Grrr...

I had a bad week. I guess it just started off rotten. Leah told me about Jarod which really knocked me flat even though I almost knew before she ever came. But worse was that I couldn't feel the pain of his death the way I thought I needed to. I had a few moments of release, but mostly I just felt cold and numb, like I was in an over air-conditioned room trying to sleep with nothing but a sheet to cover me up...restless and grouchy. It was much easier to feel with Leah beside me, partly because I feel the loss most strongly because of her place within it. And then my other life just came pouring back in. J and D called me at the train station and wanted me to come babysit because her parents had surprised them. And I've been irritated with them since. But I've always gotten like this with the people around me when I'm dealing with a loss...like I just want to throttle them and yell "would you stop complaining about the way your wine glass cabinets are designed and open your fucking eyes!" And S has been teething and cranky all week, and somewhere in the back of my mind I just wish that she'd show some sensitivity to my state of mind...which is ridiculous. Whenever I get frustrated with S and feel incompetent, it is never really about her, but about something her parents have done. I can totally deal with a cranky baby in a great way. Put when her parents are being obnoxious or unsupportive or distracted, I get irritated with their stuff and have a harder time handling S's more understandable troubles. (Don't worry...they can't read this...I did a google search and my blog doesn't come up in any obvious searches.) Something that has really gotten to me this week is the way that they hate to be at all inconvenienced or annoyed by S. Several times when S has been in the least bit cranky (she's usually angelic) during the two hours that they are up with her in the morning, they refuse to just deal. They'll just say "she's really tired," give her a bottle and plop her down in the crib to scream herself into exhaustion. I think parenting for normal people is not "perfectly enchanting" at least 50% of the time. Let's say for our average person, parenting is 10% perfectly enchanting, 30% banal, 30% tiring (in positive and negative ways), and 30% frustrating. Well, since these people have a full-time nanny (me), and confessed (only partially in just) that "we don't change our lifestyle for S," they expect parenting to be at least 70% perfectly enchanting, and once they've put up with the 30% other, they just can't handle it. I mean, S isn't exhausted and cranky 2 hours after her 12 hour sleep! She's just a normal baby who isn't totally wonderful and angelic 24/7. You can't just plop her down in a crib and let her wail pitifully just because you are bored. Whenever this happens, she's totally shaken up for the rest of the day, even if I sneak in after her parents leave and calm her down and put her to sleep properly. It DRIVES ME CRAZY!! Rant over. Well not quite. They've also asked me to babysit tonight in addition to last night, the excuse being that her parents are still in town (don't they have lives). J committed the most obnoxious sin yesterday when she read the slight annoyance on my face (open book), and said "Thanks for being so flexible with us, Maura." There is nothing I hate more than being thanked for something I didn't willingly give. Remember those teachers who would say (in sweet voices) "Thank you for being quiet" when everybody was loud. Oooo, I hated that.
Oh and the other thing (now that I'm on a roll) is her her parents. They have been here for the better part of a week and have spent less than 5 hours with S total. I mean, what is the point? They live 1000 miles away, but they don't bother to spend quality time with their only daughter's child when they are in the same city. They've been doing the whole socialite thing, visiting museums and going to parties. I mean, if I was living a thousand miles away and had a baby and my parents came to visit me for a week and didn't find it necessary to actually get to see my baby, I'd be heartbroken. Not that that would ever happen. In my case, I'd probably have to whine and fuss just to get to hold my own baby. They were the same way in aspen...only affectionate if it was convenient or there was nothing better to do. I guess it makes sense that J would be similar.
Okay, now I'm really done.
I'm off to go enjoy my weekend (what's left of it after I've slept most of the day away.

Crickey ;c(

Steve Irwin died yesterday. That sweet, loud, passionate Aussie who we all knew was off his rocker. We all knew that a croc was going to gobble up his head one of these days, but instead he died when a large sting ray pierced his heart, something so rare and unlikely that we can't even say he had it coming. As someone who has become slightly addicted to Animal Planet, I'm really going to miss him. Maybe his spirit will find a crocodile to inhabit.

Boudoir

All of my pictures look like boudoir shots, and well, they are. I think I am developing a narcissistic (sp?) thing. I just can't stop taking pictures of myself. I'm currently trying to copy The Half-Blood Prince on to my computer (my old one, not this one) so that I put it onto my ipod. So far I have 5 disks (out of 17) because it is so incredibly slow. I haven't taken my computer into the shop because, as luck would have it, it hasn't frozen up since I talked to the Apple guy. I've had a dull labor day weekend. All my friends that were in the city are now back at Bard, and my one friend in the city has family in town. So I've done pretty much nothing. There aren't even any movies I want to see. I went shopping today. I went all the way out to the Target in Brooklyn and then didn't actually get anything. AND I accidently exited the subway when making my transfer, so I had to pay twice to get there. I then made the rounds of cheap places in NY, only having luck at Old Navy where I got three nice looking fall shirts (50%off) and tanks to go under them, only to find out when I got home that one of the shirts was not the size I thought it was. Grrr. So I'll have to take it back maybe tomorrow before they are all gone.
I had a funny little interlude in the checkout line at Guitar Center. I bought some picks and a string winder thingy, and then I dropped a ten dollar bill into a poster box that was subdivided into little not-hand-sized slots. So the guy at the register stuck the gum that was in his mouth onto a rolled up poster and retrieved my money. I was so impressed. I mean, what good quick thinking. So we laughed a bunch and talked a little about music (he plays mandolin) and he gave me his number (in a totally non-creepy way). So who knows, maybe I'll add to my very short list of friends. I went to Burlington Coat Factory and tried to find a rain/fall jacket with no luck. All I could find were these big puffy winter coats that I DON'T need...yet, at least. I will need one, perhaps. I'm afraid I wouldn't be very NYC sheik walking down Park Ave in my big red coat with my name embroidered on it, and my big furry bear coat won't fair much better. I did buy batteries today for all the things in my life that need batteries (one unmentionable thing in particular). So all in all, a decently productive day. Mostly I just needed to get out and couldn't think of anything better to do. Tomorrow I may head to central park and go get a sunburn before winter comes. I am dreading it, even though I know it won't be as bad in the city as it was at Bard. Fall is so short.
Sept. 11th is coming up this week, and it feels strange to be in a city so affected by it, and not really be a part of it. There is such a huge difference between those of us who watched it all happen on TV (and now movies...thanks Hollywood) and those who really lived the horror and lost loved ones and breathed in ash for weeks on end. There has been a lot of 5 year anniversary stuff going on here, and it reminds me of how particularly vulnerable NYC still is. I certainly don't feel safer now that we have pissed off everybody and their brothers. I mean, lets face it, nobody is going to crash a plane into Liberty, SC or Bard College (unless it is an accident of course).
On a much lighter note, I think I have a crush on Cesar Milan. Lets not get into the psychology of that.

More fun with PhotoBooth: me, my room, guitar

Funds

I'm drowning in material satisfaction right now. I have my new mac laptop and a new super pretty guitar. So starting next paycheck, I'm going to start really saving. It's really hard to live cheap in the city, but I'm working on it. My library fines are paid so I can stop frequenting Borders, and I also have to limit my movie intake (at 12 bucks a pop). I would be absolutely ashamed if I did not save tons and tons of money when I am making what many people are raising large family's on. But it is so easy. It would be easy as pie to lay down 100 dollars a day in this city. Coffee, a movie, dinner, a book, a CD and you are set. I gave some money to MaterCare today. I'd rather support smaller, more specific charities than the big ones like Red Cross. I'm going to try to give every two months. I just think it is a habit i should get into especially now that I am actually making some money.

Here's some pics I took with the camera in my computer.

Mostly for Leah's Benefit

Okay, so I'm going to start blogging again, as I start this fairly scary part of my life...or at least I hope I start it. My newest prospective family failed to call me yesterday, which makes me nervous, and the stupid agency hasn't called me either! Slackers, all of ya!

I am getting really antsy here...tired of being in the dark about the next year and a half of my life. It feels like such a purgatory, a place of being where all I have the power to do is worry and stress. I am definitely not enjoying my downtime. It would be totally different if I had a job lined up. I could relax, take a trip to the beach for a few days. Write. Watch movies. Play with the dogs. Instead, all of my actions are transitory and my place here on shaky footing, libel to change at any moment. I never know what the next day has in store for me. No clue. This does not suit my personality, as we all know.

I just finished this really great book called The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Neffenegger (or something to that affect. The premise is...When Henry meets Clare, he is meeting her for the first time, but Clare has been meeting him since she was six years old. Henry is a time traveler who can move backwards and sometimes forward in his own history or the history of those he loves (ie...Clare). Clare is his wife in Henry's adult present, but in his adulthood, he visits the child version of his wife. Anyway, it's really mind boggling, well-written, and very emotional. I've got a list of about 12 books that I would like to read. I think I'll start with the Nanny Diaries, since everyone has been telling me I HAVE to read it before becoming a nanny in NYC.

I just want to be out of here. There is too much not being said.

Maura Hugs

So I'm writing a court statement for Kayla's aunt Ellen. I've known second hand about this aunt for a long time and heard some real horror stories about his awful abuse.. (ex. once her soon-to-be ex-husband took her outside and tied her down while he dug her grave in their front yard). Evidently she's left him about a dozen times throughout their turbulent 27 year marriage, but this time it is for real. Anyway, Kayla and Mattie asked if I would help her write her court statement, and at first I couldn't understand why Ellen would want a perfect stranger to do that, but I soon found out. I soon found myself to be the caretaker of twenty handwritten pages that represents the saddest marriage I've ever come across. In these pages she has listed every horrible detail...when her husband beat up their pregnant daughter, or how he'd humiliated her by calling her a stupid whore in front of her family when she expressed interest in going back to school, or how he'd refuse to give his wife money for food and then bring home take-out and eat it in front of her hungry kids, or how he pulled a gun on her when she served him divorce papers. The list goes on and on, peppered with heartwrenching comments like "he made me feel like I was nothing" or "I prayed to God to get me away but no help come" or "I did love him. love he killed. destroyed my love to him."
Ellen wrote out all these things the best way she knew how. Every other word is misspelled. She can hardly constuct a coherent sentence. And here on these pieces of paper is more pain and anguish and heartache than I will probably ever have to feel. 27 years of fear and anger and self-loathing and hunger and hurting. I feel like I've got a big dirty secret in my hands. Something I don't have a right to touch because of my place as the advantaged in this land of poverty. I'm glad I can help her. Use my education to help other people take her suffering seriously. But it has been a big wakeup call.
When I met Ellen, I felt really out of touch...or like she needed me to be super professional so that she could trust me with this secret. Mattie introduced me to her and said: "Here, you come over here and get yourself a Maura hug. Ain't nothing feel better than a Maura hug." Mattie is always gushing about me. I spend most of my time with her blushing. Usually she introduces me as the one who made it all the way up to NEW YORK (and she says it like that...capital letters). But she didn't this time. And I realized that I wasn't needed there as a hero or someone to sweep down and show them how it's done. Ellen needed a friend who could help her out. I just needed to be myself. I've always been able to get in touch with my strictly trashy side when I'm with Kayla's family. We sat there in her kitchen and giggled over great stories. Mattie told everyone about her experiences watching two live autopsies. Mattie, Ellen, and Brendie talked about the penises they had encountered in their lifetimes. Kayla's ugly mut pooped on the table and we all squealed in disgust. Mattie insisted that we all depart with a load of cherry chocolate ice cream. And Ellen took me aside and threw her arms around me and said "thank you for doing this for me" real soft in my ear.

In the same vein...Jeff talked to me about being a bridge person. In a town like this, when you make it out, you are supposed to be able to come back and be impressive. They want you to come back with money, a fancy education, a successful Yankee boyfriend, impeccable style. If you don't, then what's the point. If you don't fit the mold of hometown girl making it in the big world, then they still pretend that you do. And you feel obligated to fill that expectation or follow along in the farce. And there's always a fine line between making everyone proud or getting too big for your britches. I feel like I'm always toeing that line and have small chance of feeling whole here.
And yet, there are so many expectations up north too. I'm supposed to be the charming southerner. "I LOVE your accent." (just once I'd like to reply "yeah, I can't stand yours") People are surprised at my successes when they find out where I am from. As if brains are more impressive when you come from a land of mass ignorance
But that's not where I'm from. People aren't stupid here. And I'd take ignorance any day over arrogance.
I don't really know what I'm saying. I just feel a little lost now, like I'm not sure where I'll ever belong. I'm sick of the attention in both worlds. Why can't I just be the girl that gives great hugs?

My last paper of my undergraduate career....

and I plastered it together in about 6 hours and handed it in with an apology. Hopefully Andrew will understand. I think J may have talked to him, because he was really nice to me today. I needed it.

Weakly Wayward Women:
The Harlots and Cross-Dressers of Revisionist Westerns

Time magazine calls Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven, the first “revisionist” western, a movie that sought to subjugate and then revise the types and themes of the traditional western that dominated the first half of American film history. It was critically acclaimed as having truly revised the western genre in a way that none before it had. Unforgiven reveals the face of the Western imagination that other westerns had not dared to show. The gruesome realities of life on the frontier and the consequences of lawlessness are presented without filter. In Unforgiven, whores get beaten and cut up, horses get shot, pistol-whippings cause long-lasting and live-threatening injury, people die slowly without dignity, killers have consciences, and heroes cry.
Especially noteworthy in this film is its women. Unforgiven’s whores in Skinny’s saloon are at once brutally victimized and yet hold a very important, albeit shaky power over the events of the film. These “wayward” women do not reap the benefits of their waywardness, nor do they hold any hopes of being able to be accepted as “proper” women. This is very different from the roles of wayward women in previous films, where waywardness is generally a quirky accessory to an ultimately feminine and moral persona. Unforgiven breaks ground for a new Western, one that follows the familiar, beloved plot-lines while simultaneously depicting more complex themes and essentially upsetting the hegemony of white males in the frontier myth.
Unfortunately, the ensuing revisionist Westerns following in Unforgiven’s wake have generally been disappointing in comparison. These films tend to concentrate on people who aren’t typically included in Westerns, or dramatically revise the traditional narrative climate of the Western. Some of the revisionist westerns to follow Unforgiven were Posse and Tombstone ( both in 1993), the former including an almost entirely black cast, and the latter highlighting the modern gang-like qualities of two sets of villains. In finding marginalized subject matter for the “new” Western, the most obvious was to create a film about women in the West. The early nineties saw the production of several mainstream Westerns representing the lives of women on the frontier. This paper focuses on three of these movies: Maggie Greenwald’s The Ballad of Little Jo (1993), Jonathan Kaplan’s Bad Girls (1994), and CBS’s Emmy award-winning Buffalo Girls (1995). Primetime television picked up and profited greatly from this new Women’s Western trend, as evident in the enormous (and lengthy) success of CBS’s Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman in 1993 and (though less “Western”) Christy in 1994, as well as popular mini-serieses like Buffalo Girls (1995) and True Women (1994).
This paper examines these “new Westerns,” all written in the shadow of feminism and women’s rights, and featuring women in leading roles. In analyzing these films, I attempted to uncover what these films are doing differently from their Hollywood Western counterparts of the first two-thirds of the century. My answer, in looking at these three large-budget theatrical endeavors is…precious little. Many of these earlier Westerns which feature interesting female characters at a time when audiences and filmmakers were not particularly interested in addressing modern feminism are equally if not more complex given their audiences than the new feminist Westerns of the nineties. Although these recent films do succeed in expanding the station of women in the form, the characters themselves are less interesting and at times repulsive to a post-women’s liberation audience. The following section, “No Town for a Girl Like Her,” briefly examines three classic Westerns with compelling female characters: John Ford’s Stagecoach (1939) and She Wore A Yellow Ribbon (1949) and David Bulter’s Calamity Jane: the musical (1953). While still unabashedly maintaining feminine stereotypes, these three films comment on the “wayward” possibilities of the Western women in credible (at least to their audiences) ways. Their contemporary counterparts, The Ballad of Little Jo, Bad Girls, and Buffalo Gals, seek to highlight the realities of Western waywardness, and yet seemingly return to the same feminine stereotypes of the 1930s, 40s, and 50s.
The essentialist view concerning women of the American frontier (i.e. all women are naturally good and moral, all women have a primal inclination to be mothers, all women want to be loved and cared for by men) manifests itself in all of these earlier films’ female characters, and is taken for granted by their original audiences. The feminist movement, which coincided with the demise of the traditional Western in the 1970s, began to dispute these assumptions. It has gradually become possible (though the process is incomplete) for women to be judged on the same moral scale as men. Woman’s place as the keeper of the moral flame has been demystified to some extent. It has become somewhat acceptable for a woman to say, “No, actually I have no interest in being a mother.” Equal relationships between women and men have begun to replace prevailing “Breadwinner/Homemaker” relationships. It has now become possible for a women to assert that not only does she not want to be taken care of by a man, but that she wants to transfer her sexual desire to another female, or to reject her own biological sex altogether. So with many of these assumptions laid bare by feminism, and an audience that is already well aware that women can be just as important or strong as men, why do these films persist in exploiting these earlier essentialist assumptions? With exceptions and complications, all the Wayward Women of these three contemporary films reinforce the statement that in every “bad girl” waits a housewife, waiting to be let out.
I have no answers, only hypotheses. The first is that American feminism has not, in reality, transformed traditional gender roles as much as it seems. Audiences of the past and the present alike have put stipulations on waywardness. Women are allowed to be wayward as long as they are feminine on a deeper level, just as audiences have a hard time identifying with a adulteress/adulterer unless the offended spouse “had it coming.” My second or additional theory is that the American West as a myth (created in part by these earlier films) is much harder to revise or undermine, than other aspects of American culture. So much of American identity is based within this frontier myth. These contemporary filmmakers have encountered the problem of, as Richard Slotkin writes, creating “the West as both an actual place with a real history and as a mythic space populated by projective fantasies.” The frontier, populated by headstrong men and the women devoted to them, is a hard myth to debunk.

and it goes on from there, except the spelling and grammar gets worse...

You can’t make an interesting feminist revisionary Western by simply featuring women instead of men. The concept that women can be both wayward and acceptably feminine was fairly novel in 1939 or 1949 or 1953. It isn’t as compelling or interesting to today’s audiences. Two choices present themselves. We can accept the demise of the Western as a genre, a difficult task considering the lingering prevalence of the Western myth in nationalist discourse. Or, we can create a new way of talking about the West that revises more that just the names, places, and genders, but the form of the Western itself.

Lost

It's lucky I can't see far with this leg!

I've missed Kira and Frantz, and I could not believe what a change a few months has brought to Kira. She likes me now. She never really liked me before. She tolerated me more than others, but that was the extent of her appreciation of all my hard work. But now, she's verbal, she's affectionate, she's interested in more than just her mother's boob. I'm all for extended breastfeeding, but it makes it hard on the babysitter. She's still nursing, but she can stand to be seperated for big chunks of time. I'm hoping to take her to the Poet's Walk tomorrow morning. But I have a meeting at 12:30, so I don't know how long I'll be able to stay. I was also going to try to give blood, but I might not have time unless I give really early in the morning.
I got paid yesterday, so I went and got a CD player and a new watch, and I signed up for an Itunes account, ordered 11 of the saddest country songs in the world, so now I never have to sit through country music radio waiting for one of these 11 songs to come on. They are all songs that make me cry.

1. The Georgia Rain--(Tricia Yearwood) beautiful melody and it reminds me of home
"...screen door flapping in the wind
same old house I grew up in..."

2. Concrete Angel (Martina McBride...childhood trauma song #1) About a little girl who get killed by her abusive father
"a statue stands in a shady place
an angel girl with an upturned face
a name is written on a polished rock
a broken heart that the world forgot"

3. Tears in the Floor of Heaven (somebody, I forgot...they're all the same) about all these people that die and look down on the people they love...VERY SAD
"Mama smiled, said "don't be sad, child...
grandma's watching you today
cuz their holes in the floor of heaven,
and her tears are falling down.."

4. 10000 miles (Mary Chapin Carpenter)...perhaps the most moving song I've ever heard...musically more than lyrically, from the credits of Fly Away Home.
"The rocks may melt and the sea's may burn
if I should not return
oh don't you see that lonesome dove
sitting on an ivy tree
she's weeping for her own true love
as I shall weep for mine."

5. Everything I own (Bread) This song reminds me of my childhood. I can't be certain but it sounds a lot like something Mama used to sing.
"I would give anything I own
give up my life, my heart, my home..."

6. Walk A Little Straighter (childhood trauma #2) about a boy with an alcholic father

walk a little straighter, daddy,
you're swaying side to side,
your footsteps make me dizzy,
and no matter how I try,
I keep tripping and stumbling,
if you looked down here you'd see,
walk a little straighter, daddy, you're leading me

7. I Love You This Much (childhood trauma #3) about a boy whose father never loved him, no matter how much he tried, who finds Jesus. I'm shameless.

"He said, 'damn you daddy', the day that he died
The man didn't blink, but the little boy cried
'I love you this much, and I'm waiting on you,
to make up your mind, do you love me too,
how ever long it takes, I'm never giving up,
no matter what, I love you this much'"

8. Whiskey Lullaby (Alison Krauss) unrequited love, self-destruction, Alison Krauss...deadly combination.
"He put that bottle to his head, and pulled the trigger
and finally drank away her memory.
Life is short, but this time it was bigger
than the strength he had to get up off his knees"

9. On the Backseat of a Greyhound Bus (Sara Evans) pregnant teen who gives birth on a greyhound
"on the backseat of a greyhound bus,
heart so full that it could bust,
staring at the rest of her life,
she never thought this would be the place
where she would find her saving grace
but she fell in love on the backseat of a greyhound bus"

10. Come Home Soon (SheDaisy) story about a woman waiting for her husband to come home from war...I really am awful. This has blatant patriotic undertones, and I still love it. It makes me wish we were doing the good, noble thing.
"I sleep alone
I cry alone
and it's so hard living here on my own"

11. Skin (Rascal Flatts) Oh my god, this song is sooooo sad. It's about a teenage girl who gets cancer and loses all her hair and her prom date shows up at the door with a shaved head so that they can look the same. SOB!
"Sarah Beth is scared to death
As she sits holding her mom
Cause it would be a mistake
For someone to take
A girl with no hair to the prom
For, just this morning right there on her pillow
Was the cruellest of any surprise
And she cried when she gathered it all in her hands
The proof that she couldn't deny"

and then later

It's quarter to seven
That boy's at the door
And her daddy ushers him in
And when he takes off his cap
They all start to cry
Cause this morning where his hair had been
Softly, she touches just skin

Avis Avian Aviate

I hope the bird flu doesn't come here. If I got it, I might die. Healthy people get sick, and peopel with compromised immune systems die. I'm not ready to die. I don't know if anyone is every ready, but I am definitely the antithesis of ready. I've been thinking about it all day, about if I got it. I wonder if I could will myself to live. Can you refuse to die. For some reason I have this idea that you can only die of sickness if you get tired of hanging on and let go. But that's not true. It can't be. You don't consiously breathe, so you can't stop yourself from not breathing either.

I knew chickens were disqusting. I'm not going to eat chicken anymore. What if the virus can be injested in chicken meat. Maybe I should just live in a bubble, or maybe move to some obscure island where nothing can get to me.

Modicum, Prosaic, Biliousness

There is something to be said about the emotional bliss after successfully completing a task at hand. I seem to suffer chronically from a desultory state of "unfinished". I have notes all over my room and in my bag, but a finished, complete thought is hard to come by. But today, I sat down and finished a book, and I mean the whole book, so that today I will be able to contribute whole-heartedly to a class discussion. I also finished the revision of my paper for Liz Frank, using a few of my newfound vocabulary words so that perhaps I may have some validation in my efforts, such as "Wow, Maura (she says Morah), that's an interesting verb you used there." Liz Frank, tangent here, has a tower of pills that she takes every morning at breakfast. I am endlessly impressed. I could have taken this thing to music class in elementary school and recieved an "E" for the nine weeks.
I've decided not to go to Washington this weekend, prefering to spend my time "not sleeping" in the NYPL. 10-6 no excuses. I took a look at some previous senior projects today, and got really excited about mine, and about how accomplished I will feel after finishing mine. I met with Geoff today, and we talked about structure and scope. My project is going to look like a wishbone. One leg will be literary visions of Pakeha identity in the 50s, 60s, and 70s, the other Maori identity during the Maori renaissance of the 60s and 70s, and base will be the bicultural literary revisions of culture in the 80s, perhaps the only good thing going for the 80s, mine and Shosha's births excuded :) ...also an unfinished thought...alas

pejorative, milieu, cursory

My house smells. That's the long and short of it. There's a yeasty smell around my desk, like really really old flowers. And my kitchen is a mix of garbage stench and fly killer. The sink smells like mothballs. I would almost welcome a head cold these days (oh, I shouldn't have said that).
I can't seem to get my work done tonight. Maybe it's the dictionary I just bought...it looks menacing. I am going to improve my vocabulary if it kills me. Liz Frank said that my grammer and vocabulary were attrocious. Humph.

sdfsdfs

Ethnographic Research Project Proposal

In the coming weeks I would like to observe and interact with the culture of the elderly in full-time care nursing homes. I have several facilities that I am looking into: 1) Northern Dutchess RHCF Inc. in Rhinebeck, a non profit, government funded facility catering to the needs of Medicaid/Medicare patients whose families might not be able otherwise to afford a nursing home. 2) Golden Hill Health Care Center in Kingston, a government run and government funded facility 3) The Mountain View Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in New Paltz, a high cost, for-profit facility 4) The Victory Lake Nursing Center, a non-profit, but non affiliated facility in Hyde Park. More than likely I will pick only one center to do my research in based on how willing the management is in letting me do my research there and the environment itself.
For the purposes of this project I think I will focus less on the inner workings of the nursing home itself, but more on the individual physical, emotional, and spiritual experience of the completely dependent senior. In formulating my discussions and interviews with my informants, I will keep in mind these basic questions: How satisfied are the members of this community with themselves? their community dynamic? their relationship with family? their status in the outside community? How do they relate or feel attached to their personal history? Do they cherish and glorify the past, or resent it? In general do the informants view the nursing home community conducive to aging with grace or do they feel that it imprisons them

Standing on the sand as if it were stone

Here's my version of the debates tonight. For your information, i did not cry with anger and/or despair:

Kerry: Bush did this.
Bush: I did not.
Kerry: Bush did this.
Bush: I did not. Freedom.
Kerry: Bush did this.
Bush: I did not. Freedom, enemy.
Kerry: Bush did this.
Bush: I did not, and if'n I done that is no matter. You change your mind all the time
Kerry: Bush did this.
Bush: I did not, freedom, enemy, alliances, Sept. 10th, what kind of message.
Kerry: You sleazy lying sonofabitch, why don't you just go back to Texas and shove a fencepost up your butt. (okay, that was just wishful thinking).

But on a happier note. My dreams have now come true. Do you remember hearing those stories about the make-a-wish foundations where terminally ill children got to meet celebrities? Well, I always knew that if I were ever terminally ill and got any wish in the world, it would be to meet barbara kingsolver. Okay, so really I didn't meet her. I saw John Sayles too, and although I love his work and his spirit, it was nothing like seeing Barbara. Afterwards, I stood not three feet from her. our hands might have even touched. She signed my Small Wonder. I also gave her a letter that I spent the better part of two days writing (when I should have been writing my paper). it's a good thing I had the letter, because I forgot how to speak English when a actually went to talk to her. I think the words "this" "note" and "thank you" came out sounding a bit like my native tongue. She smile and said thank you back, and then she waved as I packed up all my stuff and headed out the door.
The talk itself was fine, but not really informative in that anything new was expressed that had not been expressed in their work. I just couldn't take my eyes off her. She glowed. Don't get me for blasphemy here: But imagine Jesus walking across a stage and sitting down in a chair and staying there for two hours, it wouldn't really matter what he was saying...it's jesus, and he's sitting in a chair ten feet away. Barbara Kingsolver isn't jesus (although i do count her as one of my own personal deities in my scewed version of Pagan-Christianity where you can have a big God and smaller earthly ones), but you can imagine my reaction.
And also I feel very proud of myself having mastered the city enough to be able to find my way from Lexington and 42nd to Park on 34th all on my very own...and at night too. Plus I didn't get mugged, and I didn't get murdered, and that is always a good thing. Cities confuse me, and they make irritable, and they scare me, and they give me a headache, but other than that, I really like going to NY. If I were more confident I might could function better and be happier in NY. I would never want to live there though, or at least I can't see myself living there. I've been thinking of places to settle down one day, if I decide to remain an American. And I like the northeast, but something still doesn't feel right to me. The west doesn't feel right, although perhaps if I live in a city center and not in suburbia it would feel different, and more an more, I see myself moving back down south, and for the first time the idea doesn't repulse me. I read this article in Glamour or somthing called "Where's my village?" and I want my children to have a village. I want my children to know their grandparents and really truly consider them second parents. I want them to grow up around trees and mountains and unpolluted water. You can't swim in any of the lakes or streams around here because they are polluted, and they make you feel greasy. More and more, I keep thinking about Asheville.
Must go catch the shuttle more later....

I was just a little girl when your hand brushed by my, and I will be an old woman happy to have spent my whole life with one man

One man, one town is all I need. I wrote a sappy love song last night that you may hear very soon on the country music radio.

It's called We Made


Verse 1
They’ve built a shopping mall
On the hill where once we parked,
Spinning dreams into the stars
And stealing kisses in the dark.
I know the way the dirt felt
Under the mark of our bare feet,
As we danced around your truck
Without a word to speak
And that mall, it pays the bills,
And that mall, it keeps us still,
But it won’t ever be enough to bring us back to that hill

Chorus
Where we found a new little soul,
Where we found a new pair of wings,
Where I knew I’d spend my whole life
Harboring this little precious thing
We made

Verse 2
You didn’t have a dime
And my folks didn’t approve,
As we strode up to that alter,
And swore we’d never move.
So you took a job in milltown
And I went to sewing clothes
Then meet back in our little house
And this life that we chose
And this house, it’s made of stone
And this house, it’s made of bone
And of all the tears and love it took to make this house a home

Chorus

Verse 3
Fifteen years go by,
And this one will be our last.
You hold my hand and pray
That we are still up to the task.
She’s got my big brown eyes,
Like all our children do,
But her grin we’ve never seen before
And she’s looking at you.
And this babe, is all we need
And this love, is all we seed
And in her eyes we see our own and all the ways they’ve seen

Chorus

Bridge
In the handicapped space
On that ground where once we kissed
I take your hand and cry
For this place, our genesis

Chorus

Ha! I think I am just very premenstrual. Today at nursery school I had to leave the room when Jacob's mom had to leave. She said goodbye and he started screaming and I started crying. I mean, geez! Poor Jane didn't know what to think. I always do that when I'm about to start my period. I cry at the commercials on TV with puppies. Like yesterday in the campus center i saw a national tudoring service comercial, and this boy's parents get him tutored, and low and behold a few months later he hands his mom his report card and she puts her hand on her heart and smiles proudly at him, and I just burst out into tears.
Alright...I'm off to get mouse traps, and later tonight I'm going to a old-time music jam.

Love is a Tanglewood Tree

Hmmm. Before I forget about it....I had two very disturbing dreams last night. I dreamed that I was back home for a holiday and Mama and Daddy were in the final stages of a divorce, but I didn't understand it because they were acting completely normal, and yet I knew that they didn't love eachother anymore. In my dream I cried and cried, just completely heartbroken, and Leah was there telling me that I should be happy for them, but I told her that she didn't understand. And I cried more, and I kicked and screamed and threw things but no one would listen and no one would talk to me. And as I cried for my parents I realized, in the dream, that I was actually crying for Anna because I would never see her again. And then I woke up. It was about 4 am. Then I had another dream in the early morning which came from this really violent movie I saw yesterday called Leon which was about the mob in NY. It was a game, and there were two sides and we were fighting eachother...really fighting. We lined up, and everyone had guns and knives, and then I realized that I didn't have a knife, and I was captured by this boy I knew, and I begged him to let me get my gun to make things fair, and he said "no way, not after the way you treated my people. I will show no mercy." So then I asked if I could go to the bathroom, because I remembered that there was a butcher knife in the bathroom. He lets me into the bathroom, but it really isn't a bathroom just a toilet and he watches me, and somehow I sneak the knife into my hand, and then I stand up and stab him. And in my dream, I could feel the knife in him. And I was so scared because he started laughing and said, ooo that doesn't hurt, and so I stabbed him again, and he fell. And I started crying because I had killed someone, but then I stopped crying because I wasn't sad that he was dead, but I knew I would have time to be ashamed later. But I kept thinking about it as people got killed left and right around me, and the dream ended with me alone in a room with two of the enemy around the corner, and I knew that I was going to die because they had guns and all I had was a knife. And then the dream ended with me thinking that I had a mouse in my hair. Or maybe there really was a mouse in my hair, but I think it was just my fan, blowing my hair around.

Speaking of the mouse, I'm sorry, but he's gonna have to go. I think part of my nightmare was fighting with my conscience over deciding to take action against that mouse. But I am firm in my resolve. I cannot cohabit with mice. I'm going to get some no-see traps at the hardware store on Wed. What if someone wanted to kill me, just because I was small and dirty and hungry and scuttly? Then again what if someone wanted to kill me just because I tasted good?

Eeek!

There is a mouse in my room. He keeps making himself seen, which I would rather him not do. If he's going to be there, better he just scuttle around under the floorboards. What's worse is that he is actually quite sweet looking. So I hate to do this, but I'm going to go get some mousetraps, preferably those little black box kinds. Or maybe I'll just lock the cats in my room until they have had ample time to dispose of the mice. I'm just not about to share my living space with anyone...mice or otherwise.
In other news, the coldness has come. I did finally get my window shut, so I can stop worrying about dying of pneumonia with icicles coming out my nose come December.
I had a good music week. Maggie is going to start playing banjo with us. She follows really well, and it gives us a really nice sound. She's abig Gillian Welch, and Dave Carter/Tracy Grammar, Lucinda Williams Fan, so we can jam on a lot of my favorites. I'm thinking in a few Sundays we can take ourselves to the Black Swan and blow them away.
Alright, time for a nap before a night out.

From a Walking Point of View

I'm so unbelievably tired, and I haven't even gotten to the paper writing part of the semester. From 3pm to 1am with a fifteen minute creak for instant mashed potatoes and green beans, I read 300 pages of an super dense novel (which turned out to be worth the strife) and 100 pages of a history called The New Zealand Wars and the Victorian Interpretation of Racial Conflict. If you think the title is impressive, try reading the damn thing. So many foreign names, so many battles, so many deaths, so much reading. It is my own fault in ways. I have penciled in too much time for my social life and not enough time for my reading life. I have, however, managed to barely complete my reading assignments for Cultural Anth. and US Lit 3, as well as writing a decent song under very odd circumstances. I am resigned to my songwriting class, although I admit the desire to rush right to the registrar and drop it as soon as I heard that all songs were cowritten. But I have succomb to the idea that maybe my professor is trying to teach me something about the process of songwriting that I didn't know before. My American Folk music and dance class, on the other hand, is the highlight of my week. Bill is a real character with little direction but much heart. He ate dinner with Leah and me last week, and I actually had a real substintave conversation with him about my work with Michele Dominy (speaking of Michele Dominy--seems as if she isn't terribly well liked by a mafority of the faculty here) where I actually had to stand up on the spot for why I thought New Zealand post-colonialism had a lesson to teach us that couldn't be found elsewhere. Mostly the conversation made me realize that I have yet to discover that reason in a pure form.
Suffice to say that I am yet again challenged and happy (despite my complaints) for my exhaustion. Better to be run ragged, than not run at all.
News on kittens....we have two now. Cassidy and DePuis. Cassidy is the most enjoyable, while DePuis (having only one eye) is a bit of a mental case.

The Cat Came Back!

I'm getting a kitten! I have requested a girl, but they haven't been sexed yet. We may have two kittens if Shana gets one two, but I think that is better anyway because then they can keep eachother company and get into mischeif together. If I happen to get a boy, I'll name him Atticus. Names on my list for a girl kitty: Polly, Sidda, Mavis, Pearl, Lusa, Adah, Halia, May, Iris, Muriel, or Edith. The kitten won't be ready until mid-October. She will be an expert mice killer.
In other news:
1) I have started classes. My independent study is kicking my ass already. I don't think Michele knows that I do in fact have other classes. Michele fascinates me as a person, and I respect her so much as an anthropologist. She had the courage to take sides with Pakeha New Zealanders in a land renewal act between the Ngai Tahu and the pastoral Pakeha of the South Island Highlands, which is an incredibly unpopular stance to take in New Zealand in the post-colonial world. What's more, not only did she write polemic after polemic on this issue, but she appeared as an expert witness in front of the Waitangi Tribunal hearings. She was, of course, slammed in the US and Europe for her stance, and I don't understand why. Liberals don't even think twice about their judgement on Palestine. The year is 1946. Who has more claim to the promised land? The jewish people claim it on the grounds of spiritual identity, something they claim to have been denied in Europe. The Palestinians claim it on the grounds that they have been living and raising families in it for the past 500 years, so that it has become their national identity. Liberals aggree upon the latter. The year is 1946. Who has more claim to the South Island High Country? Maori's who have never inhabited this unfarmable land, but claim it as a part of their spiritual mahinga kai. Or white pastoral stationmen, indigenous New Zealanders, who have been raising sheep there for the last 300 years. Anyway, something to think about.

A hundred million bombs

So why, when I have a million other things to be doing right now, do I pause to indulge in an entry. Because if I don't then I will never remember how it felt to be so tired and exhausted that I just wanted to hit things. I almost threw my brand new computer against the wall today? Why? Because the internet was slow. We are all toddlers essentially...go go go go until we can't go any more and we start to get grumpy, red cheeked, and aggressive when all we really need is our moms to pin us down kicking and screaming on their laps and rock us to sleep.
I'm so tired that I couldn't hear anything in class. It takes me five minutes to write a coherent sentence, But I'm afraid if i take a nap now, I'll never wake up again.

The State of the Union

Someone I love very much was hurt in a horrible, unimaginable way. And I didn't even know about until it was old news. There are so many things that I wish...but mostly I wish that I could turn back time a few years to when things were simpler and less dangerous, a time and place where we could be whoever we wanted to be and have that be okay, where friendship was as easy as laughing.
And I wish I could eradicate fear...the fear that makes people hate anything that is different, hate so deep that it would make a person crazy enough to slit a knife through the stomach of a baby. I don't even want to be a mother anymore, because I would risk sending a precious person into a world where such horrible things can happen. I have to wonder why any of us dare to have children...how reckless it is. Is it because somewhere deep inside we understand that despite everything to the contrary, there is good. I know that. I think. But is it worth the damage? Sometimes it comes as second nature...love beats hate into the ground every time. But sometimes I just don't know.

love languages

Tonight I was sitting in the computer lab trying to write my story and this guy came in and sat down at the computer beside me and asked if I could tell him how to type a letter on the computer. So I pulled up Word on his computer and told him to type it in the white area and then push the print button when he was done. He had the letter written down neatly on paper beside him but was having the hardest time typing it. He asked me several more questions like how to start a new paragraph and how to capitalize letters and how to erase, and after a while he was getting so frustrated and only had one line of his letter. So I asked if he'd like it if he dictated it to me and I typed it. At first he said no no I won't bother you. So I thought he just didn't want me to hear the letter, which was perfectly understandable. I told him it wouldn't be a problem, and he siad "well the thing is my daughter wrote me a letter on the computer and I'd just like to send her one back on the computer."
And so I typed up his letter to his 18 year old daughter. I gathered that he hadn't seen her in a long long time and that she didn't really have much to with him. He wrote about how he hoped that she was getting in to all the colleges she wanted to go to. He told her about his new job and how he was learning how to work machines. He said that he thought about her all the time and wished that he could be there for her. He talked about how wonderful her letter had made him feel. It was so tender and raw and beautiful though, and I completely got this feeling that however different I am from everyone around me, it seems like we're all just trying to get by the best we can and love the people that we need to love even if we don't get it right. Everybody has a story. And we are all just fathers trying to learn how to talk to our daughters. I don't know. I was just incredibly moved, and I keep thinking that this is the story that I need to write, the one about that father...or maybe about that daughter, instead of this one.....

Even Ian didn’t know the girl’s name until she spelled it out to him when she applied for a post office account at the West Barnes Bureau de Post and Convenience Shoppe, even though she had passed by almost every morning and afternoon for three weeks. The Biddles most likely knew her name but they never used it, and he didn’t dare ask it, knowing that the Biddles would have all of East Lothian County thinking that he fancied the American over their girls.
The first time he had seen her was on a long rainy afternoon in late May. By then the rumor had circulated that Graham Bell’s au pair had arrived after great anticipation, and so he knew it was her when he saw the two Bell children, Hamish and Lucy, walking along each side of her. She had just picked them up from school, he presumed, and crossed the street in his direction. He felt the sudden, inexplicable urge to busy himself with something, or to crawl into the government issued mail bins and hide. So he slid slowly into that Postal Service half of the store where he could stand behind the glass, excused from being sociable, permitted to speak formally when spoken to through the steel vent in the glass. Truth is, he was and never had been good at talking to people. He felt that whenever he opened his mouth, he was trying to prove himself. It was only the Biddles that he spoke to with any ease, and only because he knew that they weren’t really concerned with anything he had to say.
He heard her footsteps on asphalt outside the door and he started arranging papers and found some sticky notes and began to scribble on them and stick them on various items on the counter: the stapler, the telephone that rarely rang, the corresponding phonebook that he never needed to use, and his Absalom, Absalom that he read during the long breaks between customers and mail pickups.
When she came in he looked up and acknowledged her presence giving a little nod. Hamish and Lucy headed for the sweeties counter, and although normally he would have told them something silly like “look, don’t touch,” he could not imagine doing so in her presence. After all, it was her job to keep them out of trouble, not his.
“Can I help you there?” he asked from behind the glass. The girl looked up and smiled a little.
“Do you have any postcards here?” she replied, looking around as if she had just arrived in a train station and was trying to orient herself. Her accent, the way she pulled out the word hear into two complete syllables, made him uncomfortable because he could not recognize it from any of the movies he had seen or the Simpsons or Friends. Postcards, he thought to himself, why would I have postcards? Who the hell wants to send postcards from the middle of a cow pasture.
“Afraid not,” he said. He waited for her to say “thanks anyway” and take the kids and leave, but she just stood there. Reluctantly, he moved into the shop half, noticing that she had no letter to mail.
“Hamish, Lucy, don’t touch the candy, please!” she said, picking up the Lothian Gazette, which she must have been getting for Graham, for it was made up mainly of classifieds for old fishing boats and livestock and not much else. The sound of the word “candy” made him cringe. Candy was the name of the neighbor hood slut in his mother’s daytime drama shows.
“Can we get a sweetie? Dad always gets us a sweetie.” Lucy said, swinging her school pack over her shoulder, knocking a box of chewing gum from the counter. The girl quickle went to pick up the gum, apologizing, flushing. Lucy looked for a minute as if she would cry, but then decided against it. Hamish went to the girl’s side and clung to her trousers leg and stuck his thumb in his mouth so as to disassociate himself with the actions of his sister. She put the paper on the counter and fished in her pocket for a pound. Ian smiled at Hamish
Ian like Hamish Bell more than he liked any of the other kids that he saw on a regular basis. Although Hamish was older than Lucy by over two years, it wasn’t evident, partly because of Lucy’s five going on thirty complex, but mainly because Hamish was what they called “delayed” which made him seem much younger. Antithesis of the perfectly clear and articulate Lucy, he also had a severe speech impediment that made him practically incomprehensible. When he was younger, when Graham and Stella were still together, before the need for au pairs, he would babble along not noticing that no one, with the exception of his mother, could understand him. But since he had started school, Hamish had become aware of the wall between him and others and stopped speaking in public. Ian noticed these things. Hamish and Ian were but two of the same breed.
“No,” she said, taking Hamish’s thumb out of his mouth.
“Why not?” Lucy asked, poking out her lip a little.
“Because I said so.” Ian laughed inside because this was the sort of thing you say without thinking and then realize that you have unconsciously become your parents.
“That’s not a proper reason.”
“Seems proper enough for me,” she said, as Ian handed her the change for the paper. She looked at him again and leaned on the counter, casually. “So, you know where I could find some postcards?” Again Ian didn’t know how to take her accent. It was like a slow waltz, rhythmical, sharp at times, and incredibly patient, as if nothing was or would ever be urgent.
“At the Dunbar Post,” he said, “Or at the Tourism Office down there. They get plenty of folks down from Edinburgh. Its just we don’t have visitors in West Barnes.
“You got one now,” she said, pulling the kids towards the door.
“Guess so,” he said. She opened the door and walked out and Ian just stood there relieved and watched as she disappeared down the cobblestone sidewalk towards Hedderwick Hill Farm, her head, sporting a jet black pixie cut, bobbing up and down with her dance-like stride. She had Hamish by the hand and he practically ran to keep up with her long stride. Evidently still pouting about the sweeties, Lucy lagged behind, stopping completely at times, and then running ahead when they other two got to far ahead for her comfort.
Ian had seen lives pass in front of him before in this manner. He had been sitting behind that counter for more than a decade, longer if you counted the long years of his childhood playing in the mailroom while his father worked with all the fervor that Ian himself would never be able to bring to the job. He had started working part time in the place when he was fifteen and his father was first diagnosed with lung cancer. He went to school in Glasgow for a year but came home when his father passed and took over as postmaster. Since that time he had watched babies turn into teenagers from behind that counter.
And he had seen American girls before, of course, when he was at university and sometimes when he would meet exchange students in the pubs in Edinburgh that his best friend, Kieran had introduced him to. But in the last few years, the night out in the city had grown few and far between. Kieran had, in the course of only three years, settle down in a small blue house in Portobello, gotten married to a Frenchwoman named Danielle, and had two babies, two girls, Olivia and Estelle, whose pictures Ian had pinned to his refrigerator. He was almost thirty now, and he wanted pictures of his own kids, or if not, he at least wanted a life that would convince him that settling down and making a family was undesirable.
He couldn’t comprehend the girl though, couldn’t even think of a way to ask her what her name was, couldn’t understand the way she made him feel unsettled and anxious to be someone different. He knew that their story, if there was to be one at all, would not be a love story for more reasons than he could tell.

Killing the White Man's Indian

I love American Indian Fiction. Finally we are getting to some in my class. Until this point we were reading dime store crap fiction from the 1800s, including (sob) this absolutely bitter, racist, monstrous Mark Twain piece called "Huck and Tom among the Indians." Mark Twain just can't be my hero anymore, this blemish on his record is too big for me to just glance over. Of course we read Last of the Mohicans which was nice and dull. We read some Willa Cather which I thought was really interesting, so much that I wrote a long paper on it in conjuction with a Phillip Deloria article on the formation of the Boy Scouts and Camp Fire Girls. In the early 20th century there was this identity crisis in America and for a time culture turned towards the indian who was our "authentic" Other-- the man that was in touch with nature, lived simply, and sustained himself with his hands-- at a time when all the real indians had been stripped of any power and herded onto poverty striken reservations. You know the phrase, the only good indian is a dead indian, well, this turned out to be true on many different levels. Anyway, I love it. And I love Geoff Sanborn. No really, I LOVE Geoff Sanborn....a lot. He gets a 9.98. Okay, so he doesn't make me blush like Eric does (and still does), but he's really great anyway.

I'm doing something really special tomorrow. I'm going house-looking. At 1:30 tomorrow. All I know is that it is a blue house with lots of bushes and trees in the front. Trees!!! It's really close to the Black Swan where I play. I'm really excited about the prospect of living in a real community, and more importantly away from the "i'm finally free so I'm gonna be an idiot all the time" thing at Bard. Thinking about it makes me feel more independent, like I'm taking charge of my life, like driving alone on the highway with a destination in mind, or better yet, no destination at all. Of course maybe it will be a shithole and I'll have to keep on looking, but that's okay too. The price is right too. 500 a month rent makes living off campus still cheaper than Bard, but 400 makes a marked difference.
I'm worried about losing my Stafford Loan. I don't what I'll do. That's 5000 dollars a year that I'll have to borrow from someplace else and have to start paying interest immediately. Hopefully that won't happen, but if it does, then I don't know what.
I'm worried about the Double G. I know that you can't expect your grandparents to live forever, but there is something incredibly painful about thinking that those people at the the head of your extended family no longer holding it together. That breaking point where the children become grandparents. Of course, no one in my family is having babies anytime soon unless Shosha's got something up her sleeve, but that's not the point. Mama said over break that I needed to hold on to my time with my grandparents and it made me shut up about not wanting to go over there and visit, but it is true. We think that they will be there forever and that's not how it works, and if we don't realize that now, then it will be too late later on down the road. And those people are more important than we think. Who they are is a part of who we are, because they shaped our parents. And I grieve at the prospect of loss more for my parents. My grandparents are still once removed from me, but Gan-Gan is my mother's mother. Her mother. I don't even want to think about it.

The rain has washed away where my shoes have been

and it does matter. It does. This is not liberating, not at all. I knew I should have gotten that Glow-in-the-Dark Plastic Angel at the nields concert, and I could have put it on my computer, and it wouldn't have crashed. It crashed because I didn't buy that angel even though deep down I knew I needed it. The loss is not as bad as it could have been. Most of the fiction I have in some unedited form somewhere else. THe academic essays are gone. A lot of the essays from Nonfiction class at GS are gone, although if I looked hard enough I might could find early hard copies in my files at home. Most of the poetry was shitty anyway so i don't really care if it got eaten up by cyber space. But there are letters, drafts of emails that were difficult to write. I started a sequence of letters to my daughter when I was 15 where I told her about how it felt to be a teenager, how it felt to be insecure, how it felt to love so much it hurt, how it felt to hurt someone, how it felt to be free. These were the most honest things I had ever put down on paper, so honest that I was afraid to print them out. Maybe I'll never have a daughter, and so it won't be such a loss. And there are other things, self indulgent fiction that I can scarcely mention on this blog much less ever save or print out, things that I worked on with more pleasure than my more serious pieces, silly things with no literary merit, novels that I began when I was 14 where everyone eventually finds true happiness, so much of my fantasy world that is harnessed in my real fiction. I have old drafts on some of these, but a draft is not anything like what it becomes when you've worked on in word by word for years.
So what is to be done? There is still hope, I suppose. I've contacted some computer people. Maybe they can salvage my C-drive or at least the my documents folder. But maybe they can't and I just have to pick myself up off the floor and move on. And maybe it won't matter five years down the line what was lost. Maybe when i start from the drafts it will be ten times better on the second try. But it matters now. And I've gone to my computer several times today and tried again, hoping that maybe the results will be different, and they never are and I just end up crying in frustration. If they somehow manage to save my files then I can get closure and just throw the damn thing against a brick wall and smash it with a sledge hammer...nothing would give me more pleasure, but if it they can't, then those files will just be stuck there, and I'll never be able to take my mind off it. I'll be able to look at my computer and say, there they are, and it will be so frustrating to not be able to reach them.