dotting i's and crossing t's turns out to be pretty damn important; or, taking responsibility

I have never really been a "details" person.  I don't really do paperwork all that well, or at all. At work if there is an email sent out to folks who are late turning in census reports, first-day-handouts, or grades... I am on it. I just don't pay attention to stuff like that. I am an idea person. Creative. A free spirit.

Well. Turns out that stuff matters.

A lot.

I wanted to blame people. And there are some who would do, I suppose. But, really, the biggest lesson to be learnt here is that I can't control other people. I can only take care of me and make sure that my world is together. And well, so far, in my life I haven't done that.

It is my own fault that I am not returning to Graduate School in the fall. It is never easy to fail. It is even more difficult to learn that you are not special. Not really. Oh no. I am not exceptional. I am not one of those students who has someone fighting for me. I am just a student who didn't fill out her application correctly. It's not personal. It is political, but that is something else altogether. It is a tough lesson to learn: No one is gonna fight for you, that you are on your own, that you don't have a corner man.

So, I will have to fight for me.

But, at least now I know that I must.

I am not giving up. Not yet. I'll apply again next year. I'll pay more attention to errant t's and i's and all of that. I will learn a lesson from this, because I need to.

Another year.

Another chance.

In this year, I have a lot of work to do: Both academic and personal. I have some addictions to work on.  I have some fears to conquer. I have some wounds that need healing. I have some reading and learning that needs to be done. I have some growing to do.

Academically speaking I am not where I should be. I have not taken care of my language requirement (yes, it has been years, and no I still haven't done anything about it). I have a lot of reading in my field that I can do in a year. Some conferences, etc. Work that I have not done because of my own insecurities about myself as a scholar.

Personally, I have a food addiction and a lifetime of eating disorders that I have pretended don't exist. I have a major set of fear and anxiety disorders that I have self medicated with alcohol, food addication, and isolation.  I need to learn to cope with life in a responsible way. It is too easy to set things aside and ignore them rather than take care of them. Putting my hand over my eyes will not make problems go away. (no, not even if you also sing the la la la I am not listening song).

So here it goes.
Another year.
The question is what am I gonna do with it?

Stay tuned... I know I will.

framing ben jonson; or, putting the shabby in shabby chic

A couple of years ago a literature professor gave me one page from a 17th century Ben Jonson folio as a christmas gift. I have no idea of its value, but I know it is something I needed to treat with care. My roomate at the time also recieved one, as did everyone in the seminar (which is prolly almost all of my readership, so you all know exactly what I am talking about here), and she framed hers immediately.  I balked at the cost of framing and my page remained wedged between two pieces of cardboard in the flimsy plastic sleeve it came in, along with a photocopy of the folio cover to index its origins. I was beginning to notice some wear and tear on my page and that prompted me to get it framed before I did any permanent damage.

Yesterday, I finally had the thing framed. I chose a fancy schmancy champagne gilded frame and had it contrasted with a chololate brown velvet textured  matte. It looks gorgeous. It is luxurious and rich looking. When the framer unwrapped the brown paper and revealed the work I could not help but exclaim, okay, squeal, about how gorgeous it was. It was easy to see how proud she was of her work, and she even took a picture of it to add to her portfolio. So, in the glow of such admiration, I brought it home and hung it over my World Mart-Cost Plus country white roll desk, next to my second hand olive green dresser, above my JCPenney "fall pattern" floor rug, next to a thrift store find framed print by one of my favorite romantic artists. And in the blink of an eye my room that had looked shabby chic just a moment before, now just looked shabby. 

I do not come from money. My mother's family were vagabond okies who lived in trailers and drove cars that they bought totalled and then fixed up to sell. My father's were loggers and laborers. Not one of my grandparents graduated from elementary school. My mother was the first in her family to graduate high school, my father the first to go to college. I know that education does not always result in money, but usually those with money get college degrees. So there is a correlation, it just wasn't what I thought it was.

When I was a child I dreamed of being upper middle class. I wanted to "dress" for dinner. Have season tickets to the opera, get my hair done, and travel to exotic foreign lands.  Now, I know my imagination could only reach upper middle class, because I could not fathom what it was like to be truly wealthy. I took on the trappings of the rich through food, clothing, and books, and the arts. I learned who the great masters were so that I could talk about paintings and sculpture, I read Shakespeare, and watched foreign films. I was eight the first time I watched a black and white movie in french.  I couldn't even read the subtitles quickly enough to follow the plot. It didn't matter I was hooked. I wore pearls and scarves to the dinner table. I learned to ride horses and was always secretly angry that I had to ride "western."  In my head I connected this lifestyle to education and I vowed to go to college. Then in college, I decided to become a college professor.

It wasn't until I was in a PhD program that I realized that education and books were not going to make me rich. Books are just books. They do not mark a social cultural class. Teaching college is about teaching college, not wearing cashmere sweaters and driving volvos. A page from a Ben Jonson folio is a page, no matter the room in which it hangs. When I quit school and entered the job market I learned the hard way that I will never be rich. But, at least now, I understand my longing in ways that I never could before. Now, I am returning to school to get a degree to get a job, and not gain an identity.

being mean; or, sorry kid, the cat stays here

Last spring my best kitty friend Mazzy died. I had had her for 12 years and having her put down was a very difficult decision, but she had diabetes and she was in kidney failure, so I do know it was the right thing to do. At the time, I didn't want to get another cat. My current life is very unsettled. I am not in my own place and I don't know where I am going to be living from one year to the next, so I thought it would be best to go sans cats for now. Well, life has its own ideas and now eight months later I have two cats.

I inherited these cats, a male Siamese and a female calico from my brother and his family. Last summer my sister-in-law joined the Army and after basic training she was stationed in Fort Bliss TX, so they packed all their stuff and drove to Texas. They had four cats, four dogs, and two kids, so to help them out her mother took two dogs, and we took two of their cats.  It was not my idea. It was my mom's. The plan was that we would take the cats and then as soon as they were in Texas we would give the cats to my sister. It is a long story, but my sister-in-law didn't want my sister to have them. Because we have also have two dogs (one of whom HATES cats) the cats had to stay in my room. Within 48 hours it was very clear that these cats were not going  to my sisters.Or anywhere. Ever.

The Siamese, who was named George, is my favorite. For the first two days he hid under my bed. The calico, Lola, was a lap cat from the beginning and cuddled all the time. I hated the name George and I wanted to change it. We brainstormed for a while, and at first we thought of cute names like Mocha and Smores because of his color, but within a week it became clear that he needed a name with attitude as he is quite a personality.  After spending a morning chasing him around the neighborhood at 6am only to have him sneak in an open door and hide under the bed while I was still trespassing in my neighbor's backyard trying to "rescue" him. I decided on "Maui." Maui is the name of the Polynesian trickster god. Oh, and my Maui is quite the little trickster.

It turns out that the move to Texas and the enlistment in the Army were not permanent for my brother and his family. They moved back here in September. My sister-in-law did not want to be in the Army, and now she isn't. And that is all I am going to say about that. Anyway, when I heard that they were coming back I couldn't help but panic a little. I thought they would ask for their cats back. I made it pretty clear to my brother that I didn't want to give them back. They were in pretty bad shape when I got them (they were outside cats and had fleas, worms, ear mites, and they were malnourished), and it cost be several hundred dollars to get them healthy. Not to mention that now we have bonded. They both sleep with me at night, and that I am a little bit nuts about taking care that they are in at night, well fed, healthy, loved, and well, quite frankly a little spoiled. 

Today, my seven year old niece looked at me straight in my face and asked for her cat back.

Dramatic Pause.

I felt bad as I said, "I'm sorry honey, but he lives here now."

Right now, as I sit in my green chair typing I can see both cats. Lola is in her bed on top of the dresser and Maui is laying on his back in the middle of my bed. They are both sound asleep. And even though it was hard to say no to a seven year old, I know I did the right thing.

What to do when an old friend disappoints you; or, Sense and Sensibility part II

I am having a really difficult time finishing Sense and Sensibility. Yes, I am busy. Yes, it is difficult to find a quiet spot in this current life. Yes, it is easier to watch TV; and on and on. But, I think the real reason that I am struggling to finish is that I don't like it that much. Gasp. What? I know, I know, I am supposed to like Jane Austen. I am supposed to love Sense and Elinor and the romance and all that. But, I don't.  I don't like how passiveness and suppression is rewarded, while honesty and emotion are punished. But, most of all, I don't like Edward or Colonel Brandon. Sigh.

I know that the girls end up with these two men. And I know that Austen wants us to approve of the matches. But, Edward is so bland. I hate that he picks fights with Marianne over her immature and overly romantic sensibilities. I understand that is done to highlight her flaws, but it makes him appear argumentative and peevish; traits that I am sure that I don't approve of. I am thinking of thes scene when Edward visits the Dashwoods in Devonshire and he and Marianne talk about the countryside.  He tells her how to use language to appreciate the countryside. My book was kind enough to have a note explaining that the actual target of his satire is a book by William Gilpin called On Picturesque Beauty in which the book explained how to use the language of the sublime to describe landscapes. This book was so popular that it created cliches like "rugged hills" and "twisted trees" and so on. Austen is using this moment to zing those who have fallen into this linguistic trap. But, the argument is so annoying. I would become overtired of anyone who took the time to tell me how wrong I was all the time. And yes, before you say it, it is in reaction to the fact that Marianne does this to people all the time. She points out their lack of romantic sesibilities as well. But for some reason, her passion seems to make it slightly more bearable.

The other target of Austen ridicule in this text is Mrs. Jennings. I am a little bit sensitive to this one, because, well,  I feel a kinship with her. I am fat and jolly, I like to tease, and have been known to play the matchmaker.  I don't know when to shutup. I will kick a dead joke long after I should. But, while the Dashwood girls, who let's face it, are kind of boring, cannot stand Mrs. Jenning, I like her. She is kind and merry. She is right about how people feel and forces them to acknowledge their attractions. If we all lived like Elinor we would sit silently and wait and hope that someone would notice us. Which brings me to my main gripe. The value of silence.

If you want to be a good person then talk of nothing but the roads and weather. Don't enjoy your children too much (Mrs. Middleton), or hunting (Mr. Middleton). Don't have a sense of humor (Mrs. Jennings). Don't be passionate about art, music, or love (Marianne). Don't love anything too deeply. Don't feel. And if you do feel anything for goodness sake if you do feel anything don't talk about it!

I think I am just a little frustrated right now. I know how this all ends, and I don't want it to go that way. Marianne is broken by love and only when she is beaten down into a spiritless lump does she get to marry another character who was beaten down by love and is now a spiritless lump. It reminds me of what I hate about Jane Eyre. Jane only gets her man after he has been broken. She can't have him whole and vital. And yes, I am sure there is a point here. I used to believe that Austen was critiquing this world that silenced women, but after taking a Satire class a few semesters ago, now I am not too sure. I am not convinced that this is a critique... I want to be sure that there is a lesson for me here,so that I can go somewhere beyond my frustrated and angry Jane-Austen-seems-to-be-anti-passion-rant (especially because I know this topic comes again in later books, and is treated much more favorably)... but for now. I am having touble getting through to the end. Ah well, and in the words of Nemo's friend Dorrie "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming."

I am mrs. jennings; or, what to do when you realize you are an unpopular Jane Austen character

Seriously. I am.

insomnia; or, a dickensian visit of a ghost from my past

Tis the season for Charles Dickens' immortal classic A Christmas Carol; a story I never did like very much. As I see ads for this version and that version of this tale I can't help but think that what makes this story so universal--not to mention so malleable-- is that we all have ghosts. I have mine. And at times, like now, I am visited by my ghost. Yes, there is just the one for me, but it is not any less terrifying in its singularity. Even without Scrooges' power of three, it still has the power to haunt, to disrupt, to warn, and to terrify. Recently, my ghost has been visiting. Well, 'tis the season after all, so I should not be surprised really. But, no matter if expected or not, I am still overly dismayed and find myself unable to sleep afterward.

At three am when I awake from a colorless forgettable dream--or worse, a recurring one about a water tower, and raised voices, and goodbyes--and I am pulled into a cyclone of worry, I try to tell myself that this all of my own devising. The danger is not real. I tell myself to stop thinking and go to sleep. I tell myself that the perils that I imagine are all a part of a mild anxiety disorder heightened by a recent run of bad dealings that have battered my self esteem and my abilities to believe in hope and love. But still, I lie awake night after night, because those are just words. And I am not often fooled by words.

I traffic in words. I use words everday to shape meanings. I find ways to tell my students that their writing is kind of terrible using a vocabulary of hope on a daily basis. I offer status reports to friends and family that mask personal trouble almost daily.  I smile and tell stories cloaked in laughter about wounds that have found their mark. I feel like Mercutio spinning wild yarns about Queen Mab while the lifeblood is seeping out onto the concrete below me as I mutter about flesh wounds. I know about the many guises of words; I know better than to put my faith in them.

When I was 9 years old I won a short story contest. I wrote about a little girl who frightened herself because she mistook everyday objects for darker more nefarious matter. A tree branch became a hand, an owl a ghostly voice, the night a terror. Even then, I think, I knew that I was a worrier. I know that in my mind, I make normal situations into something scary. But, on the other hand, sometimes a tree branch is a hand. The night is a terror. Am I worried or am I prescient?

The ending of the most important relationship of my life still shadows me. It has been nearly four years now. Friends and family are weary of these shadows and their burdens, and understandably they don't want to hear about them any more. In some ways they are right. If I can stop the story from being told, then I could forget, but whether I talk about it or not, I can't get it out of my head. Memories swirl around me like constant flashbacks. I replay conversations and then re-write them with better endings. I make plans for revenge: some benign, some too scary to share. I compose letters and emails. I imagine standoffs and confrontation. Reunions and  reconciliations. A roomate of mine, who knew both of us, he and I, once asked me if I thought that this was a case of past life reincarnations. She said she had rarely felt such an intense connection between two people and more than once had dreamed that he and I were ageless companions. I laughed at the time. Because what else can you do?

The last time we saw one another I willed him to me. I was in an airport and I felt him there, I had no knowledge of his travel plans, nor he of mine. But I knew. For about an hour, I searched for him among the airport terminals and resaurants. And then I walked back to my seat and waited. He walked past within ten minutes. Even while we were talking, wasting the day with minutia and trivialities because I was so shaken by his presence that I could not say the things that I knew needed to be said. Deep down, I knew that was the last time. I was almost convinced that my plane was going to go down and that I had been given a precious last gift. I remember feeling genuine surprise when I landed safely on the other side. That was the last time. I don't know what he thinks of that last encounter. I am sure it was strange. I am sure his story of what happened is different than mine. But, he won't let me ask, so I don't know. Still, that is the most spiritual memory of my life and the one moment that makes me believe that there might be a god.

Somehow, I feel like if I could just silence these shadows the worrying would go away and peace would come. That somehow this ghost of a relationship past is stirring a soup of anxiety and self doubt, and that if vanquished my mind would still, sleep would come, and life would calm. I feel like this is a weight on my shoulders that gets heavier with time as I take others' words and paint them with his voice. I want to remember. I need to forget. I need a banishing charm. A spotless mind. A forgetful heart. I feel like something needs to be done. Closure. Understanding. Forgiveness. Or a rage. Something to take the words out of my head and heart and leave me in peace. But sincerely, I don't know what. How do you say goodbye to the ghosts of your past? Or do you? Or can you? I don't know, but I do know that it has been many miles through this snowy woods and I would like to sleep. I would like to sleep.

overeverything; or, the side effects of reading Jane Austen (both dangerous and otherwise)

Now that I am fully engaged in re-reading Jane Austen, I am finding myself altered. The way that I speak, the way I see the world, the tenor of my cravings and desires: all are changed.

My sentences--spoken and written--are elongated and extended, they are longer and lusher; my words are enveloped in a slow languishing diction that rolls off my toungue like honey or molasses rather than my usual deluge pantingly spat out as quickly as linguistically possible. I choose words that are longer and more full: approbation, midsummer, unconcern, supplication. And, of course, everything is overthis-or-overthat. No, I do not mean that I am suffering from an onset of ennui or apathy. I am not as kids say "over it"  in the sense that I am over everything in that I no longer care; no, instead, I am overtired, overhungry, overexcited...overeverything. The five mile drive from my home to the college is no longer "too far," it is, "overfar."  The muffins I baked this morning are not "too moist," they are, "overmoist."  I cannot point to exact Austen phrases that encourages this linguistic shift, but, I do know that is an occaision which always coincides with reading of Austen. And really, while I do not mind this alteration in vocabulary, it must be noted that my students are not overjoyed.

Another, side effect is that I also find myself craving tea and scones; well, technically speaking I crave any and all hot drinks and baked goods really. As a woman who is constantly trying to eat healthier, the plus side to these particular Austenesque cravings is that I want to dress up in long white muslin empire waisted gowns and walk 2 miles to my neighbor's house to imbibe said tea and scones. The downside is that often these indulgences come sans said lush 2 mile walk and thus result in only a plus backside. I do have a walking trail near my house, but there is something delicious about the idea of the lush, green, grassy knolls in Austen books and films that I can't find anywhere near me. American gardens and lawns are considered to be impeccable only when trimmed neatly down to their nubs. Many more English gardens, especially those in the country, tend to be wilder, verdant, with grass grown long enough beneath your feet that it seems to undulate with your movements. Ah, the differences between what we want and what we settle for, now, that is something Austen knows very well.

But for me, there is a danger that goes beyond words and walks. While, the formality of Austen makes her seem quite safe, for a single woman in want of a life she can disrupt even the most steadfast. Her books are rife with calling cards, social visits, matchmaking, promises, and romance; even in the most satisfied of hearts this much society and romantic intrigue can stir longing for a passionate, if very polite, intrigue. Oh, damn you Jane Austen for making me crave the dangers of love again, after working so hard on recovering from my last  foray...Hmm, maybe I'll just settle for a very long walk and some very hot tea.

I am only on Sense and Sensibilty and there are many more Austen novels to go, so I'll read. I'll say my silly Austen words. I'll drink coffee and eat a muffin. I'll walk on the paved river trail next to a carefully manicured lawn while trying to think of ways to use approbation and disapprobation in a sentence. And, for now, that will have to be enough. For now.