Remember, remember

Happy Guy Fawkes Day!

Sam's trip to Boise

Sam's trip to Boise has been way too long. First of all, I love him and miss him.

But second, my computer died on Thursday. Time sink eliminated. So I read a thick novel I bought several months ago. 950 pages took me until last night, so I'm glad that my computer was finished today. For almost $750, they replaced the logic board. I was considering simply buying a new computer altogether, for an extra $350, but I'd have to buy a lot of proprietary software that would have been lost in the shuffle from the old computer to the new. And the new ones don't come in black. (That's the definition of superficial, so let's not spend too much time thinking that one over.) I'm not sure how I feel about my decision. But it's done, and my security blanket is up and running again.

Now I have to grade papers and clean up the house.

I just have to share this, even in the ether, so to speak

From Beckett's Molloy:

"Chameleon in spite of himself, there you have Molloy, viewed from a certain angle. And in winter, under my greatcoat, I wrapped myself in swathes of newspaper, and did not shed them until the earth awoke, for good, in April. The Times Literary Supplement was admirably adapted to this purpose, of never failing toughness and impermeability. Even farts made no impression on it. I can't help it, gas escapes from my fundament on the least pretext, it's hard not to mention it now and then, however great my distaste.

"One day I counted them. Three hundred and fifteen farts in nineteen hours, or an average of over sixteen farts an hour. After all, it's not excessive. Four farts every fifteen minutes. It's nothing. Not even one fart every five minutes. It's unbelievable. Damn it, I hardly fart at all, I should never have mentioned it. Extraordinary how mathematics help you to know yourself."

Weird

It's weird that I haven't posted since July. I bet these words are just floating around without any readers.

Anyway, it's late for reading other people's lousy essays about genre, so I thought I'd update a little before bed. Sam and I have been thinking about the upcoming holidays, and people in my group therapy have been talking about their plans with families. I have to say, it gets me down. If it weren't for my alienation from my parents and Sam's fissure with his brother, if it weren't for the fact that we have no money to travel, if I had the time to take a break in my work, maybe we'd get some plans together that don't involve just the two of us having dinner at home. Who will eat the two pies I make each year? We have such great memories of recent Thanksgivings, and the true sharing among families and friends. Although last Thanksgiving could have gone a little more smoothly, I admit. Maybe the two of us, the turkey and a couple of pies will warm our home just fine.

Also, Sam got this kick-ass tattoo. Maybe he'll show it to you.

Also, I'm working on Chapter 2. Maybe I'll get this damn thing done after all.

&

This week has been a little chaotic. So I have a few updates of varying interest:

• Dave is probably gone for good. Janer seems much happier--relaxed, affectionate, and less likely to attack the dog.
• I've called several of you in a panic recently. The calling is a good thing for me because it means I'm leaning a little on friends during a rough patch. Don't expect it to stop any time soon.
• I'm not sleeping at night and am having some racing and divided thoughts. Like having an intense conversation while contemplating a movie I watched recently and trying to figure out how one would go about replicating the table and chairs. It's not that I'm distracted, particularly, from conversations: I can contribute meaningfully and pay attention to the line of conversation. It's just that my mind seems to need more input to function adequately.
• My diagnosis has officially changed, by which I mean that the doctor I'm currently seeing as my primary doctor (not someone who has seen me a few times in the hospital) has changed my diagnosis to bipolar disorder I. I'm actually a little relieved by this change because 1) it's more in line with what I think the diagnosis should be; 2) in my opinion, it's not as bleak as bipolar II; and 3) I have a better sense of why my personal course of action should be. I've been counting deep breathes while visualizing each number: its size, color, and font type. Ones are small and yellow; fours are big, blue, and sans serif. The exercise actually is calming when I make myself focus only on the numbers. 
• Sam and I are struggling right now. We're at the beginning of a difficult, probably long process, but I'm trying to work, with Sam, on not allowing every argument to lead to catastrophe. Smaller, sober arguments are better than the loud, passionate, drunk arguments we often have.
  
• I still need to ask you, my friends, to help me with reality checks, an infelicitous phrase but I can't think of a better way to put it. To say it longer, though, I have trouble with distinguishing between my true feelings and my disordered feelings. It's like the difference between temperature and climate. If I am to be vigilant about my mood disorder, I have to know what's healthy first. I'm working on it in therapy, but you can do much to help me by letting me know what seems unreal or out of control.

That's the sum of it today. Sorry for the fragmented nature of the post, but there's a lot happening that must be expressed.

Fiscal Discipline

I don't have any.

Thin-skinned

Sensitivity is a word that moves in contradictory ways. If Tim (to pluck a name from the air) is sensitive, he may be careful about his own feelings or about someone else's feelings. Tim cannot perform both tasks of attention. 

I have a private set of beliefs about how people should treat me. If a person (Melody, to pluck another name from the aether) breaks Rule 3--it hurts when two other people leave the table and leave me behind alone--I experience that broken rule as Melody's insensitivity. I give Melody the agency to hurt me in ways I secretly define as insensitive. I'm on the lookout for Melody's cruel intentions. This requires a second belief, that I can determine why Melody would leave me sitting alone. 

Through power of my tacit belief system, I managed to isolate myself in an attempt to keep other people from hurting me so much. My self-quarantine blinded me to the feelings of everyone else. And my ability to intellectualize everything rests on something even more fundamental: I patrol a border between what I think and what I feel, a dichotomy constructed very early in my life. 

I'm still the 5-year-old cryer standing by the swing set with sand on the front of her sailor dress, waiting for her turn. I still want that moment of a bird-like freedom when it feels like I just might swing into the clear blue sky. Instead, I will fall back, feet plowing furrows in the sand, dirty hands held out in anticipation of being pushed off the swing again.

Insurance

Is scary. They list everything they might cover, what they plan to cover, but I want them to be a little more definitive. Okay, a lot more definitive. 

In other news, I'm loving Kimya Dawson. And I'm remembering that accessaries aren't so bad. 

I'm still trying to figure out a lot of things and to recall more things about my recent experiences. I want to learn how to express more love. Oddly, I don't myself have a lexicon for love, for which flaw I blame my parents. It's the only dependable use they have. 

This blog has several different kinds of posts, and to my mind, right now, the current trend is toward edited, thought-out entries and sprawling posts, with little oversight and lots of digression and spilling-over sentiments. Sometimes the later kind transform their ideas and emotions so that a more carefully crafted post can contain them. Sometimes it's all just raw.

It wasn't Mary who was contrary

I was a resistant child. Whenever my mother told me to do something faster, I slowed down. Regardless of what started this reaction, it's become a reflex for me. An authoritative deman doesn't even have to be stated--any tacit requirement or exhortation can be cause for rebellion. An example: I know Sam hates to be late, and I love him and want him to be happy; however, this knowledge and love does not keep me from dawdling when we have to be somewhere. It's a pretty terrible thing to do and difficult to work against, for me and for others.

I resist even my own self-directed urging. I know I have to write. I want myself to write, and I chose to be at Vanderbilt so that I can do this work. I chose this work. I need to get it done, and I will feel so much better afterwards. If I can just get started on it, I'll even enjoy it. I love doing this work.

But that certainty does not quell the voice of my six-year-old self: "I don't want to. You can't make me. Ow! Stop pinching me! Okay, I'll do it, I guess." 

Contrary. Intractible. Recalcitrant. Truculent. Obstinate. Obdurate. Stubborn. Headstrong.

Headstrong's good. Now, if we can only phase-shift that quality into a more productive kind of determination, maybe I can trick myself. 

Bonus: a new phrase I learned today is "lissajous curve." Here's an example of one.

Sweet Sam, patient in my hour of need

My headache isn't that bad, my nose isn't too runny, and my throat doesn't hurt that much. But the fatigue and congestion are starting to get a little old. I slept almost 20 hours yesterday, and my head feels like a gnocchi. 

I'm under whatever is under the weather.

shopping and the sister

I met Mares's boyfriend this weekend. Nice enough guy. I felt no click of recognition, the kind you might feel when meeting someone you can talk with. Not a lot of conversation. Here's a brief sketch of the weekend: 4-hour drive in the truck to Atlanta (mostly uneventful, which is good), brief visit at the apartment, trip to a pool hall/restaurant to play cut-throat, back to apartment to play Monopoly, early to bed. Sunday was a quick cup of coffee, then Mares told me that she wasn't interested in going with me to IKEA, which is understandable. I would have rather gotten brunch myself. Which didn't happen either. In fact, I felt that she ditched me in favor of going somewhere with the boyfriend. So to sum up: silent boyfriend, no sister-and-sister time, and a curtailed visit, all of which must have been motivated by a reason I don't know.

She had seemed like she was excited by my visit, and I was excited to see her. Instead, I'm saddened by the whole thing. Mary is the family member I feel closest to, and it hurts to think that my visit might have been a chore to her instead of a pleasure.

The IKEA part, the part of my trip that I dreaded, happened to be the most successful portion of my trip. Weird.

This afternoon, around 2 pm

Me: So Paul [my advisor] made a joke about how I should be researching feverishly on the next part of the diss.

Sam: How's the research going?

Me: Meh. Right now I'm working on establishing the relationship between these little snickers minis and the size of my ass.

Sam: Do you think it's causal?

Love!

According to wired.com, Banksy, the infamous yet anonymous British graffitist, has hit NYC, and it sounds like his biggest statement yet. Wednesday marked the opening of The Village Pet Story and Charcoal Grill, an installment featuring anamatronic creatures that directly cross the line between animals and prepared food, among other boundaries. I'm talking hot dog hamsters here, people.

The Wooster Collective published a statement attributed to Banksy. I can't vouch for its provenance, but it's funny, so here's some of it:

I wanted to make art that questioned our relationship with animals and the ethics and the sustainability of factory farming, but it ended up as chicken nuggets singing.

I think we all knows what that feels like.

What I found

When I was looking for my measuring tape this morning, I made some odd discoveries. One of them was not finding the tape. Here are some things I did find:

• A foot-peddle for a sewing machine I no longer own, which I got rid of because I couldn't find its foot-peddle
• A foot-peddle for a sewing machine I do own but don't often use because I keep losing the foot-peddle
• My college seam ripper (identifiable by its aging masking-tape label)
• A roll of stitch-witch (excuse me, "interface tape")
• About a yard of elastic
• Some dress-maker's tracing paper and (in a separate location) my tracing wheel
• Several different kinds of rulers (metal, plastic, right-angle, hemming, fascist)
• Dozens of blank notepads, in various sizes
• A yard of material I once liked
• Cord for making trim, which I made into a make-shift measuring tape
• The memory that at one point in my life I really liked to sew
• A variety of bobby pins and barrettes
• A ratting comb
• Five highlighters

Amazing. Now, I'm going to misplace a five-dollar bill.