to be a head, and we got the kids back up and in the car and off to the midwife center. After about 90 minutes, my youngest child was born. I won't say it was bliss at first sight. I was still terrified. I was still, frankly, kind of ticked off. I know I was depressed. But I was curious, and that was a start. It started as curiosity, then as acceptance, then as a sort of "we're in this together, Kid" partnership. Over time, it has grown into a truly unique relationship. I watch the effect she has on people, how she draws them in and just... knows them. She is so intuitive and loving. When she grows up and puts words to her relationship with her mother, she will likely describe it as just being the baby or something. I will know differently. She is a miracle, and I am her biggest fan. She is bringing something to this world that the world needs, more than I needed my plan. And my family was never meant to be any other way.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
city of steel
city of blood and muscle, sweat and smoke
I laugh along at jokes about the smog
mocking the very air that first filled my lungs
when She welcomed me into the world
Even as I join in I feel the pang of guilt
of laughing at the expense of one I love
the bitter taste of betrayal far worse
than smog or smoke or steal could ever be
My bones, straight and strong, of steel
My blood flowed in mills, and mines, on ships
in men who came before, who wore
the city on their threadbare shirts, strong and tall
City of steel, city of stolen dignity
I feel your pulse within me and within you
hidden under high-tech, shiny reimagining
land where my fathers died
land where I laughed and lied,
the prodigal daughter, full of pride,
to thee I sing
I laugh along at jokes about the smog
mocking the very air that first filled my lungs
when She welcomed me into the world
Even as I join in I feel the pang of guilt
of laughing at the expense of one I love
the bitter taste of betrayal far worse
than smog or smoke or steal could ever be
My bones, straight and strong, of steel
My blood flowed in mills, and mines, on ships
in men who came before, who wore
the city on their threadbare shirts, strong and tall
City of steel, city of stolen dignity
I feel your pulse within me and within you
hidden under high-tech, shiny reimagining
land where my fathers died
land where I laughed and lied,
the prodigal daughter, full of pride,
to thee I sing
In the extra's window
You know how, in the movies, when there is a disaster - a bomb explodes, or a UFO crashes into a building, something along those lines - the camera pans a long a series of human reactions from non-characters? These are the extra's roles. It may be a couple eating at a patio cafe, a mother pushing a stroller, children playing in a park. Usually, these extras are women and children, our society's most vulnerable. We see the shock, horror, fear, chaos and confusion in their faces, the human face of the disaster. Then, within 10 seconds or maybe even less, the camera moves on and gets back to the proper story with the main characters as they go about trying to save or destroy the world, as written. We never see those faces again; they were only used to set the stage for the stars.
Do you ever wonder what happened to those people, to the extras, the mood-setters? The camera zooms in on a window into a living room. It is an average house, on an average street, in the kind of city where most people's lives go basically the same way their parents' did and not much ever happens. On a threadbare burgundy couch, a woman sits nursing an infant. She is gazing sleepily at the television, juggling the baby a little to reach her coffee on floor by her feet. (They don't have a coffeetable, despite the woman's constant nagging at her husband to make one.) On the tv, the morning news program chatters on. The older gray haired man banters in the fatherly-yet-flirtatious way with his blond female costar. The background is an image of the Twin Towers in New York City. I wonder if that is really a window, or if it's a picture? the woman muses.
Then, without the breeze so much as shifting, one of the buildings seems to.. crack? fold? There is a fireball there now. Is it a picture? Maybe a preview of a movie? Buildings don't just crack. How does this fit with what they were just saying? I don't get it. The fire is everywhere now, and the calm, kindly older man changes. He taps into some other phase of life where he was a reporter. His demeanor changes completely, and forces the viewer to realize that something has happened in Real Life. Time stands still. The woman's face freezes, except her eyes which flit around trying to make this make sense. She holds the baby tighter, to increase the sense of him, so she doesn't drop him. If she were a robot, this is when she would say "does not compute." As a human, what she says is "oh fuck. I don't...what? oh no. no. oh fuck no."
But it isn't over. These were planes. They hit the buildings. They were intended to hit the buildings. And they did. And there are more planes. Another hit the Pentagon. More fire, more chaos and crying, but still it isn't over. There is a map on the television now, and it looks familiar, even through the shock-induced blur. The image is... here. Another plane is near here. Near home. The television is talking (it doesn't matter now which faces are which... and she will never remember) about possible "targets" for the other plane. Places she knows very well... where she works, a few miles from her, from her home from her family. Still, her eyes barely flit and flicker, and she tries to remember to breathe, at least a little. Then that plane is down, too. Close to home, but not at her home. She breathes a shakey breath, and stands up, just to remember how.
The camera zooms out now, to the main scene, where the action is and where people will remember. In the silence, alone with her newborn, the woman paces in her echoing, empty house a while. Then she starts making phone calls, trying to remember who is where, who is likely safe, and who may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Things won't be the same, not for a long time and likely not in her lifetime. Something has changed, not only for the people directly affected in the main scenes, but for the extras like her, the irrelevant ones.
I overreact to violent movies and television. I realize this. There is some place where fear and terror and chaos as "entertainment" don't work for me. The camera may go on to the main characters, to the stars of the show. The heroes may even save the world, after a good fight. But for the extras, the woman on the couch, the couple at the patio restaurant and the mother with the stroller, changes happened in those brief moments which won't un-happen just because there's nobody watching. I can't help but remember those faces the camera panned over in those 10 seconds. They feel more real to me than the heroes. I know it's me. It's just me. It's all me. But then again, it's me.
Do you ever wonder what happened to those people, to the extras, the mood-setters? The camera zooms in on a window into a living room. It is an average house, on an average street, in the kind of city where most people's lives go basically the same way their parents' did and not much ever happens. On a threadbare burgundy couch, a woman sits nursing an infant. She is gazing sleepily at the television, juggling the baby a little to reach her coffee on floor by her feet. (They don't have a coffeetable, despite the woman's constant nagging at her husband to make one.) On the tv, the morning news program chatters on. The older gray haired man banters in the fatherly-yet-flirtatious way with his blond female costar. The background is an image of the Twin Towers in New York City. I wonder if that is really a window, or if it's a picture? the woman muses.
Then, without the breeze so much as shifting, one of the buildings seems to.. crack? fold? There is a fireball there now. Is it a picture? Maybe a preview of a movie? Buildings don't just crack. How does this fit with what they were just saying? I don't get it. The fire is everywhere now, and the calm, kindly older man changes. He taps into some other phase of life where he was a reporter. His demeanor changes completely, and forces the viewer to realize that something has happened in Real Life. Time stands still. The woman's face freezes, except her eyes which flit around trying to make this make sense. She holds the baby tighter, to increase the sense of him, so she doesn't drop him. If she were a robot, this is when she would say "does not compute." As a human, what she says is "oh fuck. I don't...what? oh no. no. oh fuck no."
But it isn't over. These were planes. They hit the buildings. They were intended to hit the buildings. And they did. And there are more planes. Another hit the Pentagon. More fire, more chaos and crying, but still it isn't over. There is a map on the television now, and it looks familiar, even through the shock-induced blur. The image is... here. Another plane is near here. Near home. The television is talking (it doesn't matter now which faces are which... and she will never remember) about possible "targets" for the other plane. Places she knows very well... where she works, a few miles from her, from her home from her family. Still, her eyes barely flit and flicker, and she tries to remember to breathe, at least a little. Then that plane is down, too. Close to home, but not at her home. She breathes a shakey breath, and stands up, just to remember how.
The camera zooms out now, to the main scene, where the action is and where people will remember. In the silence, alone with her newborn, the woman paces in her echoing, empty house a while. Then she starts making phone calls, trying to remember who is where, who is likely safe, and who may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Things won't be the same, not for a long time and likely not in her lifetime. Something has changed, not only for the people directly affected in the main scenes, but for the extras like her, the irrelevant ones.
I overreact to violent movies and television. I realize this. There is some place where fear and terror and chaos as "entertainment" don't work for me. The camera may go on to the main characters, to the stars of the show. The heroes may even save the world, after a good fight. But for the extras, the woman on the couch, the couple at the patio restaurant and the mother with the stroller, changes happened in those brief moments which won't un-happen just because there's nobody watching. I can't help but remember those faces the camera panned over in those 10 seconds. They feel more real to me than the heroes. I know it's me. It's just me. It's all me. But then again, it's me.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Running wild, running away, running headlong into running
So many expressions involve running, you'd think it was important or something. I run. I can't yet call myself "a runner." Actually, I still blush and dodge when that label is applied to me. I'm not sure what the distance requirement, or speed limit, or other qualification might be to be "a runner," but it isn't me. All the same, I do run.
I started running for exercise, I guess. There are those extra 10-15 pounds, the ones my doctor calls "probably muscle" and my mother calls "just nature." Like most unathletic 30-something women, I was looking for a way that my body could shrink without requiring much of me. My choice of exercise was made practically... running is (or can be) free. And running need not be a "sport" unless you want it to. Running seemed safe, noncommittal. The game could never go too fast for me, I couldn't lose and, timed strategically, nobody ever needed to see me sweat. These were my criteria... cheap and anonymous, and easily abandoned.
An amazing thing has happened, though. I have not become thin, but I have become strong. I, who started playing the violin largely in order to conflict with gym class... I, who picked up a boyfriend so that he could cover me in volleyball... I, am strong. There are still the spots that make me cringe (hello to you, too, flabby armpitish/ribcageish nemesis!) But overall, I see and feel a connectedness between my limbs and my core, between my mind and my body, my heart and my lungs. My body is not the Vespa I wanted, but it's no 1980's trash truck, either.
To this date, I've only lost about 8 pounds. Those pesky 10 pounds are still there. Maybe they will get off me, and maybe they won't. I hope they do, only because my clothing options would improve without them. But when I run these days, I am not thinking of pounds. I think of power. I think of myself pushing the sidewalk behind me, and pulling the wind around me then flicking it off my heels. When I run, I participate in something bigger than me. I am the conductor of a body that knows what to do. My body, the same body that puked at the thought of gym class for 12 years, knows how to run if I just get out of the way. It is our nature. There is a feeling, at that very first step, that is not "starting to" run. It isn't forced, it is enveloping. It is "entering into running." Running exists, and I join in. And it feels good! If anyone had told me 20 years ago that I would exercise and like it, I would've died laughing.
I started running for exercise, I guess. There are those extra 10-15 pounds, the ones my doctor calls "probably muscle" and my mother calls "just nature." Like most unathletic 30-something women, I was looking for a way that my body could shrink without requiring much of me. My choice of exercise was made practically... running is (or can be) free. And running need not be a "sport" unless you want it to. Running seemed safe, noncommittal. The game could never go too fast for me, I couldn't lose and, timed strategically, nobody ever needed to see me sweat. These were my criteria... cheap and anonymous, and easily abandoned.
An amazing thing has happened, though. I have not become thin, but I have become strong. I, who started playing the violin largely in order to conflict with gym class... I, who picked up a boyfriend so that he could cover me in volleyball... I, am strong. There are still the spots that make me cringe (hello to you, too, flabby armpitish/ribcageish nemesis!) But overall, I see and feel a connectedness between my limbs and my core, between my mind and my body, my heart and my lungs. My body is not the Vespa I wanted, but it's no 1980's trash truck, either.
To this date, I've only lost about 8 pounds. Those pesky 10 pounds are still there. Maybe they will get off me, and maybe they won't. I hope they do, only because my clothing options would improve without them. But when I run these days, I am not thinking of pounds. I think of power. I think of myself pushing the sidewalk behind me, and pulling the wind around me then flicking it off my heels. When I run, I participate in something bigger than me. I am the conductor of a body that knows what to do. My body, the same body that puked at the thought of gym class for 12 years, knows how to run if I just get out of the way. It is our nature. There is a feeling, at that very first step, that is not "starting to" run. It isn't forced, it is enveloping. It is "entering into running." Running exists, and I join in. And it feels good! If anyone had told me 20 years ago that I would exercise and like it, I would've died laughing.
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