Beauty itself soon fades, and when a woman has beauty and nothing else, well, it’s like putting all the goods in the shop window, isn’t it? And the moment she loses her good looks–poor creature! what is she? Just a mere bit of faded finery to be thrown aside. ~henry arthur jones
This always makes me cry, and breaks my heart:
Theoretically, conceptually, as long as I’m in the dark and do not have my glasses on, I think I’m ok-looking. I think I ought to be ok-looking, I look kind of normal. I guess I look like any 52-year old woman who gave birth to 3 kids and had major abdominal surgery, cut from hip bone to hip bone. But then again, I have no idea what that looks like, because you sure don’t see that image anywhere.
These things infuriate me to the point of blurred vision and high blood pressure-induced headaches:
- thin mannequins at Lane Bryant, and huge photos in the store of skinny models
- wrinkle cream commercials that feature 25-year olds (or younger)
When I used to teach social psych, I always showed the video “Killing Us Softly” and the results were the same, semester after semester. When it was over, the men in the class were unmoved, and the women sat in silence, with big eyes and hands over their mouths. Women in print ads are usually just shown in pieces and parts – legs, mouths, stomachs, hands, feet, not whole – or they’re shown in submissive or victimized positions. I don’t need to go off on gender stuff here, media stuff, we all know it, and you’re the choir I don’t need to preach to. But it hurts me that knowing it doesn’t stop its power. It hurts me.
winner of today’s “truly awful writing” award:
Today’s really bad writing is courtesy of an academic. More than 30 pages into the manuscript, I still have no idea what it’s about. Here:
The social phenomenon under the prism of our observation can espouse the shape of an engraved mentality that is tributary to heredity, and at the same time be transmissible from generation to generation.
Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
One may think that any writing can be improved, that an editor can surely impart sense and clarity on any writing, no matter how bad it might be. And one would be wrong. 
i’m not sure i’d do this for anyone else. no kidding. so don’t ask. (though i’d probably do it for you. sigh.)
Folks, this right here, this is what love looks like:
black flippin socks
I’m knitting black socks, because my son wanted them. Black. Socks. Of which I could buy a dozen for $2. Black socks. Me, with my feeble eyes, living in my sun-unlit apartment in wintry Manhattan. Black socks he’ll wear to work and probably throw in the machines at the laundromat in his neighborhood, followed by a tumble in the giant dryer.
And every stitch I strain my weary eyes to see is formed with oopy-goopy love for my boy. Who wants black socks that his mom knitted for him.
*Yarn courtesy of a sweet sharing by Sara over at Wool Durham – swing by her blog, if you don’t already know it!
Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets.
This morning I met a blog friend for breakfast – our first real-life meeting, but certainly not our last, if I have anything to say about it (hi Nancy!!). I was not at all surprised to find that we have a lot in common, some similar experiences (similar in essence if not in detail), similar sensibilities, and similar tendencies to smile. It was a wonderful experience, getting to meet her. She knew more about me than I know about her, of course, but I was struck by how close my developed sense of her was to my real experience of her. I think this would be true with most of you who read my blog and leave comments. Also: I think I would like you so much, as much in real life as in blog comments.
What did surprise, me, though was Nancy’s first question of me, which was why. Why do I do this, why do I write in this public forum, why do I share so much of myself here. It’s a good question, and it’s certainly one we all think about if we keep a blog — why, how much, what voice, where’s the line. We also grapple with our own definition of the personal, if we reveal personal experiences. Even though it’s a question I’ve thought about, my response was awkward and kind of graceless, and not really much of an answer. It’s such a good question, so I thought I’d say more here.
Why do I do this, why do I keep this blog, why do I reveal the things I reveal? First, I kept a blog a few years ago that was really personal; in fact, compared to that one, this blog does not feel personal at all. For a number of reasons, some of which had to do with one of the blog’s followers, I shut down the blog. And I missed it, terribly. This blog represents a kind of compromise, because the fact is that I don’t talk about deeply personal material.
So what does that mean to me, “personal material?” I talk about knitting, obviously (not very personal there); I share my thoughts about things, my feelings about things, some of my experiences; I tiptoe around the edges of sharing some bits about my past, but typically in oblique fashion. I don’t, though, talk about my deeply personal struggles, of which there are many. Those are the private issues I share with friends and my family, and sometimes not even with them. I don’t talk about issues that carry embarrassment or shame, typically. I don’t talk about experiences from my past that are shocking.
So here’s the big why, for me. When I was growing up, our life was secret. Our family life was extremely different behind the doors of our house than anyone knew. This is true for a lot of people, and there are lots of different reasons this happens. Mine may be unique in degree, and in reason, but this is not a rare thing. We children were explicitly told that everyone was like us, which left me with a profound uncertainty about the world, and an abiding desire to peek into others’ lives. I love driving around at night, and seeing how people live (if their curtains are open!) — ah, so that’s what people do. They watch tv. They talk, they play games, they knit, they do housework, the kids do homework. That’s what people really do at home. Ah. All these years later, I still need verification.
I got a PhD in psychology because I don’t understand people; human life is mysterious to me, why people do what they do, and anyway, what do people do?
So I write in the personal way I write because my life is not a secret. Parts are private, but I’m the one who gets to decide what that means, and where the line is. I write to feel less alone, because I think we all feel the same things, we all struggle in the dark, we all have moments of thinking we’re the only ones who, we all face the essential questions of meaning and responsibility, and we all sit alone in the silence now and then and long for connection.
I write to be known (even though I fully realize that what I present is crafted, and you’re knowing some version of me that may bear only a slight resemblance to the full me). I write to connect with you. I write so I don’t feel so alone, and I write so you don’t feel so alone, too.
in the corner for a time-out, madelinetosh. you are in the naughty file today.
“Lori! You are an editor! You missed a gross misspelling in the post title!”
No I didn’t. Ha, so there. Fooled you. It’s defeat, yes, and it’s de feet. Last night I pulled on my beautiful lovely wonderful favorite socks, my kai-mei in tosh sock, and what did my shocked eyes see?
NO!!!!!
I finished them April 29, 2010 (my anniversary, coincidentally!), so I haven’t even been wearing them a year. And they’re in rotation with all my other handknit socks, which I only wear during cold weather, so this is entirely unacceptable I must say. Really. Perhaps Tosh Sock is not meant to be used for socks, silly me. Do I take good care of them? Why yes I do. Handwash, air dry, lotsa care. Maybe I have bad feet? Why no I don’t.
Of course the only remedy is to make another pair of kai-mei, but I’ve learned my lesson and won’t be using Tosh Sock for socks, ever again. I’m all about the process, love knitting, loved making the kai-mei especially, but I don’t expect to get just a few wearings before the yarn disintegrates. For heaven’s sake.
I had big trouble with another madelinetosh yarn (merino, in this case), which I used for my Mondo Cable Cardi. I’d had it on for maybe 2 seconds (3, to be generous) when the whole thing turned into a giant thick pill. All that work, and it looks like a bad sheep’s fleece. I could continuously scrape off the pills, but I’m not kidding, the pilling happens faster than I can get them off. It’s strange to be complaining so bitterly about a yarn I’ve been so in love with; I do still adore the colors, she’s an amazing colorist, but the yarn bases have now let me down twice. Hmm. That’s a lot of money to pay.
Anyway, one more turn of the feet, and another Cookie A sock (angee) — here’s Katie’s next pair. One sock down, the other sock is now at the mid-foot region.
Katie's Paddy Socks -- Angee (CookieA of course)
This is KnitPicks Felici, in the sold-out colorway called green vegetables. It hasn’t been the best quality — there have been a number of places where the plys were abraded and the yarn was down to a lone-ply holding itself together. What’s up, you yarn makers you?!
istanbul was constantinople, now it’s istanbul not constantinople been a long time gone since constantinople….
A bit of a strange one from me — my weekend was consumed with exciting plans, but there’s nothing to show for it yet!! This has been running through my mind nonstop:
You ought not to practice childish ways, since you are no longer that age. Homer, “The Odyssey”
My understanding of the traditional anniversary gift ideas (i.e., the first anniversary is paper, the 50th is gold) is that it’s about replacing wedding gifts that have worn out. So whatever you got for a wedding gift that was made of paper would be worn out by the first anniversary. That seems like a dicey explanation, but whatever, I’m going with it.
the traditional 5th year anniversary gift is wood, but look at the gift ideas on the bottom line, there! GO RIGHT AHEAD, I won't stop you if you want to give me that gift. You're wonderful like that.
So I will celebrate our 5th wedding anniversary at the end of April, whee! That’s a biggie for old people like me who finally got it right, here at the end of the game. Since I’m struggling along economically as a freelancer (read that: not making nearly enough money), I’m thinking hard about our vacation strategy. I always use frequent flyer miles, so that’s a huge savings right there. In the late winter/early spring, I always take a 1-week beach vacation, and in the fall I take a 2-week far away vacation. For the last two springs, I went to an island off the coast of Honduras, and it was wonderful but I’ve kind of exhausted the possibilities in that fun place. I was considering Barcelona, but MAN is it expensive.
It’s looking like I’m talking Turkey. Istanbul for sure, but then very quickly to the Mediterranean coast, to Olympos. This is where Poseidon stood when he watched Odysseus sail away from Calypsos, where he got really pissed off and sent yet another big storm to throw the weary wanderer off track. Asshole Poseidon. He’s a real jerk that way.
Been to Turkey? Visited Olympos? Got any recommendations to share? It looks like some of the most fascinating scenery is over near the Syria border, but for people with my passport and last name, that doesn’t seem like a smart place to be. I’m kind of hooked on the Mediterranean coast of Turkey, so I’d love to hear any experience you may have!
…little things mean a lot…
- It’s Saturday
- I’m not sick
- I’m even less phlegm-ey
- We ran errands last night, leaving today free for
- a de-cluttering housecleaning day and
- baking and
- knitting
- There’s no snow or trash outside my window for the first time since Christmas
- I have Sweet-Tarts in the drawer by my knitting
- I see white clouds flying past in the little square of blue sky I can see from my seat on the couch where I knit and blog
- I hear birds chirping
- We’re planning a trip….Oaxaca maybe? Barcelona maybe? Turkey maybe.
- I’m meeting a blog friend in person on Wednesday
I hope you have a list of your own today of things to say ‘yay’ about! Happy Saturday, y’all.
i’m exotic, are you exotic? exotic exotic exotic. what a bizarre word.
When I was younger, I was always envious of nearly everyone else — it seemed like other people had interesting heritage (not me), interesting cultures (not me), or interesting places of origin (not me). I felt like the antithesis of exotic: a plain old white girl from Texas, mutt heritage, store brand white bread and bologna. With Miracle Whip.
But every place is exotic to someone from another place; it’s just hard to see one’s own exotic context, because kind of by definition exotic means otherness. When you’re the default – a plain old white girl – very little feels otherly. Some time in my last decade, I realized that I may not be Moroccan (pick your exotic other of exotic choice), but I do actually have an interesting heritage that’s exotic to other people. Meet Molly.
molly lisle ribble, my great-great grandmother
Her name was Molly, but of course she was just known as Mrs. Sam Ribble. Anyway. This photo accompanied her obituary, and you notice how she seems to be wearing a nightgown? I’ll get to that.
Molly was one of Young County’s oldest pioneer citizens, according to her obituary in the Graham Leader. She was the daughter of a pioneer family, born June 9, 1866 in Nebraska. She married Sam Ribble when she was 16, in a small church in Gooseneck, just outside Graham. They rented land for several years before Sam bought 160 acres of school land, and acquired 160 more that he traded for a wagon and horse and a six-shooter. They built a log cabin on the land — the lumber came by wagon train. When she died, she was survived by 4 daughters, 4 sons, 23 grandchildren, 39 great grandchildren, and 13 great great grandchildren.
So here’s the funny thing about the nightgown. Sam always wanted to have a baby in the house (as you see, they had 8 kids). I don’t think Molly was as keen on always having a baby in the house, but I also don’t think she had much say-so. The last baby, Etheline, had down’s syndrome (that’s how I’m referring to it; the family always just called her a mongoloid). So Molly delivered Etheline, handed her to Sam, and said “there you go, now you’ll always have a baby in the house. I’m tired and I’m going to bed.”
Molly stayed in bed for 50 years. She was just fine, perfect health (she lived to be 94, after all), I think she was just making a point and boy she stuck with it. She’d sit up if a visitor would take her picture — “a polaroid,” as she’d say — but otherwise she couldn’t be bothered. If any little thing happened to fluster her, she’d pat her chest over her heart, in a kind of circle, and say “get me an aspereen I’m having a heart attack.” She never did have a heart attack, of course, and she finally just died in her sleep of being 94 years old.
My mother’s real mother was a full Cherokee who gave her up because she was a girl; she’d only wanted a boy, to live with her in the woods. My great-aunt shot her husband as he was crawling through the kitchen window to kill her. My other great-aunt’s husband went to the store for smokes and never came home. I have a relative named Homer who was a hermit who lived in a hollow near the river outside of town; he’d be spotted now and then, skulking around the edges. That’s all pretty exotic.
dairse darrison and a tearis tasin losh clavette
WHAT?????? Serene Branson was the star of the Grammy’s. She had exclusive footage of what went on at the Grammys but instead decided to introduce us to her new language, complete with burtation, possibly birdation as well as a dairse darrison and a tearis tasin losh clavette behend the pet to finish it all off.
Maybe she had a stroke, thinking compassionately.
(edit: according to reports i found, she was in the throes of a complex migraine. she was examined at the scene for the possibility of a stroke, and is ok. the 2nd time i watched the video, i saw fear and something like terror in her mouth, she seemed to realize something was wrong. since she’s ok, i feel less like a shitty person for still finding it funny.)
it’s hard to stay here all the time, but it’s much better when we do.
One of my favorite things to (try to) keep in mind is a line from Anne Lamott, something about the way the world sometimes feels like the waiting room of the emergency ward, and that we, who are more or less OK for now, need to take the tenderest possible care of the more wounded people in the waiting room. I too easily fall into self-centered self-righteous attitude, as if everyone in the world is purposely trying to get in my way and make things difficult for me. Being in my head can be exactly like the beginning of this really wonderful video (frighteningly so!):
I go in and out of this — living in periods of easy irritation with everyone, with “that’s right, you’re the most important person, go ahead asshole” thoughts, and then I’ll slap myself in the metaphorical head and remember that people are all walking around with their own stuff, their own troubles, and actually they’re not on a mission to get in my way. Compassion is a much nicer place to live. I saw this little video on facebook and tracked it down on youtube; I hope you like too. (And it’s true for everyone, regardless of religious beliefs or not!!)
i’m walkin on sunshine, oh oh, and don’t it feel good!
It’s not the sympathy you get, and it’s not the enforced rest and lying-about. The best thing about having a cold is just how DAMN good it feels when it’s over. And O Happy Day, that’s what’s going on with me today. I feel so great!! Even though it’s in my chest now, and even though I sound like I’m inside a diving bell, and even though I have to keep (unsuccessfully) clearing my throat, I feel so great compared to the last few days that it just seems like the sun has come out, the skies are blue, the air is sweet, and so are you. (Note: the sun has not come out, the skies are not blue, the air is not sweet, but you are!)
I woke up with that song O Happy Day in my head, and wanted to post it here, but it’s really so much about when Jesus walked that it missed the kind of oh happy day I mean. This one captures the joy a little bit more closely:
Ah, 1980s. You were not an attractive decade.
thanks for the lyrics, WZevon: poor poor pitiful me. Lord have mercy on me. Woe is me.
It’s such a cliche that men are babies when they’re sick (which doesn’t mean it’s not true, of course). Well, let me say for the blog record that girls can be babies too.
1982: I’m TOUGH. My first child, Katie, was born at midnight (and I had several hours of pitocin and not one bit of painkiller, no demerol, no Tylenol, nothing). I went home 8 hours later, vacuumed the living room, made a pan of lasagna, and made a birth day cake for Katie. Sure, I kind of felt like all my insides might fall out on the floor while I was vacuuming, but I’m tough. I can do that.
1985: My 2nd child Marnie was born at 12:30, just after lunch, and I went home at 6pm that day — too much to do, needed to get home to Katie and throw a birth day party for Marnie after all. I made her a birth day cake, made dinner, and got busy. I’m made of hearty pioneer stock, remember.
my great-grandmother (2nd from the right), Lottie Ribble Askew
2004: I didn’t see that patch of black ice at the end of my friend’s driveway in Boston. I was there to give the keynote speech at her university’s Darwin Festival (why??) and I hadn’t written it yet, bad, bad form. So I hit the ice,
yikes. that hurt.
and fell and broke both bones in my right wrist so severely that my hand was hanging like a limp bag of bones off the end of my arm. We went to the ER, I got a cast, went back to her house and typed a speech, made my PowerPoints. The next morning I gave the speech and drove myself back to Rochester NY — a 7-hour drive in snowy icy conditions in a stick-shift car, no less, how did I do that? (The better question is why did I do that…) The breaks were so severe that I ended up needing surgery to have an external fixator screwed into the bones.
There’s obviously a very thin line between being tough and being a moron, and I don’t seem to know which side of the line to stand on.
But boy, give me a paper cut or a cold and wah, wah, wah! I’m the most pathetic miserable person, and you will know about it. Yesterday morning I got an email from a friend, a social psychologist who became one of my authors at OUP, and we just clicked so well we developed a wonderful friendship (we call each other bro and sis). In my response to his email, of course I mentioned just how very very sick I am, and how much a baby whiner I am despite being so tough otherwise. He got it, and wrote me this hilarious response:
So I feel sorry for you and wish I could return you to your normal wonderful self. I agree that this cold shouldn’t have happened to you and it should go away immediately. You’re too good a person to have to suffer this way. Plus, there are so many things you want to do and now you can’t do them. And, you have to stay inside, perhaps even in bed, when you want to be out in the world. Pobrecita.
Isn’t that hilarious and wonderful?! I think my favorite crazy line is “you’re too good a person to have to suffer this way.” That makes me laugh every time I read it or think about it.
I think there’s something about the very mundane pedestrian unimportant aspect of colds and paper cuts that gives me the freedom to wallow. With bigger concerns, I have to armor up, woman up, DO IT. But a cold? wah, wah, wah. Poor poor pitiful me. Bring me some tea. And Kleenex. And feel very sorry for me.
this coulda been mine….i coulda been a contender
I don’t remember Valentine’s Days of the past, really. I like Valentine’s Day well enough but it’s not like it’s hugely memorable except for the occasional marriage proposal.
But I do remember Valentine’s Day 1964, when I was 6. In the way of first graders, I had two ‘boyfriends,’ Bryan Teich and Robert Fox. Those were their real names, which I strangely remember now, in my dotage. For reasons that remain peculiar and unimaginable all these years later, Bryan and Robert were competing for my attention, and Valentine’s Day represented some kind of OK Corral. Robert gave me a very small cotton handkerchief, white with red hearts stamped on it. He probably bought it at Gulf Mart, which was a local version of a Wal-Mart kind of discount warehousey place, or maybe at a Ben Franklin’s 5&Dime. It was cheap and unadorned. Bryan gave me an enormous box of candy, a huge red heart thing wrapped in shiny red paper and covered with flowers, and a little stuffed dog. Well, my choice was clear, right? I chose Robert. Robert bought the little handkerchief himself with his allowance (I assumed), but Bryan walked into his family’s candy store and just took things off the shelf. Every time I drove past one of the many Lamme’s Candy stores in Austin, as an adult, I thought “that could’ve been mine, if I had different principles.”
Yesterday I saw this photo of a wedding party, and it was so adorable I thought I’d share it with you in the hopes it gives you a smile, too:
a superhero wedding
I’m still sick and coughing and spluttering and my chest hurts and my throat is raw and I think it’s getting shredded from coughing and I’m whiney and pretty miserable (and pretty miserable to be around, too, I imagine). I can give birth without so much as an aspirin and then 6 hours later be at home, vacuuming and cooking for a “she was just born” party, but give me a paper cut or a cold and boy am I complainey. Happy Tuesday, y’all.
C is for cookies, that’s good enough for me.
First of all, happy valentine’s day y’all! My weekend included a long date with Will (sushi! shopping! he let me buy him a coat! laughter! coffee!), my coming down with a cold or flu, and a very cranky me yesterday thanks to feeling so crummy. I choose to focus my weekend’s best summary on the combination of Valentine’s Day and my time with my son…..voila!
i didn't take a new picture of him yet, what's wrong with me! but i love this, because (a) will, and (b) cookies!
I hope you had a great weekend, and this is as good a chance as any to say I love you, man. Thanks for being part of my life.
mass murdering fuckheads come from areas you least expect them — e. izzard
UGH, you know how it is when you are just SO damn cranky, you’re miserable because you’re so cranky, and you can kind of see that everyone around you is thinking “good god, she is SO cranky, shut up why don’t you.” Yeah, that’s me this morning, and I’m stuck with m’self. Yesterday afternoon, out and about with Will (what a wonderful day we had) I noticed that my throat was starting to hurt and feel all scratchy, and then my eyes felt dry and scratchy, and my whole self felt pretty yicky. Last night I went to sleep around 1, and I woke up at 5 drenched in sweat and feeling gross, so I got up.
I’d promised to make some apple-brown sugar-cinnamon scones this morning, and I wanted to do that – a double batch, so they’ll last a couple of hours. But it was one of those mornings, the kind that degenerates into WILD ASS crankiness, every little thing was wrong, went wrong, went worser and worser, the butter was frozen, I didn’t have cream, the brown sugar was hardCUSS CUSS CUSS CUSS!! Hurl things! Heavy sigh repeatedly! Ugh, I wanted to get away from myself in the worst way. And every single song just irritated the HELL out of me. God, change that one! Tori Amos, change that right away, she always makes me want to kill someone! Not that, change that. It was horrible being me.
But as I was getting outrageously outraged by such piddling little mundane silly things, I thought of Eddie Izzard’s bit about Hitler as an art student: “…can’t get the fucking trees…damn i will kill everyone in the world!” It made me laugh at myself, and track down the clip for you. This really is one of the best Eddie Izzard bits, along with cake or death. Happy Sunday, Happy Valentine’s Day Eve. Don’t be grumpy if you can help it.
smaller and smaller, the sea bashes everything / until voila: sand.
I love Dean Young’s poetry; I’d somehow missed out on him, until McSweeney’s published his book Embryoyo, with the wonderful first two lines on the first page “”They won’t attack us here in the Indian graveyard.” / I love that moment.” Doesn’t that just make you want to finish reading that poem (titled “Luciferin”)? Of all the poems in this very small book, this is one of my favorites. So many of the phrases and lines are just so wonderful. I’m coloring my favorites.
Inverness Gray (by Dean Young)
from Embryoyo
so what is the cause of death? the inner
flying stops, it’s mysterious unless
there’s trauma to organs, bark or head.
a brick falls on a caterpillar,
not much mystery there but even unhurt,
thriving things seem pointing to their end
especially if psychology’s involved.
smaller and smaller, the sea bashes everything
until voila: sand. it is 10:30 then 10:34
then 40 years later. time passing not the causer
but the caused. baby now in trouble
with her credit cards, no more can you ask
the friend what you never could. the pier
turns to splinters, gown to dust-rags,
life to not-life. even though everyone
already knows, is death a secret
that must be told and told? almost sexual
although so many wires in our minds,
it’s easy to cross a few. bend a paper clip
back and forth, it breaks, the molecules
can only take so much. ann-margret
bent back and forth. scarlet king snake
bent back and forth. wooden ladder.
apple tree. every sunset is a crease,
mother weighing less and less but falling
harder. what is the cause behind the cause
behind the cause? smaller and smaller,
bodies slamming bodies, bent and bent
until only a few traits remain: color, cry,
residue of dream in the corner of an eye,
kiss on an envelope then the flying flown.
to where? into solar flares? an angel’s hair?
the next one over there who’s not yet
an embryo. or does it just disperse,
a spurt, a spark from the flinty gears?
so the sea bashes and bashes and the planes
take off and land and the fluffy murre chicks
waddle off the cliff.
The whole ‘circle of life thing’ is such an encapsulated little cliched notion that we say it and keep going without stopping to let it settle. Or, if we’re in a place where we’re sitting with it because our life is making us face it, it’s usually a circumstance that’s so loaded and overwhelming all we can do is see the little bit in front of our feet.
A couple of Decembers ago, I was at my corner waiting for the light to change, standing next to the Christmas tree market. A young mother and her little girl were walking past, and the little girl was so excited about Christmas. I listened to their conversation for a few minutes until the light changed, and I remembered so many years ago, when I was that mother and my kids were that child. It was one of those moments where I really felt time, I felt the way life just keeps going, the earth keeps peopling, every year there are new 2-year old kids being captivated by trees and lights, every year there are new mothers staying up late making magic for their kids, and my turn has passed. And some day I won’t be here at all, my kids will be in my place, their turns will have passed.
There’s something about it that touches me and chokes me up, and I can’t quite figure it out. Obviously it has something to do with my son’s return in my life, with my sense of lost time, of getting older, but it’s not sad. It just kind of is, in some way.
Posted for myself, more than anything.
fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can’t get fooled again. (*smack*)
Katie’s favorite color is green — at least theoretically, if not in actuality (though maybe in actuality too…). She’s a pretty Irish girl, she has green eyes, people do associate green with her, and she’s very proud of her Irish heritage. The name she was born with – Katherine Kennedy Galloway – pretty dang Irish, right? Her maternal grandmother suggested the name Katie because she loved the Disney movie Darby O’Gill and the Little People. Which my kids adored when they were little, too.
Anyway. Sidetracked. When Katie was here, we went through my stash and I sent her home with some pretty yarns to get her own stash going. She saw this green KnitPicks Felici, which I’d bought when I got the pink Felici for Marnie’s socks. Actually, I’d bought the green specifically to make socks for Katie, but then it got buried in my stash — you know how that goes — and newer yarn, newer projects, life, time, all intruded and I forgot all about the green yarn until we saw it. She’s knitting her first pair of socks, so I cast on this new green pair for her, hoping that we’d both hit the heels around the same time so I could walk her through it before she went home. Here’s the current status of the pair I’m making for her….and boy, does that springy green lift my winter-laden spirits. I’m dying for lack of color in the city, so I just glance at the socks and imagine the spring:
soft to touch, happy to look at, GREEN.
This is a Cookie A pattern, Angee, so it fits my sock-knitting mind. Top down, fun, and attractive. The Felici colorway is called ‘green vegetables’ and I really like the particular shades of green. Katie should be wearing these by St Patrick’s Day, to be sure. After all, I finished Anna’s birthday socks in one week, so I can certainly get these knocked out, despite everything that’s going on in my life.
We’re looking at a sunny, mild weekend (40s! Whee!), and I may be going shopping with Will on Saturday. The boy needs a winter coat in the worst possible way, and I’m not fooled by this temporary respite from winter. Oh no, not me. I’ve fallen for that before, thinking winter was over in April. Ha. As our former president said, “fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can’t get fooled again.”
I just like to pretend he was a comedian, and he meant to say the things he said (now that he’s out of office and can’t hurt us any more).
It was as if all of the happiness, all of the magic of this blissful hour had flowed together into these stirring, bittersweet tones and flowed away, becoming temporal and transitory once more. ~herman hesse
It’s all really old news, because there aren’t photos for the past few years that have Will in them. The photos below are bittersweet, and serve to simultaneously make me happy in remembering those times, and make my heart ache for all that came after. Until this happened, my kids were very very close. When they were together, there was always hugging and laughing. Marnie and Will were especially camera-happy, so I have literally hundreds of photos of them, heads together, making faces. And literally hundreds more of just Will making faces.
We all went through a lot together — their dad’s years-long absence, our eventual divorce, the devastation and wreckage of that heartbreak, my being immersed in 9 years of school in the midst of their school years, the hard hard work of making it all happen, the sacrifices and depending on each other, the tough things that happened that caused us to cling to each other in various combinations, the hurts that are best understand by us within this little family, the too-frequent moves. The sense that the only roots we had were within each other, no roots to places or wider family, really, just us.
Hard memories, sad memories, happy memories, dancing memories, sweet memories, just regular old family stuff, you know. Ours was not one of those easy families, and our relative poverty meant there were no busy schedules rushing to this lesson and that, and summer camps, and sports. As a consequence, my kids learned independence and hard life lessons, and they’ve told me since (with a real kindness) that it was hard but they’re grateful for it all and they feel like they got important things from our lives. When I look at the array of photos, I see an awful lot of deep love and affection and care.
I have no idea what I’m doing, still to this day. I don’t know what family means, what “bonds” mean, how tightly they hold, how far they should stretch, what is too far, is there such a thing as too far. I’m making it all up as I go along. My childhood taught me What Not To DoTM but it turns out that knowing what not to do doesn’t really inform you very much about what to do. Hmm. I’m on a highwire and there’s no net and I just have no idea. I look at the way we are managing our way through this, the way we’re fighting so hard to not let that bond with Will go, and I think we somehow got it right, even as it went so terribly wrong.
3.5 hours until Scrabble.
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- will hearts boys, according to his t-shirt. :)
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- ready to be a WheatThins model
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- i adore this picture of him, sun on his beautiful face
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- will and me, visiting NYC 12/04 – i had no idea i’d ever live here
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- rocking the bikini
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- marnie and will laughing, thanksgiving 2004
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- marnie and katie
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- long ago and far away — texas, ~2002
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- christmas 2003. marnie was getting ready to leave for India.
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- goofballs.
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- marnie and will helping out the family jugband
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- ALWAYS with the goofy faces, those two!
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- i LOVE this one! look at Will’s expression, enlarge this one. katie’s holding her newest baby cousin
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- LOVE
You will find peace of mind / If you look way down in your heart and soul. Sing it, dudes. And rock those pants.
white girl with an afro. 1976. ugh.
Psychologists have documented the “reminiscence bump,” which refers to the fact that we have the most (and the most dense) memories from our adolescence and early adulthood. Music from that period is kind of like freeze-dried coffee; everything is condensed and just a drop of attention unlocks a whole energized thing. My adolescence and early adulthood took place in the 70s, so I’m unreasonably fond of disco and afros and polyester shirts (memories of polyester shirts, that is). If I hear a song from the 70s, all I have to do is close my eyes and everything comes flooding back, rich with sensory detail. Feelings, subtle edges of how I felt then, who I was then, what my life was like then, it’s all right there even though I don’t walk around remembering all that.
So this morning I was looking on youtube for a John Prine video and in the related video section was one of my old favorites, That’s The Way (of the world), by Earth, Wind & Fire. OH I loved that song then, and seeing the video made me remember just how cool those guys were. The tight tight [tight!] pants, the hair, the moves, man, how cool. Right on. All right. If the 70s are part of your reminiscence bump too, you might enjoy this:
if you lie like a rug, and you don’t give a damn / you’re never gonna be as happy as a clam
Katie is on her way back to Austin, having done what she came to do. Tomorrow night I have a date with Will, my son, for coffee and Scrabble (at which time he will kick my ass, as he always does. Last night he texted me with this warning: “doldrum = my opening bingo when I destroy you at Scrabble.). Two weeks ago, this wild dream would’ve been too wild to dream.
Today, I opened my tiny NYC mailbox and inside was a puffy envelope — unexpected, what?! Tammy, my friend from Connecticut, mentioned and photographed in the pages of this blog, sent me an adorable little project bag she made, in bright spring colors. The sweet note commented on how she knew the winter had been getting me down. What a thoughtful and sweet friend, sending a thoughtful and sweet surprise.
It is indeed a big old goofy world. It’s one way for a while, then it’s the opposite way for a while. If you don’t already know John Prine, you might enjoy this little video of him singing the song he wrote that gave this post its title. He said his mother liked the little sayings — eat like a bird, quiet as a mouse, etc., so he strung them all together into this song.
If the rollercoaster is flying you down right now and you’re squealing whee!!, enjoy it! If it’s slowly and painfully climbing you up a hill that’s so steep you can’t even see the top, hang on. I’ve thrown my hands in the air and tipped my head back to yell WHEEEEEEE!
don’t compare your insides to my outsides, man. really. don’t.
Although I am not involved with Alcoholics Anonymous in any way, it’s such a pervasive part of our culture and we’ve probably all heard some of the AA-isms. Some are more and some are less meaningful (though I imagine they’re all more meaningful to those in AA), but now and then I hear one that just nails a very important truth.
HALT – hungry, angry, lonely, tired. For addicts, those are dangerous states that might lead them back to their substance of preference, but aren’t they dangerous states for us all? I know when I’m hungry, angry, lonely, and/or tired, I’m very vulnerable. Getting that little mnemonic — halt! — has been a keen little nugget to carry around. I fumble it around in my pocket.
Don’t compare your insides to other people’s outsides – this one I absolutely love, and it’s something I have to keep saying to myself. I often feel like such a hot mess, I don’t feel like an adult, I feel like I’m always just a step behind everyone, trying to figure it out, and everyone else has got it going ON, man. But really, no they don’t, at least not all the time, and certainly not as often as it looks like it to me. I think about this all the time in the blog world, especially, as we craft a version of ourselves to present to the Internet world. Of course, there’s a good part that we each decide is private and personal. But there’s also the way we choose to present our lives in a more mundane way — our knitting mostly works (and when it doesn’t, we’re a little bit charming about it), our family lives are mostly nice and happy, our work is mostly challenging, our floors and kitchens are mostly clean, etc.
Even if and when we reveal flaws, they aren’t the flaws that carry our shame. They’re the easy flaws, the “oops! silly me” flaws. Few people go around advertising their ugly truths. Of course — of course. Not on their blogs, not on the street, not to their friends (or not to many friends, at least), and not to close loved ones, with some exceptions of course. Of course.
So it’s easy to look at crisp blog templates, bright photos, happy stories, smiling children, stories of celebration and triumph, and think man. They’ve got it together. I really really don’t.
If anyone who reads this ever finds themselves thinking that about me, don’t compare your insides to my outsides. I try to keep that in mind myself.
will i wait a lonely lifetime, if you want me to, i will.
will and katie, 6 years ago
Strictly speaking, of course, that photo is not from this past weekend, but it summarizes my weekend in the best way possible. Katie is my oldest daughter (she lives in Austin), and Will is my only son (he lives here in Manhattan). The story is long and terrible and makes me prone to hours of tears, but Will has been hiding himself away from our family for the past 5 years. He hasn’t spoken to any of us since he appeared at Katie’s wedding, 2.5 years ago. Estrangements are always complicated and this one certainly is, but I promise that you can’t imagine the pain of it, unless your child does such a thing. The only thing worse is death.
Katie came to town Saturday in order to find Will and do a kind of intervention; she had letters to read that we’d all written, and she made a big photo album. She was not going to let him keep doing this without being forced to hear just how much it hurt us. I thought it was a mission doomed to fail…..find him? Here in NYC? Even that seemed impossible.
But find him, she did (she’s a force of nature, that one). And talk to him, she did. And listen, he did. And last night I got to see him, and sit next to him, and touch his face. We cried and laughed and cried, and it was awful and terrible and wonderful. Katie’s here until Wednesday, and they’re spending much of tomorrow together. Will and I will make a date to see each other again. It’s too much to hope without caution; we’ve all been so hurt, we’re all taking care of our hearts, but I’m the mother so I’m in all the way, no matter what happens. O happy happy day….
and many more…..
It’s such a disappointment, only being able to celebrate virtual friends’ birthdays virtually — I am such a huge fan of birthdays, obviously, so I’d like to make a big fuss of everyone’s but alas. Sara lives in NH.
Today’s a big birthday for Sara — you’ve read her comments around these parts, I’m sure, and if you’re on rav perhaps you already know her (nhsarab). Maybe you read her blog, too. Whatever, wherever, however, today is a very special birthday so pop over one way or the other and wish her
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SARA!!
I hope it’s a wonderful celebration today, and I wish you an exciting and happy year ahead.
how far could you go, if you really really REALLY had to?
I was going to include “cutting off your arm” in the post title but thought better of it. Last night I watched the movie 127 Hours, with James Franco. He’s been nominated for an Academy Award for his performance. I always think I don’t like him, but every time I watch him I really really do like him; maybe one of these days my automatic opinion will match my learned opinion. Anyway, it’s the movie that’s about that real-life guy who was climbing all by himself and his arm got crushed by a giant rock, and he eventually had to cut off his own arm to save himself and get out of there. GRIM, right? I had little to no interest in seeing it — (a) I had my automatic opinion about James Franco, and (b) I thought who wants to watch a guy cutting his own arm off, not me sister.
It was amazing. It was just amazing. I couldn’t speak when it was over, for quite a while. It’s a visually stunning movie, with wonderful editing and sound editing, but the thing is that it is really about what it’s really about. I mean, it’s not about a guy cutting his arm off (though he does). It’s really about facing yourself, facing life, facing it all, in a very real and rare existential moment. I get extremely irritated by people’s whining about “but what does it mean, it has no meaning, blah blah blah” the luxury problems of spoiled wealthy people. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t true existential moments, moments of facing the abyss of what it really all means, and what it means to be here, and that in some fundamental way it’s just you and that moment, alone. And that’s what the movie is brilliantly about, and it’s brilliant. James Franco is brilliant. The soundtrack is brilliant. Everything, I completely loved it. It’ll take a while before I can watch it again, and I hope it stands up to a second viewing. You’ll want to have your knitting with you so you can look away and concentrate on something else during some of the more difficult scenes, but you shouldn’t let them make you miss seeing the movie.
So what’s the sweater part of the post title? Two unpleasant things:
- I’m frogging my Eve’s Rib Shrug. It’s just been such a pain in my ass the whole time, and it’s not going to look the way I thought it would in the wholly misrepresentative photos (i.e., it won’t be as long as it seemed and the actual shape isn’t flattering to my (*cough cough stomach*) figure. I love the yarn too much to let it languish. So yay to making a decision but damn to all that time wasted. I’ve learned that Carol Sunday’s way of writing patterns simply doesn’t work for me, and it’s not worth it. It’s a shame, because her designs are often truly gorgeous.
- I’ve also decided with regret that I’m just not young enough to pull off the Laar sweater. There’s the ample bosom situation, but more importantly there’s the fact that I’m just too “mature” for the style. And I’m tired (see above) of putting in so much time and ending up with something I don’t like. So now I’m considering my sweater queue and yarn I already have in my stash, and as I promised myself, I’m taking my time with the decision. No more leaping without looking. My regret isn’t that I’m too old for that particular style, it’s just that it really is a beautiful little sweater and I have such lovely yarn for it. But one thing ravelry teaches us is that there’s always another sweater.
My precious oldest daughter Katie arrives in NYC this evening, and she’ll be staying with me until Wednesday. She’s on a family mission of import and urgency and probable sorrow, but it’ll be so good to have her here. I don’t get to see her….or any of my precious kids….nearly often enough. Intermingled with the moments of difficulty that bring her here will be lots of love and laughter, plenty of knitting and stash-pawing, some movie watching and card playing, probably, and lots of good food.
OH! Also, just to feed any schadenfreude out there about the high life in NYC: this morning I woke up and went to the bathroom only to find brown water dripping [again] from the ceiling, running down the pipes, dripping down the wall, splashing in the windowsill, bulging the ceiling. The guy who lives upstairs has bad plumbing and we always have to pay the very icky price. So happy waking up, Lori! Just in time for company, too. NYC, you’re such a charmer.
not to worry but i’ll be quiet for a bit
Another book that meant a lot to me was Little Women. My bitchy grandmother (the other bitchy grandmother) gave me a hardback copy when I was in 2nd grade, I think, and I still have it. It’s falling apart and the pages are brown. I remember crying every time I read it, when Beth died. (no!!) My daughter Marnie’s name came from a misunderstanding of the mother’s name in Little Women (it’s Marmee in the book, but my father-in-law’s mother wanted to use it for her grandmother name and she got it wrong, so she was always called Marnie, but it was a mistake).
ANYWAY. Remember how the little women are always reading (or being exhorted to read, by their mother) Pilgrim’s Progress? I’ve never read it, but somehow I know of the Slough of Despond and sisters, I’m in it. I’m in it up to my waist. Just personal stuff going on, not for public blog consumption, and no one’s dying or anything so in the scheme of things it’s surmountable, but the Slough is sucking me down.
I’ll probably be quiet for a few days — sure I’ll be back.
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p.s. #1 If, like me, you never said Slough of Despond out loud because you didn’t know how to pronounce it, it’s slough like through — slew.
p.s.#2 And many thanks to Jess for commenting on my political post to let me know that the Republicans have decided to remove the word “forcible” from their definition of rape. Yay, thank heavens for that small favor. Kristen Schaal said on The Daily Show Wednesday night, “You’d be surprised how many drugged, underaged or mentally handicapped young women have been gaming the system. Sorry, ladies the free abortion ride is over.” Guess she’ll get to eat her sadly funny words.
“In the matter of ideas the public prefer the cheap and nasty.” Charles Sanders Peirce
I’m looking at gray skies, gray buildings, brown-gray-black-filthy snow everywhere, and ice-coated trees that look like glass. It looks like every post-apocalyptic movie I’ve ever seen outside; I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to see Viggo Mortensen and Boy walking down the road. Yuck it’s ugly out there. Before my Union Square appointment this afternoon, I’m having sushi with a friend in midtown, which means a several-block walk and I don’t like ice. But I’m not grumpy! I don’t know why, this eternally bleak weather seems like it ought to be wearing on me. I don’t like it, but it’s not getting me down. Too much. Yet.
I was dashing through my Google Reader this morning before getting down to work, and I started wondering how y’all feel about something. I know I wrote a blogrump post, where I complained about multi-step commenting and way too many pictures a la Pioneer Woman, so this complaint may not make sense but who cares — consistency, hobgoblin, small minds, etc. What’s your preference for how a blog shows up in your reader? The options are post titles only, titles and excerpts, or full content. I have an opinion but I want to know what you think. I already know what I think.
and many more….
I’m sure she’s not the only knitting linguist, but she’s the only one I happen to know, and today is her birthday (da da da da da da, da da), happy birthday to her (da da da da da da, da da) — if you read many comments on my blog, you’ve run into Jocelyn, she of the warm heart and thoughtful response.
Midweek birthdays aren’t the best for celebrating, and on top of it, she’s in meetings all day today, so if you’re of a mind, hop over to her blog or ravelry and send a little happy birthday of your own.
Happy birthday, Jocelyn! Here’s to a year filled with time for knitting, loads of smart students, good times with your beautiful family, and easily surmountable problems if problems must be had.
shout out — in NYC, or coming to NYC, and want to see the Picasso exhibit?
I am a member of MOMA, and yesterday I received two free guest passes in the mail for the February 9 – June 6 exhibit called Picasso: Guitars 1912-1914. Obviously, my membership will get me in, I don’t have two people who might like to go with me.
Does anyone want them? I’ll drop them in the mail to you, if you can use them! Airfare and expenses not included.
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