Remember when I wrote about some changes I was trying to make? Well, I’m happy to report that I’ve still been walking/exercising a lot more. However, I fell behind in doing lots of writing.
In my defense, I taught three classes this summer, went straight to Spain for a conference after the quarter was done, came back to start five more classes, and am heading to Sweden on Tuesday.
There are lots of pics and experiences to share–and I will–I just have to do this other stuff first. 🙂
In the meantime, if you haven’t seen my piece on Star Trek, it’s here.
The other day, I read an amazing humor piece in The New Yorker: Poetry for Modern Mindfulness.
Swiffering my floor, I offer thanks to the Procter & Gamble company / For a marvellous cleaning product, although I know that / Some people think P. & G. got the idea of electrostatic cleaning cloths from a Japanese firm, / And that the Swiffer Sweeper is based on the “razors and blades” model—that is: I must keep buying expensive new replacement cloths endlessly. / Nevertheless! / I love its silence, so unlike the infernal noise of the vacuum cleaner. / This silence has changed my life, / Allowing me to clean my house, / A chore I do not enjoy, / While talking to my friends on the phone. / A win-win for me.
My mantra this week:
As I head down the stairs
bleary eyed in the morning
I know my demented cat
will have left his business
at the very bottom.
But in what configuration?
Will there be some, almost dry,
that I won’t see
with my eyes,
allowing me to see with my feet,
but in this moment
at the top of the stairs
the mystery remains.
Every day, I get an email about who’s been trying to hack this site. Specifically, I am alerted when a distinct IP gets blocked after 20 failed attempts to log on. Usually, these IPs are registered in other countries, but someone in Kansas wants in too.
There are also a lot of spam comments. Hundreds are blocked every day. Some are just ads. Some are in completely different languages. And some pose as real comments, with compliments on content (though never specific)–I think they’re hoping that if a comment gets approved, they’ll have unrestricted access to the comment section from then on.
I’m not alerted to all this spam–my program only shows me actual comments and what might be actual comments so I can choose to approve them.
This week, this spam comment came through for approval on this entry:
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Obviously spam, right?
Actually, I can’t blame the program. Have you seen what real guys write to me on dating sites? The readability level is basically the same. 😉
When I read that The Nightly Show is being canceled (last show: Thursday), I felt a deep twinge of guilt.
I haven’t been watching lately.
It should be my kind of thing. I was a devoted viewer of Politically Incorrect a long time ago; I still watch Real Time. I’ve seen every episode of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report.
I like Larry Wilmore a lot. I wanted to like his show.
I kept trying and trying.
And I do still like Larry Wilmore–he does a great opening segment, I admire the way he brings up hard topics, and I liked his Correspondents’ Dinner speech.
But I hated the overall format of the show.
Soon into the series, it became apparent that I would be hearing the same voices on the roundtable again and again–the voices of Larry’s correspondents/writers. Now, people like Ariana Huffington were on Politically Incorrect frequently, but I was guaranteed a different panel from one night to the next. On Larry’s show, there would be a new guest each night, and then his same people over and over. I like some of them, though I wanted more variety on the panel. I didn’t like others, particularly Ricky Velez. Maybe it’s a generational thing, but I don’t get any insight from his slacker-persona input on socio-political issues.
I kept watching. Sometimes, I would only watch the opening, saving the nights I would watch the whole show for when someone awesome was the guest.
And then the panel dissed Bill Nye. Yes, they dissed Bill Nye the Science Guy.
I expected more. Larry Wilmore is a self-professed space nerd. He invited Bill Nye on. And then he and two panelists, including Ricky Velez, treated Bill like shit–they interrupted basically every sentence and told him that science, and his work, didn’t matter to their lives.
And that was it.
I’m not the only one who objected to this particular episode, so I know I’m not alone in jumping ship, but I feel badly that Wilmore is leaving Comedy Central.
I’m still rooting for him, but I want him in a better format.
And I’m rooting for Bill Nye too.
Summer is my time of resolutions and new beginnings–the academic calendar warps the mind this way. Since I live in an academic town, though, we’re all warped.
I’ve been trying to take advantage of the significant schedule shift that summer gives me–I’m still teaching, of course, but the hours are different–to do three things:
1. I’m walking every day in the purposeful way (as opposed to the I’m on my way to class way). Unfortunately, my body doesn’t like this, so I can’t go as far as I’d like, but I’m doing it anyway.
2. I’m writing every day in the purposeful way (as opposed to the I have a bunch of emails to answer and papers to grade way). You may notice that you’re getting blog posts more often, and my academic writing is on track.
3. I’m trying new recipes every week (I want to use parallelism here, but of course trying a new recipe is purposeful). Here are our favorites:
Hot Honey Shrimp, which I just served with Pan Roasted Okra and Corn.
Meltingly Tender Chicken with Miso, Ginger, and Carrots: soooo tender, sooo good.
What else would you do with the miso? Try Pancetta Miso Pasta.
Pancetta Miso Pasta and Soy Chicken over Arugula
Crock Pot Carnitas: I turned them into tacos, stew, and enchiladas.
Pork in Magic Green Sauce: the sauce also worked well on chicken and shrimp.
Soy Ginger Chicken over Argugula.
Indian-spiced Corn Stew: I used half water and half coconut milk, and I added okra and some leftover cooked chicken.
A submarine is in surface condition when she has sufficient positive buoyancy to permit running on her main engines. (maritime.org)
“This should take about forty minutes,” says the technician. He pushes a button and I start to slide into the machine. Most people compare an MRI to a coffin, but since I’m not claustrophobic, I don’t quite find that an apt comparison. It is reminiscent of something, however.
I relax. There’s nothing else to do. This is one of the few moments in the day when I cannot do anything but think. Today they are scanning my brain and my spine, but I don’t necessarily want to think about that. I’ve already made the jokes about how they’re scanning to see if I have a brain or if my students’ praises have given me a swelled head. I’m not sure if the jokes are for me or for the audience of my loved ones, but in my family, I know they are a survival strategy.
If we had a family crest, it might well be “And if I laugh at any mortal thing, ‘Tis that I may not weep.” But we don’t have a family crest. And if we did, I would have to invent it. My family doesn’t read Byron, and I don’t think they’d go for something that artsy. Or that honest.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been in one of these. I’ve had several, for different body parts. I wonder if I’ll be able to get the technician to give me a hint. After my first MRI, the technician said “Good luck” with a tone of sympathy I understood when I saw the report, which indicated I needed surgery to remove a herniated disc. Another technician was kind enough to show me the picture of the cyst in my ankle when I asked.
I tend to like technicians more than surgeons. My back surgeon, with the bad bedside manner and the inability or unwillingness to discuss the future of a back with degenerative disc disease, woke me from my blissful slumber with the news that my hernia was the biggest he’d ever seen. “I showed everybody!” he said. He sounded so proud, you’d think he grew it himself. He remarked upon its size three more times before I was discharged that day.
My ankle surgeon, with a name as unique as mine, Scarlett, was nicer, but was also happy when my cyst turned out to be something she’s never seen before. “I had to look it up!” she proclaimed. “I’ll always remember you because of this.”
As I have several chronic, but nonfatal, diseases, I see doctors a lot. I’ve always found it hard to get them to see the pain in me. Part of living with chronic pain and remaining productive is the ability to mask it. Maybe because of my theatre degree, I can do it better than most. The only person I’ve ever known who was able to tell when I had a singularly bad headache was a former boss—she could read eyes like no one else.
I’ve had a headache, one that changes in form and intensity, since I was twelve. It might be due to TMJ, to stress, to muscular problems in the neck, to the twisted vertebrae there, or, more likely, it is the product of all of these things. I only say I have a headache when I have a guillotine day. These days find me daydreaming of guillotines—of the cold metal relieving the pain by removing the offending part. Guillotine days find me unable to concentrate. The pain reduces my abilities to move information from one synapse to another. I take enough drugs to kill animals bigger than I am. I worry when my breathing slows. I wonder how the medications can be shutting down vital systems while not even taking the edge off the pain. Over the years, my tolerance for these has become dangerous, yet they have not yet put me on anything effective enough to cause addiction.
I can understand their reluctance—we are currently in a political climate where Americans in pain cannot be given anything strong enough to help, unless they’re Rush Limbaugh, because they might become addicted, like Rush Limbaugh.
And I’m young. When I first tried to tackle this problem, one doctor dismissed me completely: “You’re too young to be in that kind of pain.” I agreed, but I still was.
I have had my eyes checked; I have a weekly massage; I do yoga; I take painkillers; I am regularly chiropracted; I have tried cranial-sacral therapy; I have tried herbs; I have tried acupuncture. I even allowed one healer to lance and cup me. When I was younger, and a Christian, I was prayed over. My headaches were attributed to the devil and I underwent Deliverance, the Protestant form of exorcism. It did not deliver me. At home I have various massage toys, a TENS unit, and something that gives electrical charges to my shoulders in vain attempts to make the muscles release.
When one chiropractor I dated proposed after two weeks, I was sorely tempted.
Despite all of this, few people have caught on. It took one practioner several months before he diagnosed me: “The more you’re smiling, the more you’re hurting.”
Lying restfully in the machine, I listen to the different noises. Occasionally, when they hit a certain frequency, I can feel it in my thighs. Other frequencies resonate in my hands. Being in the machine is like living within a loquacious tube that talks in fire alarms and sirens. One of the noises is a pinging. It reminds me of naval movies, and I realize that this machine is more like a submarine than a coffin. Ping. Ping. Ping. The pinging of the torpedo on radar is frequent—the missile is close, but is not coming closer. There is prolonged, impending contact.
It occurs to me that only 10% of the submarines in WWI ever returned home. What relief they must have felt, coming up into the light.
I never cry in doctor’s offices; I save that for when I walk outside, putting my sunglasses on in the inevitable glare. Crying has only happened three times. Once, when a doctor told me that perhaps I should be evaluated for fibromyalgia. My doctor friend told me that fibromyalgia was code for “hypochondriac” in files. Because doctors don’t understand it, it doesn’t exist. Restless leg syndrome did not exist until there was a cure. Yet part of me longs for the fibromyalgia diagnosis. Maybe I could tell myself to take more time off; I could become Flannery O’Connor—sickly, but writing. In my imagination, she is praised for simply getting out of bed every morning, because people understand that what an achievement it is. She has a condition, and there’s great power in naming it.
At one point, I was referred to a neurologist. He put me one medication after another. They constipated me (no one ever warns you about that). After four, he told me that there’s nothing more to try and that he was retiring, anyway. I repressed the urge to question his field—they only have four drugs? I asked him what he was going to do with all that free time. I pretended that he had not just crushed me; that I did not feel abandoned. It took a few minutes of crying in the car before I could drive home.
A year or so later, my primary care physician sent me to him again–he was seeing patients in retirement. I told my doctor the other doctor had given up on me; he couldn’t believe that was true. And then I was greeted with, “What are you doing back here? I told you I can’t help you.”
When I was a graduate student, I was sent to a specialist in neuro-muscular pain. He examined me briefly, told me he was worried about my bitten nails and cold skin. He informed me that there was no reason for me to hurt and suggested I try past life regression therapy. I thought at first that he was making a joke about my name, but he wrote the name of a book on his prescription pad. When I looked at the nurse, she seemed bewildered, but would not meet my eye. I did not understand how knowing that my skull was crushed a few hundred years ago would take the pain away, but I read the book.
I went to a psychic, who told me that one of the women my father cheated on my mother with put a curse on us when I was a baby. She could take it off for $2000. As she was Catholic, she did not believe in past lives. After paying for the consultation and being blessed with holy water, I went home and cried at the absurdity of it all.
Remembering this, I start to tear up in the MRI machine. Crying doesn’t count as moving, but wiping the tears would, so I stay motionless. Saltwater fills my little sub. I have stopped by the time it’s over, when I am moved back into the light.
“See anything interesting?” I ask, feigning disinterest.
“I don’t read them.”
I look into his eyes, but I can’t read them, either.
(I wrote this piece half a decade ago, but realized I’d never shared it with you.)
Earlier this week, Facebook reminded me that I lost Jareth a year ago (FB suggested I might want to repost the announcement of the loss).
This week, something is wrong with Osiris.
Osiris is an old man now–15 years–and he’s definitely showing it. He’s skinny in the same way my great-grandfather was at the end (though he still has an appetite, especially for human food).
He’s beginning to become a bit unhinged–he tried to pee by the front door two days ago, isn’t coming upstairs to bed with me, etc.
Years ago, Isis had something similar happen. She lost her mind in a similar way (and similar symptoms) to my great-grandmother. Eventually, she wandered off, and we never saw her again.
I fear we’re entering the start of the great decline with Osiris.
Osiris and Jareth, 2013
At the start of the summer, Melissa and I got our Spring grades in and headed over to London for the 19th annual Great Writing Conference at Imperial College. The conference was fascinating, and we both did very well on our respective panels. We hope to return next year.
Here’s a look at this year’s highlights:
At the V&A
The Mystical Nativity
Osiris as Serapis
Last summer, before I headed to Iceland, I went on a lot of dates with a poly guy. Let’s call him P.
I have many poly friends, and I’ve been curious about it before–most notably, though, when certain important needs aren’t being met with a partner.
When I first went on OKC again, in early 2015, I decided to be open to the possiblity. I had three dates with one guy (not P) pretty early–but his wife didn’t like me–and something kept nagging at me about him. I realized, on that third date, what it was–I had never heard him actually laugh. Instead, he made another sound–that derisive snort about people he didn’t like.
So that wasn’t going to work, but I was still open to poly.
And, thus, I agreed to a date with P last summer. He was charismatic. He explained his situation: after his wife’s successful cancer treatment, her sex drive died. She refused to go to the doctor, and told him to get used to it. He proposed a compromise: that he could have a girlfriend or two. They spent a couple of years building trust that he wouldn’t leave her for one of them.
It was perfectly understandable. It also sounded functional.
It only took another couple of dates, however, for problems to arise. Our conversations were always about these relationships–and I didn’t like what was happening with the other girlfriend–she was younger, only dating him, wanting, desperately, to marry him and have children with him. He knew this. At one point, while he and I were dating (I think this was the catalyst–him trying to have a relationship with me proved he wasn’t going to leave his wife and become monogamous), she decided she wanted something more traditional. So she started an online profile. However, she posed as single while she was still in a relationship with P. And she could thus decide that each guy who messaged her was nothing compared to P. I told P she just wanted him to get jealous–to whisk her away to normality–that he was standing in her way. He agreed, but wouldn’t do what she couldn’t: end it.
The larger problem, though, was the almost immediate pressure to redefine myself.
After about a week, he thought I should change my status from single to “open relationship,” to announce to every other man I was talking to that I had a boyfriend.
I told him to slow down–that even if it were just the two of us, I wouldn’t want to stop everything and commit after a week.
And then I had to keep begging him to slow down, because that pressure never let up.
In additional to pushing me away, it made me think–fast–about what I wanted, and ultimately to decide that poly–at least his kind–isn’t for me, for several reasons.
The nail in the coffin, though, was a conversation P and I had before I left for Iceland.
Me: What if I meet a guy named Sven, and I want to fuck him?
P: You wouldn’t, would you?
Me: I’m not going to go looking for someone, but say I did.
P: But you can’t!
Me: Why not?
P: Because that’s not how this works–you can have boyfriends, but you can’t just fuck around!
[We argue about safety–he wants a “closed system,” which I argue is never really closed, because it counts too much on other people. He had once dated a woman who had 8 boyfriends–did he really think no one in the extended circle had one-offs?]
Me: So I’m supposed to tell a guy that I want to fuck that I’m not allowed to, because I’ve been dating another guy for two weeks? Even though I haven’t made a commitment to him? And even though that guy is probably fucking someone else in that moment?
Him: It has to be closed–that’s the kind of poly I am.
Me: Well, I’m not poly yet. And how do we know what kind of poly I would be?
I am not a shoe person. I blame this on two things.
Because I don’t particularly like them, I hate shopping for them (especially since I know that something that feels okay in the store often will kill my feet the first time I try to wear them to classes).
As I hate shopping for them, I don’t give myself the chance to find comfortable shoes that I won’t hate, and thus the cycle continues.
But there’s also the problem of my shoes simply falling apart.
A few years ago, in London, the heel came off the only pair of shoes I’d packed with me. The cobbler I took them to–while wearing flip flops a size too small that Carmen had lent me–he told me that my cheap Target boots weren’t worth fixing. “But they’re my only pair here!” He glued the heel, and wouldn’t even charge me, preferring to shake his head at me instead.
Last summer, in Iceland, another pair of boots lost a heel while on a tour–we were on an amazing beach, with basalt columns that looked like organ pipes. The sound of the waves coming to the shore was marred by the loud flap my loose heel made with every step. Those boots stayed in Iceland.
A couple of weeks ago, I happened to glance at a pair of sandals–Danskos–that I hadn’t worn in a long time. Later, after entering Target, I heard a noise like I’d dropped something. Part of the shoe had come off. As I grabbed bread and my prescriptions, I left a trail of shoe. Here’s what the bottoms looked like when I got home: