The Year That My Life Forgot

Still here, still making my way through grief. Longest. Year. Ever. As I write this it's almost four in the morning and Missouri is burning. Again. For more than a week now. Sometimes I wonder how much more we, collectively, can take. How much grief can a human heart hold before it bursts?

There's much I can't say. I am still keeping a secret for someone, one I have known for years I would carry to both our graves. It's the only form of love I have left to give. I know this is cryptic; I'm sorry. I'm not in danger, and I'm not in despair. I'm just exhausted and philosophical. Also, my feet are cold. It's August, and I've got both quilts on the bed and wool socks on. What gives?

And seriously, the Anne Sexton tweets are killing me. Ugh.

Fly Away Home

I live in a neighbourhood of Doodlehem that is generally considered pretty safe--especially for something on this side of the river, since it's uphill, technically across the county line and its own municipality--but to get home from campus there's no avoiding the student ghetto (because, really, who doesn't love a college town slumlord?) and some very decidedly working-class residential neighbourhoods. I've been warned by my students, bless their hearts, not to walk down certain streets because "they're not safe"--which, in their insular little sometimes-unwittingly-racist minds, simply means "not white." As someone who's lived many years in and around New York City, their mindset makes me batshit crazy. The city residents I encounter daily on my walking commute to campus are friendlier than the average undergrad. Kids have come up to me and wished me happy mother's day even though I don't have kids, guys with dreadlocks have slowed down a half-block so they could share their umbrella with me, and the caretaker of the Latino church on the corner is always looking out for me to ply me with wilted flowers from the scraggly strip of grass between the sidewalk and the curb, as long as there's not too much dog shit there that day.

I really like my neighbourhood.

Today I came across a group of three kids on the sidewalk. Their one Razor scooter lay upturned on the concrete. The girl, who was maybe eleven, and the older boy huddled on their haunches around the younger boy--six at most--who was sitting with his palm upturned and tears threatening to brim over. The focus of all three kids was a small red bead of colour in the younger boy's hand. Thinking he had fallen and cut himself, I stopped short of the stop sign and rolled down my window to enquire if they needed help.

I had stumbled upon a ladybug funeral. They had found this tiny red dot of a bug earlier that morning and had decided to keep her as a pet, but in the sad ladybug way things sometimes go, she had not survived. These three--who were of a race and ethnicity I am continually warned against in this town--were reciting ladybug prayers before burying her under a leaf they'd plucked from a neighbour's tree.

They were kids. They aren't in anyone's gang. They aren't shooting rockets at each other across an arbitrary political border bitterly contested for sixty years. They aren't shooting missiles at passenger planes. On this particular day, they aren't even shooting water pistols at each other, though it might not be a bad day for that sort of thing.

Just kids, trying hard to understand why the world is the way it is, and loving something completely unlike them, so much that it hurts. 

Schadenfreude, darling, Schadenfreude

Oh, no. No no no no no. They didn't.





Well, yes, actually. They did.

Our Patchwork Heritage

"On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord."

(The above image is one of dozens I shot today as my college campus packed itself around television sets, streaming video feeds, and radios to celebrate the end of a very long and shameful 233 years. Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.)

37 and a Wake-Up

I just watched (ok, several times) the CNN video of some lunatic throwing his shoes at George W. Bush. I gotta hand it to the man, he may not be quick with a phrase but he's got some pretty good reflexes. Check out that duck and cover action.

"Let me talk about the guy throwing his shoe. It's one way to gain attention. It's like going to a political rally and having people yell at you. It's like driving down the street and having people not gesturing with all five fingers...."

And you know what? If he'd been this much fun the rest of his time in office, I might not have hated him quite so much.

All Politics Aside

This morning's New York Times contained an article about the health disclosures--or lack thereof--of the current batch of Presidential and Vice Presidential nominees. Though I don't usually like to give myself indigestion that early in the morning, I perused it over my morning tea and waffles, and came across a paragraph that stopped me briefly.

The records mentioned that in 1968, about eight months after his capture and after some particularly brutal beatings from his North Vietnamese captors, Mr. McCain attempted suicide, trying to hang himself with his shirt.

Now while I'm not a particular fan of Senator McCain's politics, his policies, or his habit of wandering around the stage during debates while his opponent is speaking (what was he doing back there? Looking for his dentures?) and I am not of the belief that having been a prisoner of war necessarily qualifies--or disqualifies--someone from being a head of state, I just wanted to go on the record here.

I honestly don't think there is a person between here and North Vietnam that can blame the Senator for that. Most of us, myself included, wouldn't have lasted eight minutes, let alone eight months.

She Has a Point, Folks.

But then, Campbell Brown so often does.

Also an Average Joe

I can't say this any better than my friend Mary, so I'm not even going to try. Please, please, please go read the most recent post on her blog if it's the last thing you do before you go to bed tonight. Please. It's so worth it.

You can even ignore Sarah Palin's misuse of the objective case. Just this once.

Do the Math

McCain's proposed health care credit (per year): $5000.
My current health care bill (per year): $5916.

And I have one of the more affordable ones.

FAIL.

Dear Senator McCain:

I am not your "friend." Kindly refrain from addressing me as such, or else I shall have to assume that, much like your party's predecessor, you are simply ignoring my (daily increasing) segment of the population. Might not be a bad tactic, come to think of it; we are royally pissed off after eight years of being ignored, not to mention it seems to have worked well for George W.

But anyway. If I were given the opportunity to ask a question, it would be this: why do you keep wandering around like a geriatric golden retriever whilst Senator Obama is speaking? Myndi just emailed me from Chicago wondering the same thing, and I suggested to her that it's your prostate. Perhaps you're pacing like that to distract yourself from thinking about how badly you have to pee. Either that or you've lost your dentures.

Sometimes All It Takes Is One Sentence

"After watching her speech last night, I've decided that Sarah Palin is Ann Coulter in a woman's body."

I just read this comment on a post over at Dooce (yeah, like she needs another link for more traffic, but what the hell, I like the woman) and immediately knew I had to link to this man's blog. I dunno, call me fickle but with a sense of humour like that, I had to take a chance on the guy.

Hi, Husband!

This is for Minnesota Matron

This was emailed to me recently. And that's all I'm gonna say here.

I Have to Get This off My (Puny) Chest

After watching John McCain's speech the other night, and hearing yet another blatant rip-off of an Obama slogan (it was bad enough that Hillary turned "Yes We Can" into "Yes We Will" after accusing him of lifting speeches from another politician) I feel I must speak. It is my duty both as an American citizen and as a professor of the English language.

I love Senator Obama. I truly do. I think he's just the kick in the ass this political system, and this country, needs. I think that right now, Ghandi, Thurgood Marshall, and Martin Luther King are doing some serious cosmic fist-bumping. (Though, I confess, the thought of Abraham Lincoln doing the "cabbage-patch" is a little frightening.) However, every time I see or hear his slogan I have to physically stop myself from grinding my teeth and correcting his campaign officers aloud. Or at least his press officers. Another generation of voters--used, misled, brainwashed.

There. I've said it. His slogan makes me crazy. Because it is wrong. 

On the other hand, I'm thinking "Change In Which We Can Believe" probably wouldn't sell as many votes.

Political Correctness Does Not Grow on Trees

Nor, in fact, does it run in families. Two nights ago, my dad wondered aloud if poor Ted Kennedy's brain tumour was what had caused him in recent months to endorse Barack Obama. Then, being a sensical man, he ducked. Because he knew something was going to come flying at him from my end of the table.

Yesterday, on my way to the local hippie-crunch food store for more organic kale and carrots to juice (seriously), I saw a bumper sticker: I MISS RONALD REAGAN.

Is it wrong that my first instinct was to roll down the window and yell, "Hinckley didn't!" ?

Sticking

Which is something these journal entries haven't been doing. It's possible I'm having trouble with the Big Blue Button, but more likely it's that my Big Blue Toilet Seat of a computer (original iBook, you see?) is not playing well with others. Each time I try to enter my current music, everything eats itself. Deleverance, walking through the cemetery with my boyfriend gone. Early morning thoughts on why John Kerry may have been a confused and angry young man when he came back from Vietnam, but at least he showed up, and since when isn't a politician capable of personal and emotional growth, he's still infinitely better than He Whose Initial Must Not Be Mentioned--gone. Coffee bitter and frothed with milk in Robin's backyard, sun burning my legs already--gone. Rootless rambling, also gone.

It got really annoying after a while. So I stopped thinking of important things to say. Then I went from having one job to having four (three plus Robin's) and that was the end of everything including enough sleep to remain coherent, personable, and functional at work for a week at a time. Even three vacation days didn't do much good, since I had to write a syllabus. Not my intent, not exactly relaxing either. Still, the work was done and I'm glad for it. This is obviously going to take a certain amount of discomfort and monumental effort. But I felt, even in front of the class on my first night, that it will certainly be worth it.

Save Me a Chowning's, Honey, I'm Coming Home

I suppose I can make it ten more days until vacation without killing anybody. Only you're apparently not supposed to joke about that anymore, especially online. Especially when you hang out with Robin Romano (however cranky he happens to be right now, not that I blame him) and people like Tom Ridge hate you. Probably personally. But my point wasn't going to be about the Patriot Act or the First Amendment or whatever. Even though I think it's appalling that not only can children and teenagers not tell the different between reality with consequences and a video game with a reset button, so they shoot each other or carry swords to school....but also that adults can't tell the difference between terrorism and satire.

Although it's a very salient point to make.

No, my point was going to be something else altogether, until I got sidetracked.