Merry Christmas! (Or, random thoughts about my dad)

Here I am, with my beautiful new laptop, having beautiful internet in my very own room at home, and sadly my phone has to be plugged in around the corner and so at the moment is more awkward to reach than my computer... but no one is online to talk to me!  

Well, that's not true... the automated moviefone thing is online, as is a person I only knew on the internet except for meeting once randomly in person, but with whom I have not spoken in any context for some time.  And some people have away messages up.

But that's ok, because I have a delightful public-private inner-thoughts-to-outer-world forum to keep me company until my phone gets more charg-y.  Or until I just get sleepy, and forget all the things I wanted to say, which seems to be happening right now.

It's been an interesting time so far.  I spent some time with my dad Saturday and Sunday, and that was good.  It's amazing how I can feel so connected to him in some ways, like when we talk about the big stuff of life and the spirit, which sounds, as such things often do, ridiculous to write down, except that I really mean it... and I feel like we're really sharing something important, and special, and we are... and then I try to tell him what I think about a movie, or what I'm doing next year, and it seems like we're communicating but suddenly he says something that has all the ingredients of what I've been saying, but isn't actually my point at all... and then I look at the picture we took together using Photo Booth, and our smiles do the same thing to our faces, our noses are the same, the stretch of our mouths... or I see him almost-sleeping on the couch and he moves his thumbs against each other restlessly like I know I do, or his feet, absurdly high arch tucked and rubbed against the top of the other foot, and that is just like me.  And somehow all these things, connections, disconnections, awkwardness, alikeness-- come from the same person, in not even 48 hours.  And he tells me he wants to know more about what I like and I am quiet, not knowing what to say.  (We are talking about music, should I give a list?)  And sometimes I think he creates an idea of me quite fully out of pieces of true things, and sometimes I think he knows me in ways I cannot know myself.  

This is ironic, since part of our discussion, a real heart of it, was how you cannot see yourself, how if you look for the self you cannot find it, that self-hood itself (ha) and everything around it is created... but if there is no self, created by whom?  This is one of those statements that should maybe come with warnings, like the Cloud of Unknowing: Don't read me or think about me unless you're way gung-ho about the whole spiritual path deal.  Or maybe I'm just posturing.  (Who is?  Ha.)

He can irritate me intensely, and I am terribly afraid of displeasing him in some small way.  He bought me beautiful shirts-- in size extra-large.  I take a stupid pleasure in being more educated than he is, in thinking silently that I understand more while he speaks.  Especially about eastern religions.

I can see now how crippled he has been, because he is not so big and full of power as he used to be.  When he hugs me, he is still the strongest person in the world, the whole world still goes away.  I think he is trying to protect me from his family, or protect himself through me.  I think he has systematically removed me from their reach... he may be fully conscious of this, or totally unconscious, or I may be incredibly wrong.

I love him.  I can't decide if that statement encompasses all of this I have said before, or not.

So, there's actually a lot more I have to say, about things other than my dad, like... my mom!  ;)  Well, and how Christmas Eve went and how it was singing at Mass and how my extended family is responding to my telling them about Charlotte with a wonderful outpouring of love and support so far... and how I got some cool presents at Jeff's family's party, and... well, but this will all have to wait.

In the meantime, the merriest of Christmases to you all!  I love you!  (Or I don't know you, but you can have some love too, if you want!)

Anxiety, Compassion, Mardi Gras Beads

Here are some people I saw today:

Coming into work, I passed this shirtless man. His chest was handsomely contoured, but sort of a pale, ashen color, which seemed different from the rest of his skin. He seemed to have some nicks or cuts on his body, but I couldn't tell if he had been hurt externally or if this was some kind of disease. He lurched when he walked. He seemed tired. I was struck by him. I thought he was in trouble. I sort of stopped, uncertain of what to do. Everyone kept moving, including me and him. We were going in opposite directions. I thought about going back, and asking if he needed help. I kept looking back as he got farther away. Almost as soon as he was too far to go back to, I became convinced that this is what I should have done. I prayed that he would find help if he needed it, and that I would get another chance...

Then, I had to go to Rite Aid on my lunch, and I passed this old, scrawny guy sitting on one of the planters near there. He had pink feathers and Mardi Gras beads around his neck, and some ratty, dirty shirt and shorts on his body. I think he was sort of talking to himself. I was struck by him, too.

On the way back to work, I passed this tall black guy selling flowers. He had roses this time, lovely red roses. He says he's homeless and trying to earn money honestly. I've bought flowers from him a couple of times before. I said I had to go to work. He said he could walk right with me, I didn't have to slow down. He follows you with this hangdog hopeful look that will instantly turn to disappointment and disillusionment if you say no. I didn't want to buy them and take them into work. I wanted to get away this time, and I did.

Michael let me out of work early. We were watching the Sopranos all day. Violence and heart, and I don't know which there is more of. Anyway, I was gonna come down here to this cafe to use the internet where it's cool. And on my way I pass this guy sitting there with his cardboard sign, and his head is down over his hand, and his face is crumpled like he's in despair. He looks sorta young, like maybe when he lifts his head he will be handsome. And I think fuck, I just can't, I just can't go by while somebody looks like that. I think maybe he'll be handsome when he looks up. I read his sign. It doesn't make much sense. Something about a train he needs some money for, his dead father, some aunts in Connecticut, he's so depressed, he had to spend his money on two days of sugar medication, please, please. So I go off, thinking I'll get him some food and bring it back. I walk halfway down the street, and I don't see anything but McDonalds. I'm thinking, what if he hates McDonald's. What if he's a vegetarian. What kind of thing is it to get somebody food without knowing what they want. Besides it's sort of near Bally's and I don't want to risk running into Rashool.

Back to the man with the cardboard sign. I see myself in the window. You don't look as hot as you think you do, in that skirt. I see myself, bending down to him, before I get there. I am very aware of my skirt. It's pretty. I am becoming, maybe, a girl who wears clothes that other people admire. I have, maybe, earned admittance into the female club. Or maybe it's the money club, or the make-up and plucked eyebrows club, in which case I am out.

"Hey," I say. "Hey." He looks up at me. He is not handsome. His face is full of troubling angles. His eyes are red, bloodshot. He is not ok. I don't think I ask. "Hey, are you hungry? Are you thirsty?" His mouth spills words. Words about getting out of here, about how excited he is, just needs the 8 dollars. I lie and tell him I don't carry cash money. I ask, where is your train. I offer to go with him to 30th St. and get his ticket. He says somebody will give him the money, whatever. He voice is confused. It wanders around, trailing his meaning behind it, in tatters. His voice is not hopeful. It is not excited, when he says he is excited. "Listen, I bet you're hungry. Thirsty. Why don't I get you something to drink?" Ok maybe Pepsi. "Ok, you stay here. I'll go get it, I'll be right back."

Back on over to Rite Aid. I find about a million kinds of Pepsi. It is dazzling. Lime and lemon and diet and vanilla and one calorie and caffeine free. I pick caffeine free. I decide to get some food. There's a sale on cereal. I pick a heart healthy bran thing. I think that means love, and caring. When you give somebody nourishing food, and not candy or something. When you know it's probably the only food they have right now. Maybe he will think it's stupid. At the counter, it turns out that you have to buy the two cereals to get the discount. It is only 70 cents less to get the one than it would be to get two. I feel I am in the hands of destiny, a bit trapped by logic. I go back and get cornflakes with bananas already in them. I didn't know that was an option. My bill is $6 something.

The man is still bent over himself when I arrive again. I think about how I would feel in the heat, how crazy I felt when there was no air conditioning yesterday. I bend down and say I got him Pepsi and cereal, too. He doesn't want the cereal. He says he would only want the cereal with milk, anyway he's going to be on the train for like 4 days. So take it, I say, to eat on the train. No, honey, you keep it, it's better you keep it. Only enough medicine for two days anyway and then when I run out I can't eat. Keep it, I say. For those two days. Ok? Maybe you will get hungry. I take out the heart healthy one. You take this one. You keep this one. Ok? Good luck. Thank you, he mumbles. I do not know what our eyes said together, his and mine. He bent back over his body.

I straightened up. I wondered what the man across the way is thinking of us. Does he think I am a good person? Does he think I am a foolish person? A little white girl who thinks she's some kind of angel?

I am afraid of these things... I am afraid I am a fool. I am afraid I do not understand the world, or that I understand too much. I never know what to do, and I do not approve of other people nor of myself.

But I am trying to see him. Because he said he would be there. And I am afraid, I am afraid of leaving him on the street, alone, because he was wearing pink feathers and had sores or a crazy drugged brain. I am afraid that I am already like them, already crazy. I do not consider that I too have that face within my face.

I see you hungry all the time. I see you mad and frightening, with your signs all full of words. I am full of words too. I am frightened of you, and of myself.

O Lord come back, and this time...

Redemption? I kept the cornflakes with bananas. I too am a child of God.

Does anybody else think about this stuff?

Morality Play

Things got kind of strange at work today... Tall young Michael made some comments about women, how he thought women should be subordinate to men or some such, and it all sort of went downhill from there. Heather countered him, mentioned my name, and the next thing you know we're embroilled, eventually getting all the way to gay marriage and religion. I feel rather odd about the whole thing. On the one hand, I feel like if I'm going to go around with a very good opinion of my own articulation of ideas, and support for my positions, I can't really avoid these kinds of conversations. And to a point, they can be very interesting. But it's hard with tall young Michael, because he's so naive and definitely uneducated in many, many ways... but somehow he also strikes me as sort of innocent. He says terrible things, really not ok... but I feel, ironically, that I should be gentle toward him, because he is still, in some fundamental way, a little boy. He wouldn't thank me for that, I know. And it's hard because I express myself in such measured, qualified prose, which at this point is natural for me in matters of import, but doesn't seem to be natural for anyone else there, so I'm not sure if they understand what I am really trying to say. I think the really difficult thing there is that I have adopted such phrasing because I have been taught that it is in some ways essential to clear communication, and yet often it hinders my ability to communicate in situations where people have not been so trained. So that kind of defeats the purpose right there, doesn't it? I have an inordinate love for linguistic care, and I don't know if this makes me a more precise communicator, as I would wish, or not. And Heather is so forceful and convinced that it is hard to disagree with her. Or maybe it's just that now we are on a "side" together in the argument, but in actual fact I do not agree with all the conclusions she draws.

Maybe the point is that I am really, really, really confused about morality, and it preoccupies me to an extent that even my closest friends don't always understand the mixture of intensity and trepidation with which I approach the subject. Because intellectually it is clear that morality is a relative, culturally detirmined thing. But my heart wishes for a standard against which I can hold my own actions and those of other people, and therefore... be justified in judgement, I suppose, be it good or bad. I know judging is a trap, but it is so incredibly hard to avoid, and to be honest I like it. When I can make a judgement I feel safer, more certain about the world.

And it's easy to question morality when those around you have a different point of view, but it's not something we even think to question when we are all making a moral judgement in consort. For example, later in the day we watched Oprah, and there was no debate over whether the mother who gave her children Xanax to sedate them was morally wrong to do so-- we were all certain that she was. And I am certain. But what if this was a highly contested issue? Would I remain certain?

I think one of the bottom lines I come to is that morality can be detirmined situationally rather than generally. Take the issue of gay marriage, or marriage at all. There definitely may be couples where it is morally wrong for them to marry, and couples where it is not wrong (I don't know if marriage is morally "right," since to me that carries a bit of a compunction to commit a right act). This has nothing to do with their respective genders. Are there actions, then, that are always or almost always wrong? It's interesting to get to this point, because I think that murder is essentially worse than rape, however I would say that rape is always wrong, while killing may not be. It's so CONFUSING!

Also, I'm often nervous about expressing my views in a company where people disagree with me, and I don't like this about myself. I am morally scrupulous, but I'm not sure that it makes me essentially better as a person.

Then there's the fact that I love shady characters and antiheros, and can forgive in fiction what I would condemn in life, and especially in myself.

WHAT IS MORALITY? Is it relevant? Is it absolute? Is it relative? Is it the essence of what makes someone a "good" person, or is it merely an attempt to codify compassion? Does it actually relate to compassion directly? Now accepting submissions on all of these questions!

Ooh... and if anyone really thinks that women are inferior to men, I think your opinion is the intellectual and moral equivalent of horseshit.

I'm a bundle of contradictions. Love to my faithful readers, if you happen to exist... sound off! Inquiring minds want to know.

Mayday, I'm on the fringes...

Wow... what a strange couple of days it has been. Before I say anything else, I want to say this: WE GOT INTO THE NY FRINGE! And it's my play, and the admission is based purely on our merits!! Though the news is still hitting me, that's helping make life a lot better right now. "We" for the uninitiated, is The Uncut Pages Theater Company. www.uncutpages.org. Please go, and donate money. ;)

The news about the Fringe couldn't have come at a better time, literally right on the heels of May Day, my first May Day as an alum. I had a really good time for most of the day. For some reason I decided to get very drunk in the afternoon, but not (I hope) obnoxiously so, or to the point where I got sick or could not speak or walk. I hope I continue with the record of never getting to that point, because I would not like to see the scorn I tend to have for other people who do (more the obnoxious than the sick) turned on myself. But... it was a beautiful day, after a coldish and cloudy beginning. The sun came out right in the middle of the May Hole dance, as the vigorously shaken purple parachute launched flower petals into the air and everyone danced around in giddy feminist circles. (Sometimes I am struck by how much of what we do/have done at Bryn Mawr seems like the kind of thing that only happens in movies or books. But it's real. These things do happen. Does everybody have such moments in their lives? What does it mean that the cinematic or literary creations, mirrors, and takes on reality become the reference points for our real lives? Especially interesting since so many, many people commented on how the events of September 11, 2001 felt like a movie, or they thought they were actually watching a movie. Anyway. Bryn Mawr is like this in a much more lovely, idealistic kind of way.)

The rest of the day was lovely. I went dancing and skinny dipping about, and generally did all things appropriate to May Day.

I did not see my flower fight girl, who I have had a flower fight with every year since I came to Bryn Mawr. Katie told me she was there, but, superstitiously, I did not seek her out. I guess it felt like a cycle had come to an end, and I should not interfere.

That feeling is probably also why I felt so strange at the end of the night. Like the cycle of being at Bryn Mawr and leaving Bryn Mawr had completed its course, and now I was really and truly gone. Sometimes I hate so very very much that I have been out of college for a year and I'm still afraid of leaving college, which, after all, I have already done. I feel so inept whent that fear comes over me...

But this entry has been going on forEVER, and it's time to end it before I get kicked off here as has happened about 500,000 times when I tried to finish it.

More when we fix the internet at home. :(

Not Irrelevant and Boring

Apparently the sight of a clock ticking away my lunch time does not make me a prolific blogger. It's rather more difficult to try to come up with coherent, thematically organized ideas when I'm sitting here at the keyboard than it is when I am just wandering around in my own brain. Perhaps it would be better if I simply posed a question, since after all I have to be back at the strenous task of phone operation in a mere five minutes. All right, let's see... this relates to something that's obsessing me lately, and I'll tell you more about that later. (Wow... it's weird how as soon as I write "you" I feel more comfortable, more as though my thoughts have grounding... but that was last post's topic, wasn't it?) My question, then: Why do we feel compelled to judge feelings and states of mind as more or less real after we have had them? I think you know what I mean... you're in love, perhaps, and then a year or so later you decide that could not have been actual love. Or you get mad, furiously, blind-with-rage kind of mad, and in a day or so you dismiss that feeling; something must have been wrong with you, hormonally out of balance or whatever. But other feelings of the past we cherish as involiable fact. I adored my babysitter; I was devasted by the death of a loved one. I wonder if this judgement is simply based on what is acceptable to your current self-image. It's a bit disturbing, and the kind of thing I tend to get bogged down in whenver I'm feeling uncomfortable with anything I'm feeling. Do you think this is something that matters, or is it just a way to avoid reacting as immediately to things as I might, were I not so concerned with the reality/validity of what I was feeling? I know that when I do react impulsively it always feels good at the time, but may be followed by intense guilt if the results are not so good.

Perhaps I should call this blog, Tell Me I'm Not Crazy After All Please, and That You're Like Me but Not So Like That I Am Irrelevant or Boring.

Perhaps everybody should.

(But not really really everybody... that would be too generic.)

;)