by Gerald Locklin
She's an old friend
And I don't see her very often,
But she has a way of turning up
When I'm talking to a girl I've just met,
And she will invariably storm up to us
And confront me with, "where is the child support check?!"
Then turn on her heel and storm from the room,
Leaving me to make inadequate explanations.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Not a life multi-tasker, yet another rant about the census
I find myself once again, on this cool June evening, availing myself of the impassable yet sympathetic ear of my blog and ranting about the Census. Yes, yes. We have already established that I am not a life multi-tasker and am therefore struggling to think about things other than this fiddlesome job. But tonight my beef is too legit to quit (I just awarded myself 5 points for the early 90's music reference). The Census is refusing to pay for one of my workers prepaid calling cards and I think that is negligent and overly bureaucratic at best and downright CLASSIST in most lights.
So the census claims you do not need a phone for this job yet you are required to leave your number on the notice of visits you leave at every house. In theory, you could leave the main offices number, yet with no central database, the ability to follow up on phone calls made to the office is extremely remote. More than that, it is basically a grassroots campaign done in every district by people with little to no field organizing experience. Furthermore, it is a dangerous job in many ways and to not carry a phone would be foolhardy. Anyway, you need a phone.
Most of the people the census is employing do the job because they need the money. Prior to this job, it's not like they had caches of petty cash lying around to pay a cell phone bill every month. When it became apparent that they needed a cell phone, they bought the only plan that made sense: one with no activation fee with a pay as you go option because hey, they don't know when this job is going to end. During orientation, you sign a telephone reimbursement form that says you can be reimbursed for census related expenses, provided that you have an itemized list of your calls. This is where the problem comes in.
You can't get a formal itemized list of calls with pre-paid or pay as you go phones. And the census has decided not to accept handwritten ones.
This lady isn't even technically under my direct supervision. However, I feel pretty strongly that she gets her $40 back- not simply because she needs the money, which she does, but because it is SO unacceptable to allow bureaucracy to crowd out compassion and human sense in this manner!
I understand the census's concern. They don't want to be paying for personal calls but we have tried EVERYTHING we can think of to get this list and our request has been rejected three times! I spent an hour yesterday chatting with _Christoph B from T Mobile just to document our attempts and still nada! Even _Christoph B was sympathetic! My boss is great and doing what he can, it's just one of those things I guess.
I once visited an anarchist squatters club in Germany. It was really fun. I'm thinking now that they are former census employees.
End rant.
So the census claims you do not need a phone for this job yet you are required to leave your number on the notice of visits you leave at every house. In theory, you could leave the main offices number, yet with no central database, the ability to follow up on phone calls made to the office is extremely remote. More than that, it is basically a grassroots campaign done in every district by people with little to no field organizing experience. Furthermore, it is a dangerous job in many ways and to not carry a phone would be foolhardy. Anyway, you need a phone.
Most of the people the census is employing do the job because they need the money. Prior to this job, it's not like they had caches of petty cash lying around to pay a cell phone bill every month. When it became apparent that they needed a cell phone, they bought the only plan that made sense: one with no activation fee with a pay as you go option because hey, they don't know when this job is going to end. During orientation, you sign a telephone reimbursement form that says you can be reimbursed for census related expenses, provided that you have an itemized list of your calls. This is where the problem comes in.
You can't get a formal itemized list of calls with pre-paid or pay as you go phones. And the census has decided not to accept handwritten ones.
This lady isn't even technically under my direct supervision. However, I feel pretty strongly that she gets her $40 back- not simply because she needs the money, which she does, but because it is SO unacceptable to allow bureaucracy to crowd out compassion and human sense in this manner!
I understand the census's concern. They don't want to be paying for personal calls but we have tried EVERYTHING we can think of to get this list and our request has been rejected three times! I spent an hour yesterday chatting with _Christoph B from T Mobile just to document our attempts and still nada! Even _Christoph B was sympathetic! My boss is great and doing what he can, it's just one of those things I guess.
I once visited an anarchist squatters club in Germany. It was really fun. I'm thinking now that they are former census employees.
End rant.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Me and Jazz
So this past week, I've been thinking a lot about how I don't sing jazz anymore. Or really write it that much. And about how that really stinks. Ever since I discovered jazz in ninth grade, I've been obsessed. Well, I was enthralled long before that but ninth grade was when I put a name to it. I distinctly remember being enraged when my mom told me it was "Just a phase". Sadly enough, I haven't sung with a combo in over a year. A year! Yeah, I write semi-pithy pop and sappy singer songwriter stuff but I miss the jazz! I sound so much better as a jazz singer, it's the perfect outlet for bratty jabs, jazz theory is more intellectually challenging for me and it's so fun!! It's a little late to make a new year's resolution, but this year is not going to be as jazz-less as the last.
I've got a couple of charts I would love to record so if you know of a few good musicians in the Chicago-land area, lemme know! In the meantime, feel free to revisit (and download) an old fav--
http://www.mediafire.com/?mmm21mvj1dz
I've got a couple of charts I would love to record so if you know of a few good musicians in the Chicago-land area, lemme know! In the meantime, feel free to revisit (and download) an old fav--
http://www.mediafire.com/?mmm21mvj1dz
Monday, May 31, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
To Everyone Who Thinks they are fighting "The Man" by not responding to the census:
You're not. You're just screwing over your community. If you have a social security card, the government already knows all of this information about you and is tracking you. It's hilarious that you sign up for credit cards, have an email account, have facebook, BUY PROPERTY and use government services like city water and yet somehow think you're the lone wolf evading the government's grasp. The only thing you are doing by not responding to the census is decreasing the number of people in your community counted therefore decreasing your congressional representation, federal allotments, public sector services and the likelihood that businesses who use info provided by the census will invest in your community. Way to win.
If you are an undocumented immigrant- thanks for doing all the jobs we don't want to do. I support your attempts to evade a government that won't give you amnesty.
Sincerely,
Yet another disgruntled federal employee
PS. There is a seventh level of hell for people who yell at people with tough and tedious jobs.
If you are an undocumented immigrant- thanks for doing all the jobs we don't want to do. I support your attempts to evade a government that won't give you amnesty.
Sincerely,
Yet another disgruntled federal employee
PS. There is a seventh level of hell for people who yell at people with tough and tedious jobs.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Things I Didn’t Know I Loved: After Nazim Hikmet
by Linda Pastan
I always knew I loved the sky,
the way it seems solid and insubstantial at the same time;
the way it disappears above us
even as we pursue it in a climbing plane,
like wishes or answers to certain questions--always out of reach;
the way it embodies blue,
even when it is gray.
But I didn't know I loved the clouds,
those shaggy eyebrows glowering
over the face of the sun.
Perhaps I only love the strange shapes clouds can take,
as if they are sketches by an artist
who keeps changing her mind.
Perhaps I love their deceptive softness,
like a bosom I'd like to rest my head against
but never can.
And I know I love the grass, even as I am cutting it as short
as the hair on my grandson's newly barbered head.
I love the way the smell of grass can fill my nostrils
with intimations of youth and lust;
the way it stains my handkerchief with meanings
that never wash out.
Sometimes I love the rain, staccato on the roof,
and always the snow when I am inside looking out
at the blurring around the edges of parked cars
and trees. And I love trees,
in winter when their austere shapes
are like the cutout silhouettes artists sell at fairs
and in May when their branches
are fuzzy with growth, the leaves poking out
like new green horns on a young deer.
But how about the sound of trains,
those drawn-out whistles of longing in the night,
like coyotes made of steam and steel, no color at all,
reminding me of prisoners on chain gangs I've only seen
in movies, defeated men hammering spikes into rails,
the burly guards watching over them?
Those whistles give loneliness and departure a voice.
It is the kind of loneliness I can take in my arms, tasting
of tears that comfort even as they burn, dampening the pillows
and all the feathers of all the geese who were plucked to fill
them.
Perhaps I embrace the music of departure--song without lyrics,
so I can learn to love it, though I don't love it now.
For at the end of the story, when sky and clouds and grass,
and even you my love of so many years,
have almost disappeared,
it will be all there is left to love.
I always knew I loved the sky,
the way it seems solid and insubstantial at the same time;
the way it disappears above us
even as we pursue it in a climbing plane,
like wishes or answers to certain questions--always out of reach;
the way it embodies blue,
even when it is gray.
But I didn't know I loved the clouds,
those shaggy eyebrows glowering
over the face of the sun.
Perhaps I only love the strange shapes clouds can take,
as if they are sketches by an artist
who keeps changing her mind.
Perhaps I love their deceptive softness,
like a bosom I'd like to rest my head against
but never can.
And I know I love the grass, even as I am cutting it as short
as the hair on my grandson's newly barbered head.
I love the way the smell of grass can fill my nostrils
with intimations of youth and lust;
the way it stains my handkerchief with meanings
that never wash out.
Sometimes I love the rain, staccato on the roof,
and always the snow when I am inside looking out
at the blurring around the edges of parked cars
and trees. And I love trees,
in winter when their austere shapes
are like the cutout silhouettes artists sell at fairs
and in May when their branches
are fuzzy with growth, the leaves poking out
like new green horns on a young deer.
But how about the sound of trains,
those drawn-out whistles of longing in the night,
like coyotes made of steam and steel, no color at all,
reminding me of prisoners on chain gangs I've only seen
in movies, defeated men hammering spikes into rails,
the burly guards watching over them?
Those whistles give loneliness and departure a voice.
It is the kind of loneliness I can take in my arms, tasting
of tears that comfort even as they burn, dampening the pillows
and all the feathers of all the geese who were plucked to fill
them.
Perhaps I embrace the music of departure--song without lyrics,
so I can learn to love it, though I don't love it now.
For at the end of the story, when sky and clouds and grass,
and even you my love of so many years,
have almost disappeared,
it will be all there is left to love.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Bug's in a movie!
Mads is in a movie! Her friend Jonathan is making a mockumentary and asked her to be in it! Here's the trailer. She's the drama queen. I like that.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
All's fair in love and bad yelp reviews: My Life and the US Census
So I guess it's only fitting that the fourth anniversary of my first day of Basic Training should be marked by a good old fashioned bitch-slapping by someone who doesn't get paid enough to get that angry.
Last night, I got a call from my 5'1", pregnant enumerator who was in tears because she got yelled at by the doorman of an apartment building she was trying to enumerate. As this wasn't the first time this apartment has given us trouble and as I was fairly pissed, I marched over, crocodile heels and all, to figure out what kind of class A idiot yells at a woman who looks like she is five minutes and one spicy meal away from labor. Luckily for us both, the doorman had gone home for the day and I was left to ponder how I really should wear flats given my foot condition, and flirt with the middle age, balding men who walked in and out of the lobby in hopes of finding out more information about the building association.
This morning, I called the realtor and received a chewing-out that would have done my TI proud. They don't want to be harassed, how dare I, insert your favorite cuss word, etc. Feeling slightly put out, I seethed quietly for about five minutes before calling the enumerator in question and making a battle plan. By the way, I think the word seethed may be an onamonapia judging by my the sounds emitted during my calming down session.
This afternoon, I braced myself for another ass-kicking as I had to call back what the census calls a "reluctant respondent", i.e they were so mean to the original enumerator that it is now my unhappy job to cajole them into acting like a human instead of a fiercely rapid dog. At first, Bob* wasn't too happy to hear from me. However, I tried to make a few jokes and by the time we reached "How old were you on April 1, 2010?", Bob was clearly enjoying himself. After deploring the idea that other people would be mean to enumerators, he asked me how old I was on April 1, 2010. When I responded "23, by 1 day", he proceeded to tell me that unfortunately, we couldn't date because he had just learned that there's a rule about how young is too young. You divide your own age in half and add seven. Since he was 42, I was simply too young. The funny thing is, I just learned about that rule too, from last weeks episode of "Parks and Recreation".
The interview progressed and at the last question, in an attempt to be humorous I asked "Now Bob, hopefully someone won't call back, but if they decide to verify my work to make sure I'm not sitting in a bar somewhere writing down random names, what's the best number to reach you?" At this Bob asks, "What bar are you at? I'll come down and buy you a drink. You sound fun". I laughed my most "I swear I'm not creeped out" laugh and hurriedly ended the conversation but not before Bob reminded me that he now had my telephone number.
As I drove home, I felt this weird sense of deja vu until I realized that that exact scenario, weird respondent asks out woman interviewing him over the phone, had occurred in last weeks episode of "Parks and Recreation". Apparently Bob and I have more in common than I thought.
Last night, I got a call from my 5'1", pregnant enumerator who was in tears because she got yelled at by the doorman of an apartment building she was trying to enumerate. As this wasn't the first time this apartment has given us trouble and as I was fairly pissed, I marched over, crocodile heels and all, to figure out what kind of class A idiot yells at a woman who looks like she is five minutes and one spicy meal away from labor. Luckily for us both, the doorman had gone home for the day and I was left to ponder how I really should wear flats given my foot condition, and flirt with the middle age, balding men who walked in and out of the lobby in hopes of finding out more information about the building association.
This morning, I called the realtor and received a chewing-out that would have done my TI proud. They don't want to be harassed, how dare I, insert your favorite cuss word, etc. Feeling slightly put out, I seethed quietly for about five minutes before calling the enumerator in question and making a battle plan. By the way, I think the word seethed may be an onamonapia judging by my the sounds emitted during my calming down session.
This afternoon, I braced myself for another ass-kicking as I had to call back what the census calls a "reluctant respondent", i.e they were so mean to the original enumerator that it is now my unhappy job to cajole them into acting like a human instead of a fiercely rapid dog. At first, Bob* wasn't too happy to hear from me. However, I tried to make a few jokes and by the time we reached "How old were you on April 1, 2010?", Bob was clearly enjoying himself. After deploring the idea that other people would be mean to enumerators, he asked me how old I was on April 1, 2010. When I responded "23, by 1 day", he proceeded to tell me that unfortunately, we couldn't date because he had just learned that there's a rule about how young is too young. You divide your own age in half and add seven. Since he was 42, I was simply too young. The funny thing is, I just learned about that rule too, from last weeks episode of "Parks and Recreation".
The interview progressed and at the last question, in an attempt to be humorous I asked "Now Bob, hopefully someone won't call back, but if they decide to verify my work to make sure I'm not sitting in a bar somewhere writing down random names, what's the best number to reach you?" At this Bob asks, "What bar are you at? I'll come down and buy you a drink. You sound fun". I laughed my most "I swear I'm not creeped out" laugh and hurriedly ended the conversation but not before Bob reminded me that he now had my telephone number.
As I drove home, I felt this weird sense of deja vu until I realized that that exact scenario, weird respondent asks out woman interviewing him over the phone, had occurred in last weeks episode of "Parks and Recreation". Apparently Bob and I have more in common than I thought.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Biblical Plagues and the Census
One of the fantastic by-products of this sustained period of under-employed is that I feel super excited about being around people again. A lot of people that I work with are in similar situations; they were self-employed or lost their jobs or need to take a second job to support a family. We are the island of misfit toys but have hit it off, probably because we've all had pretty lonely years. It's exciting to see my own personal growth in this area and my increasing willingness to reach out to unlikely people. It's an awesome opportunity to share the gospel and I'm hoping for increased chances.
However, there a couple people who test this new found growth to the max.
One in particular is someone I supervise. Try as I might, I find him exasperating, slightly creepy and obnoxious. He causes problems so bizarre, it reads like a SNL sketch- discarded because it's too far fetched. After one such problem caused me to jettison my Friday night plans and hunt for lost government documents, I was so annoyed I could hardly see straight. It carried into Saturday and I dreaded the inevitable 2-5 phone calls I would receive from him.
As I walked home from a block party on Saturday, I couldn't stop thinking about it. As irritated as I was/am, I felt really convicted by my attitude. I know that we're told from a young age that God loves us all but as I was walking home, I was meditating upon the fact that we are all equally made in the image of God. As Christians, we are called to live against the fall (as Wesley would say) and try to look more like Jesus but our original makeup remains the same. I didn't pop out of the womb more made in the image of God than this man. Yes, some of his personal habits may drive me crazy but the fact that we are both Imago Dei should radically transform how I see and relate to him. Regardless of whether or not he is a Christian, he was made in the Image of God and that level alone implies a standard of relation that I should be held to.
Unrelated but also pressing: Why did Israel get the smack down in 2 Samuel 24 after conducting the census? What did David do wrong? It seems so random. I bet people in Chicago wouldn't be so rude to my enumerators if they knew a biblical plague was the punishment for not filling out your questionnaire. But then again, it is Chicago so...
However, there a couple people who test this new found growth to the max.
One in particular is someone I supervise. Try as I might, I find him exasperating, slightly creepy and obnoxious. He causes problems so bizarre, it reads like a SNL sketch- discarded because it's too far fetched. After one such problem caused me to jettison my Friday night plans and hunt for lost government documents, I was so annoyed I could hardly see straight. It carried into Saturday and I dreaded the inevitable 2-5 phone calls I would receive from him.
As I walked home from a block party on Saturday, I couldn't stop thinking about it. As irritated as I was/am, I felt really convicted by my attitude. I know that we're told from a young age that God loves us all but as I was walking home, I was meditating upon the fact that we are all equally made in the image of God. As Christians, we are called to live against the fall (as Wesley would say) and try to look more like Jesus but our original makeup remains the same. I didn't pop out of the womb more made in the image of God than this man. Yes, some of his personal habits may drive me crazy but the fact that we are both Imago Dei should radically transform how I see and relate to him. Regardless of whether or not he is a Christian, he was made in the Image of God and that level alone implies a standard of relation that I should be held to.
Unrelated but also pressing: Why did Israel get the smack down in 2 Samuel 24 after conducting the census? What did David do wrong? It seems so random. I bet people in Chicago wouldn't be so rude to my enumerators if they knew a biblical plague was the punishment for not filling out your questionnaire. But then again, it is Chicago so...
Monday, May 10, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
errata
by Charles Simic
Where it says snow
read teeth-marks of a virgin
Where it says knife read
you passed through my bones
like a police-whistle
Where it says table read horse
Where it says horse read my migrant's bundle
Apples are to remain apples
Each time a hat appears
think of Isaac Newton
reading the Old Testament
Remove all periods
They are scars made by words
I couldn't bring myself to say
Put a finger over each sunrise
it will blind you otherwise
That damn ant is still stirring
Will there be time left to list
all errors to replace
all hands guns owls plates
all cigars ponds woods and reach
that beer-bottle my greatest mistake
the word I allowed to be written
when I should have shouted
her name
Where it says snow
read teeth-marks of a virgin
Where it says knife read
you passed through my bones
like a police-whistle
Where it says table read horse
Where it says horse read my migrant's bundle
Apples are to remain apples
Each time a hat appears
think of Isaac Newton
reading the Old Testament
Remove all periods
They are scars made by words
I couldn't bring myself to say
Put a finger over each sunrise
it will blind you otherwise
That damn ant is still stirring
Will there be time left to list
all errors to replace
all hands guns owls plates
all cigars ponds woods and reach
that beer-bottle my greatest mistake
the word I allowed to be written
when I should have shouted
her name
Monday, April 26, 2010
iPoem
by George Bilgere
Someone's taken a bite
from my laptop's glowing apple,
the damaged fruit of our disobedience,
of which we must constantly be reminded.
There's the fatal crescent,
the dark smile
of Eve, who never dreamed of a laptop,
who, in fact, didn't even have clothes,
or anything else for that matter,
which was probably the nicest thing
about the Garden, I'm thinking,
as I sit here in the cafe;
with my expensive computer,
afraid to get up even for a minute
in order to go to the bathroom
because someone might steal it
in this fallen world she invented
with a single bite
of an apple nobody, and I mean
nobody,
was going to tell her not to eat.
Someone's taken a bite
from my laptop's glowing apple,
the damaged fruit of our disobedience,
of which we must constantly be reminded.
There's the fatal crescent,
the dark smile
of Eve, who never dreamed of a laptop,
who, in fact, didn't even have clothes,
or anything else for that matter,
which was probably the nicest thing
about the Garden, I'm thinking,
as I sit here in the cafe;
with my expensive computer,
afraid to get up even for a minute
in order to go to the bathroom
because someone might steal it
in this fallen world she invented
with a single bite
of an apple nobody, and I mean
nobody,
was going to tell her not to eat.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Ode to Chocolate
by Barbara Crooker
I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don't want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,
James Dean in oiled leather, leaning
on a motorcycle. You know the color.
Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars
of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten,
pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave's
interior, when all the stars
have gone to sleep.
Chocolate strolls up to the microphone
and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow
notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters
down the runway, slouches in quaint
boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi.
Chocolate stays up late and gambles,
likes roulette. Always bets
on the noir.
I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don't want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,
James Dean in oiled leather, leaning
on a motorcycle. You know the color.
Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars
of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten,
pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave's
interior, when all the stars
have gone to sleep.
Chocolate strolls up to the microphone
and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow
notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters
down the runway, slouches in quaint
boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi.
Chocolate stays up late and gambles,
likes roulette. Always bets
on the noir.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Stairs Stairs Stairs
Total number of falls since Tuesday: 5
Total number of near misses since Tuesday: Infinite
I have mostly changed my attitude about this whole foot thing. I prayed a lot about it and I honestly don't feel that bad. I got the job which is a huge relief and the pain is kept at bay by a plethora of highly skilled pain meds and mostly I am optimistic about life and feet related issues. The stairs in Chicago threaten to undue all of this.
I HATE STAIRS! Crawling up them is degrading. Sliding down them on my butt means dirty clothes and letting the taxi driver gawk at my underwear. Hobbling down them on crutches caused fall #1 and 4. Waiting for Matt to carry me up and down is not practical and not fair to Matt. THERE IS NO WAY TO WIN! Mostly, I would like to hire someone to carry me up and down stairs... and drive my car... and hold me upright in the shower... and do my dishes, though that is not foot specific.
If you would like to be considered for the job, please submit resume/the amount you can bench.
Total number of near misses since Tuesday: Infinite
I have mostly changed my attitude about this whole foot thing. I prayed a lot about it and I honestly don't feel that bad. I got the job which is a huge relief and the pain is kept at bay by a plethora of highly skilled pain meds and mostly I am optimistic about life and feet related issues. The stairs in Chicago threaten to undue all of this.
I HATE STAIRS! Crawling up them is degrading. Sliding down them on my butt means dirty clothes and letting the taxi driver gawk at my underwear. Hobbling down them on crutches caused fall #1 and 4. Waiting for Matt to carry me up and down is not practical and not fair to Matt. THERE IS NO WAY TO WIN! Mostly, I would like to hire someone to carry me up and down stairs... and drive my car... and hold me upright in the shower... and do my dishes, though that is not foot specific.
If you would like to be considered for the job, please submit resume/the amount you can bench.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Captain Ahab strikes
I should have seen it coming all year. The unemployment, inclement weather, multiple traffic incidents and the numerous other spiteful acts that Chicago has committed in a desperate attempt to destroy my will and kill my drive. All of those things would have made a lesser woman quit altogether, but not me! They have glanced off my glistening white back. Until today, when I was brutally harpooned by my apartment.
I had a dream last night that both of my feet were chopped off. The dream was much more convoluted and twisted than simply that but suffice it to say, it disturbed me enough that I decided to tell my roommate Amy this morning. Literally, the moment I finished telling her, I pivoted in my dining room to go get dressed and impaled my right foot on a 6 inch piece of floor board that had decided to permanently lodge itself in my foot.
This post is not for the faint of heart.
I promptly started screaming "I am not okay!" as Amy had the presence of mind to slap my hand away from trying to pull the thing out. It's hilarious now but I can't properly articulate the physical and mental anguish of seeing that puppy burrowed in my delicate alabaster. Anyway, we decide to go to the ER, well Amy decides and I, still hollering, start towards the door. To those of you who don't know, I live on the third floor of a building with no railings. So using Amy as a crutch, I haphazardly hop down the three flights and free-hop (should be an Olympic sport) to the car. 10 blocks and a billion hysterical sobs later, I am admitted to the ER and start getting pumped with morphine and that stuff.
Honestly, everyone was so nice, and Amy was a total rockstar. The only thing I hated, besides the excruciating pain, long wait before surgery, nausea and IVs, were the LAME med students who were so excited to see this piece of wood protruding from my foot that they almost wet themselves. That is hardly an exaggeration. Every 5 minutes or so, a med student would pop my curtain open, delightedly exclaim how bad it looked and give me their prognosis based on their 2 semesters of med school.
The morphine was great but I didn't get into surgery until 5 hours later. The surgery went great-- they cut me open and gave me 20 lovely stitches on the bottom of my foot, all of which I was oblivious to, thanks to the killer anesthesia. It made me nauseous and I freaked them all out by developing chills and puking but hey, you can't have everything. I was released 3 hours later with a bulky, numb and useless foot, instructions not to drive for 3 weeks, and equally useless crutches.
All of this time I was missing my second day of work and thanking God that I purchased health insurance this month.
Ok ok. I know that all hipster blog cred stems from the ironic, insincere and banal but I must be honest in admitting that I am so frustrated, scared and in pain. I'm frustrated because I don't know how in the world I will survive on crutches when I live on the top floor. My boss met me at my house to give me the stuff I missed and Matt had to literally carry me up the steps to meet him. It was frustrating, humiliating and I am miffed as to how I am going to do it myself. I am scared because I don't know how I'm going to pay for the taxi I will have to hire everyday to take me to and from work, not to mention my hospital bills. I am in pain because my effing foot was impaled and all they gave me was Tylenol with codeine. I want to leave and not look back.
Eff you Chicago.
I had a dream last night that both of my feet were chopped off. The dream was much more convoluted and twisted than simply that but suffice it to say, it disturbed me enough that I decided to tell my roommate Amy this morning. Literally, the moment I finished telling her, I pivoted in my dining room to go get dressed and impaled my right foot on a 6 inch piece of floor board that had decided to permanently lodge itself in my foot.
This post is not for the faint of heart.
I promptly started screaming "I am not okay!" as Amy had the presence of mind to slap my hand away from trying to pull the thing out. It's hilarious now but I can't properly articulate the physical and mental anguish of seeing that puppy burrowed in my delicate alabaster. Anyway, we decide to go to the ER, well Amy decides and I, still hollering, start towards the door. To those of you who don't know, I live on the third floor of a building with no railings. So using Amy as a crutch, I haphazardly hop down the three flights and free-hop (should be an Olympic sport) to the car. 10 blocks and a billion hysterical sobs later, I am admitted to the ER and start getting pumped with morphine and that stuff.
Honestly, everyone was so nice, and Amy was a total rockstar. The only thing I hated, besides the excruciating pain, long wait before surgery, nausea and IVs, were the LAME med students who were so excited to see this piece of wood protruding from my foot that they almost wet themselves. That is hardly an exaggeration. Every 5 minutes or so, a med student would pop my curtain open, delightedly exclaim how bad it looked and give me their prognosis based on their 2 semesters of med school.
The morphine was great but I didn't get into surgery until 5 hours later. The surgery went great-- they cut me open and gave me 20 lovely stitches on the bottom of my foot, all of which I was oblivious to, thanks to the killer anesthesia. It made me nauseous and I freaked them all out by developing chills and puking but hey, you can't have everything. I was released 3 hours later with a bulky, numb and useless foot, instructions not to drive for 3 weeks, and equally useless crutches.
All of this time I was missing my second day of work and thanking God that I purchased health insurance this month.
Ok ok. I know that all hipster blog cred stems from the ironic, insincere and banal but I must be honest in admitting that I am so frustrated, scared and in pain. I'm frustrated because I don't know how in the world I will survive on crutches when I live on the top floor. My boss met me at my house to give me the stuff I missed and Matt had to literally carry me up the steps to meet him. It was frustrating, humiliating and I am miffed as to how I am going to do it myself. I am scared because I don't know how I'm going to pay for the taxi I will have to hire everyday to take me to and from work, not to mention my hospital bills. I am in pain because my effing foot was impaled and all they gave me was Tylenol with codeine. I want to leave and not look back.
Eff you Chicago.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
SSGT BABY!
Effective April 1, 2010, Senior Airman Allison Morris of the 133rd Air National Guard Logistics Readiness Squadron is promoted to the level of SSgt. She acknowledges and swears to uphold the duties and responsibilities consummate with her rank. We think she's kick ass.
Or something like that.
I haven't read the official order, but I doubt it will read quite like that. However, while I haven't had my official promotion ceremony yet, my promotion is official and I'm a STAFF SERGEANT! No longer will I cow-tow to obnoxious NCO's and do menial grunt work. Actually, I will most likely still do both of those things but I will get paid better to do them and that's all we can really ask for, right?
Today was my "Outstanding Airman of the Year for the State of MN" awards ceremony. While there are many things I have disliked about this award: the increased pressure, the spotlight, dry cleaning my dress blues, wear my dress blues, worrying worrying worrying; today was special. Pictures to follow but it was really wonderful to see all the hardware (i.e the big wigs) lining up to reward me and a few nco's for simply working hard. That is cool. Go Air Force. It was really cool to have my dad and supervisors there. For a crappy year where every move feels cemented in failure, this was a neat day. Plus, I got a kick ass medal: the Minnesota Commendation Medal. Wikipedia doesn't have a picture of it but believe me, it adds a nice touch to the fruit salad.
AND I GOT PROMOTED! My commander handed me a folder with all of the individual letters that constituted my awards package. In it was a handwritten note. "Dear SSgt Morris"...
she had me at hello.
PLUS, I think I have figured out "The Next Step". Stay tuned, preferably with baited breath to hear how this mid western, red headed, SSGT (!), pulls herself out of the muck yet again and finds a way out of this place.
Or something like that.
I haven't read the official order, but I doubt it will read quite like that. However, while I haven't had my official promotion ceremony yet, my promotion is official and I'm a STAFF SERGEANT! No longer will I cow-tow to obnoxious NCO's and do menial grunt work. Actually, I will most likely still do both of those things but I will get paid better to do them and that's all we can really ask for, right?
Today was my "Outstanding Airman of the Year for the State of MN" awards ceremony. While there are many things I have disliked about this award: the increased pressure, the spotlight, dry cleaning my dress blues, wear my dress blues, worrying worrying worrying; today was special. Pictures to follow but it was really wonderful to see all the hardware (i.e the big wigs) lining up to reward me and a few nco's for simply working hard. That is cool. Go Air Force. It was really cool to have my dad and supervisors there. For a crappy year where every move feels cemented in failure, this was a neat day. Plus, I got a kick ass medal: the Minnesota Commendation Medal. Wikipedia doesn't have a picture of it but believe me, it adds a nice touch to the fruit salad.
AND I GOT PROMOTED! My commander handed me a folder with all of the individual letters that constituted my awards package. In it was a handwritten note. "Dear SSgt Morris"...
she had me at hello.
PLUS, I think I have figured out "The Next Step". Stay tuned, preferably with baited breath to hear how this mid western, red headed, SSGT (!), pulls herself out of the muck yet again and finds a way out of this place.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Things I Have Learned this Year
Today, while griping about the frustrations of this past year, my bff (no really) encouraged me to list the top three things I have learned this year. I'm not sure if these are the top three things I have learned, but they are the top three that came to mind.
1) Invest in cheese
As superfluous as this sounds, I am absolutely serious. Before this year, I had been content with kraft singles, jewel brand mozzarella and powdered Parmesan. No longer. The first week I moved in, my roommate Laura brought home a block of fresh Parmesan. The moment it touched my lips, I was a believer. Since then, I invest in fresh mozzarella balls, circles of brie and gouda of all shapes and sizes. Not only does it transform my meals, it is a really small way of feeling like I am taking care of myself and somehow, investing in myself.
2) There are times when it is ok to disregard the advice of my friends and family since I am the one who has to live with my decisions.
Yeah, this is a hard one for me. I love having options and hate making decisions. Too often I allow my friends and family to overly influence my decisions. At times, I forget that I'm the one who has to live with them so I need to consider them for myself.
3) I can't rule out options until I've first identified my fears and decided whether or not they are rational.
Another hard one for me. But, in order not to get permanently blocked by my fears, I have to consider all of my options. This year has felt like such a disaster... but it's forcing me to consider things I had never thought possible such as joining the military as an Arabic translator, and trying to find a way to join a PRT in Iraq. These things could be the very things I need to be considering but I've been trapped by my fear of not being in control.
1) Invest in cheese
As superfluous as this sounds, I am absolutely serious. Before this year, I had been content with kraft singles, jewel brand mozzarella and powdered Parmesan. No longer. The first week I moved in, my roommate Laura brought home a block of fresh Parmesan. The moment it touched my lips, I was a believer. Since then, I invest in fresh mozzarella balls, circles of brie and gouda of all shapes and sizes. Not only does it transform my meals, it is a really small way of feeling like I am taking care of myself and somehow, investing in myself.
2) There are times when it is ok to disregard the advice of my friends and family since I am the one who has to live with my decisions.
Yeah, this is a hard one for me. I love having options and hate making decisions. Too often I allow my friends and family to overly influence my decisions. At times, I forget that I'm the one who has to live with them so I need to consider them for myself.
3) I can't rule out options until I've first identified my fears and decided whether or not they are rational.
Another hard one for me. But, in order not to get permanently blocked by my fears, I have to consider all of my options. This year has felt like such a disaster... but it's forcing me to consider things I had never thought possible such as joining the military as an Arabic translator, and trying to find a way to join a PRT in Iraq. These things could be the very things I need to be considering but I've been trapped by my fear of not being in control.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Country Music and Patty Griffin
The other night, I was spewing my normal diatribe against country music when one of my guests indignantly challenged me to increase my exposure, and then try to hate country music. While I have no doubt that Keith Urban will always cause the little hairs on the back of my neck to raise in protest, Patty Griffin may be changing my mind. What a voice! What a song!
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Sexy Chick- David Guetta
This song is the most hilarious thing I have listened to in a long time. While driving at 6am to pick up coffee for half of the base, one of the SSgts I work with pointed out some of it's finer points.
"I'm tryna find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful" (thesis)
Wow, I really like this girl! How can I describe her? Gorgeous? Beautiful?
"Girl, you's a sexy bitch"
Ok, I need some sort of modifer...
"Damn, you's a sexy bitch"
...And so on and so forth. I considered posting the music video but... yeah no. Hipster cred aside, it is too shameful.
"I'm tryna find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful" (thesis)
Wow, I really like this girl! How can I describe her? Gorgeous? Beautiful?
"Girl, you's a sexy bitch"
Ok, I need some sort of modifer...
"Damn, you's a sexy bitch"
...And so on and so forth. I considered posting the music video but... yeah no. Hipster cred aside, it is too shameful.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
My Song for this past year
As this year is about to burn into the next, I discovered quite by mistake, this incredible song. For whatever reason, it is my song of the past year. Sean Hayes's record recording is gorgeous, as is "The Be Good Taynas" rendition.
A Thousand Tiny Pieces
Let’s play this one out, until it explodes
Into a thousand tiny pieces
What’s the story universe
You are melody in numbers
You were shapes you were rhythms
There are signs that we can learn
Place over the heavens
To predict how long we’ll burn
How long will I last?
Can you turn up the heat?
What star am I circling?
What’s circling me?
Am I ebb, am I flow?
My lack of control
Turn it on, turn it up
Say yes, play no
Things keep changing
Things keep changing
Things keep changing
A Thousand Tiny Pieces
Let’s play this one out, until it explodes
Into a thousand tiny pieces
What’s the story universe
You are melody in numbers
You were shapes you were rhythms
There are signs that we can learn
Place over the heavens
To predict how long we’ll burn
How long will I last?
Can you turn up the heat?
What star am I circling?
What’s circling me?
Am I ebb, am I flow?
My lack of control
Turn it on, turn it up
Say yes, play no
Things keep changing
Things keep changing
Things keep changing
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Some of it All
If she loves all
and I simply love some
then it makes infinitely more sense
to place her name alongside yours in
this equation.
The things I do not love-
The incomprehensible silence in which I have no part
The shared disliked for practical things
Count against me like so many negative numbers.
But the depth with which I love
the sleepy rims of your inscrutable eyes
and the way your calm mind anchors my chaotic space
The sum of this all.
Might not this be calculated in a way that tips the
balance of your heart to me?
and I simply love some
then it makes infinitely more sense
to place her name alongside yours in
this equation.
The things I do not love-
The incomprehensible silence in which I have no part
The shared disliked for practical things
Count against me like so many negative numbers.
But the depth with which I love
the sleepy rims of your inscrutable eyes
and the way your calm mind anchors my chaotic space
The sum of this all.
Might not this be calculated in a way that tips the
balance of your heart to me?
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Bah
This is what I say to the everything and the everyone that insist on sticking me in the gut with their insufferable indifference.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Spring
Across from my church is a large field which as of today, is finally snow free. March is forcefully turning over the decaying page of Chicago winter to a slightly soggy but yet unblemished new Spring. This afternoon, I will walk barefoot across that field, enjoying the icy water that squinches between my toes-- a reminder of the season that has past, but a welcome harbinger of things to come.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
I know this song is slightly offensive because of it's slight use (ok, blatant use) of the f word. However, I think it is one of the most gorgeous, heartfelt break up songs I've heard in awhile so I am shelving my puritan disapproval and showing Sean Hayes a little blog love. Incidentally, it may be the use of this ugly word which makes me feel such intense empathy for the subject of this song. Perhaps it is because it is so shocking and vulgar that I feel it is so appropriate for this subject matter.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Dismantling the Bomb
It would be ludicrous to bomb an atomic bomb.
The day someone swings a wrecking ball at that baby
is the day we all die. There is no easy end to an atomic bomb,
just a slow and steady commitment to the small victories
found in divesting a lethal and awe inspiring weapon
of its never ending destructive capabilities.
Today it is the brass chimney sleeves, just the brass chimney sleeves.
With deft and single minded hands I will peel off the clinging fabric
of those once exalted sleeves. Tomorrow it's the two piece tamper plug
and the cork lining, but today I will strip those sleeves with
indifferent skill, never minding the vulnerability of the exposed parts.
Next it will be the aluminum cups. Like a dentist
with a rebellious tooth, I will clean the rust from each bolt.
Nothing will stop me from twisting it clean from its protective
suctioning embrace until at last, I am confronted by the plutonium.
From this close, it is simply a silvery white rock, like one of the
many indiscriminate pieces of gravel that we once collected
but are now content to let leave our pockets, shoes and skin.
And so it is that we dismantle grief- piece
by piece- refusing to be deterred by the whole, until the
core is no longer an insurmountable thing.
The day someone swings a wrecking ball at that baby
is the day we all die. There is no easy end to an atomic bomb,
just a slow and steady commitment to the small victories
found in divesting a lethal and awe inspiring weapon
of its never ending destructive capabilities.
Today it is the brass chimney sleeves, just the brass chimney sleeves.
With deft and single minded hands I will peel off the clinging fabric
of those once exalted sleeves. Tomorrow it's the two piece tamper plug
and the cork lining, but today I will strip those sleeves with
indifferent skill, never minding the vulnerability of the exposed parts.
Next it will be the aluminum cups. Like a dentist
with a rebellious tooth, I will clean the rust from each bolt.
Nothing will stop me from twisting it clean from its protective
suctioning embrace until at last, I am confronted by the plutonium.
From this close, it is simply a silvery white rock, like one of the
many indiscriminate pieces of gravel that we once collected
but are now content to let leave our pockets, shoes and skin.
And so it is that we dismantle grief- piece
by piece- refusing to be deterred by the whole, until the
core is no longer an insurmountable thing.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Agony
from Into the Woods
I was in this musical in high school as Cinderella. This is one of my favorite male duets of all time and I've had it stuck in my head for about 3 days. The reprise is actually even funnier. It reminds me of the summer I spent painting houses in high school. I'm pretty sure I listened to this song on repeat, substituting it only with Aerosmith's best hits.
Even funnier, my mom was once Rapunzel in a community production when we were kids.
I was in this musical in high school as Cinderella. This is one of my favorite male duets of all time and I've had it stuck in my head for about 3 days. The reprise is actually even funnier. It reminds me of the summer I spent painting houses in high school. I'm pretty sure I listened to this song on repeat, substituting it only with Aerosmith's best hits.
Even funnier, my mom was once Rapunzel in a community production when we were kids.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
In Blackwater Woods
by Mary Oliver
Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,
the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,
the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
New Song
Fist don't clench.
Arms unfold.
Hands don't rend your
hair and clothes.
Mouth don't tense.
Eyes don't mist.
It won't always
feel like this.
Fields that felt the grinding teeth
of locust bloom to flowers, sheath
those months with glory and
forgiving rays.
Joy brings forth a lovely scent,
which wafts among those hours spent
in unfulfilling,
disappointing days.
Fist don't clench.
Arms unfold.
Hands don't rend your
hair and clothes.
Mouth don't tense.
Eyes don't mist.
It won't always
feel like this.
Arms unfold.
Hands don't rend your
hair and clothes.
Mouth don't tense.
Eyes don't mist.
It won't always
feel like this.
Fields that felt the grinding teeth
of locust bloom to flowers, sheath
those months with glory and
forgiving rays.
Joy brings forth a lovely scent,
which wafts among those hours spent
in unfulfilling,
disappointing days.
Fist don't clench.
Arms unfold.
Hands don't rend your
hair and clothes.
Mouth don't tense.
Eyes don't mist.
It won't always
feel like this.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
The Closet
In the wake of my dad's homecoming from Iraq, Amy and I finally agreed to clean out "the military closet". Barely able to close, the closet was chock full of every piece of military gear that Amy and I have ever been issued that isn't used on a monthly basis. Even more disgusting than the closet itself were the bags of old training gear that never really got opened- shoved in the closet in our eagerness to forget them. Tonight as I sorted through the mounds of gear, I felt pangs of recognition at almost everything I touched. The ratty AF basic training t-shirt that still somehow smelled of sweat, with a few faded food stains paying tribute to my lasting inability to eat slowly... The desert gortex pants that I was too scared to fish out from underneath my mouse infested bedroom in Qatar... The portfolio I carried with me in basic training- on the inside a list of what was allowed inside of it including "Unused tissues"... an unused 341- the AF trainee disciplinary form that we were required to carry with us at all times. Surrounded by mountains of painful memories, I felt a strong unsettling current of... sorrow? Or maybe simply deep seated sympathy with the terrified 19 year old who wore those too large BDU pants and the unhappy 21 year old who wished whole days away in those too short PT shorts.
What really got me was a pageful of notes about an intro to music class. The definition of baroque, castrati and lute were annotated with an unfamiliar hand and yet I vaguely remember someone sending them to me while I was in technical school. It reminded me of a CD I ordered while in tech school, of famous female opera duets-- of the song "Viens Malikia" from Lakme and the opening
"Come, Mallika, the creepers are in flower
They already cast their shadows
On the sacred river which flows,
calmly and serenely,
They have awakened by the song birds!"
--of a letter I wrote to a friend about my longing for beautiful things-- opera, laughing with friends, and falling asleep on Blanchard Lawn.
I wonder what another five years removed will bring. While I laughed at many of the things we found tonight, there was still a profound sadness. Sadness for the experience itself, sadness for my own reaction to it, and some sort of strange disassociated sympathy for that girl.
What really got me was a pageful of notes about an intro to music class. The definition of baroque, castrati and lute were annotated with an unfamiliar hand and yet I vaguely remember someone sending them to me while I was in technical school. It reminded me of a CD I ordered while in tech school, of famous female opera duets-- of the song "Viens Malikia" from Lakme and the opening
"Come, Mallika, the creepers are in flower
They already cast their shadows
On the sacred river which flows,
calmly and serenely,
They have awakened by the song birds!"
--of a letter I wrote to a friend about my longing for beautiful things-- opera, laughing with friends, and falling asleep on Blanchard Lawn.
I wonder what another five years removed will bring. While I laughed at many of the things we found tonight, there was still a profound sadness. Sadness for the experience itself, sadness for my own reaction to it, and some sort of strange disassociated sympathy for that girl.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Love conquers all.
*This is a post my sister wrote in her blog and I loved it so I am re-posting it. Thanks Amy.
THIS YEAR'S VALENTINE - BY PHILIP APPLEMEN
They could
pump frenzy into air ducts
and rage into reservoirs,
dynamite dams
and drown cities,
cry fire in theaters
as the victims are burning,
but
I will find my way through blackened streets
and kneel down at your side.
They could
jump the median, head-on,
and obliterate the future,
fit .45's to the hands of kids
and skate them off to school,
flip live butts into tinderbox forests
and hellfire half the heavens,
but
in the rubble of smoking cottages
I will hold you in my arms.
They could
send kidnappers to kindergartens
and pedophiles to playgrounds,
wrap themselves in Old Glory
and gut the Bill of Rights,
pound the door with holy screed
and put an end to reason,
but
I will cut through their curtains of cunning
and find you somewhere in the moonlight.
Whatever they do with their anthrax or chainsaws,
however they strip-search or brainwash or blackmail,
they cannot prevent me from sending you robins,
all of them singing: I'll be there.
While this valentine's message is more than a little terrifying, I like it. I like it because the world is a scary place - some days, it feels as scary as this poem makes it out to be. Some days, I worry about things like this. And the pessimist in me occasionally lists them off, pairing each scenario with a likely place (anthrax at the MOA, for instance - that is a recurring favorite).
But we were not created to live in fear, I am certain of that. A life full of fear is not a full life. I like the theme of this poem - that however abundant the horror of the world around us, love is still stronger than fear. I would take a step further than this poet and say that perfect love casts out fear - at least the deep-seated, irrational sort. It allows us to live in a world of mayhem and still love.
Today, I feel buoyed by this. Dad is home and love wins.
THIS YEAR'S VALENTINE - BY PHILIP APPLEMEN
They could
pump frenzy into air ducts
and rage into reservoirs,
dynamite dams
and drown cities,
cry fire in theaters
as the victims are burning,
but
I will find my way through blackened streets
and kneel down at your side.
They could
jump the median, head-on,
and obliterate the future,
fit .45's to the hands of kids
and skate them off to school,
flip live butts into tinderbox forests
and hellfire half the heavens,
but
in the rubble of smoking cottages
I will hold you in my arms.
They could
send kidnappers to kindergartens
and pedophiles to playgrounds,
wrap themselves in Old Glory
and gut the Bill of Rights,
pound the door with holy screed
and put an end to reason,
but
I will cut through their curtains of cunning
and find you somewhere in the moonlight.
Whatever they do with their anthrax or chainsaws,
however they strip-search or brainwash or blackmail,
they cannot prevent me from sending you robins,
all of them singing: I'll be there.
While this valentine's message is more than a little terrifying, I like it. I like it because the world is a scary place - some days, it feels as scary as this poem makes it out to be. Some days, I worry about things like this. And the pessimist in me occasionally lists them off, pairing each scenario with a likely place (anthrax at the MOA, for instance - that is a recurring favorite).
But we were not created to live in fear, I am certain of that. A life full of fear is not a full life. I like the theme of this poem - that however abundant the horror of the world around us, love is still stronger than fear. I would take a step further than this poet and say that perfect love casts out fear - at least the deep-seated, irrational sort. It allows us to live in a world of mayhem and still love.
Today, I feel buoyed by this. Dad is home and love wins.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Etsy!
I've started my first Etsy shop! I am selling handmade headbands and hair clips.
http://www.etsy.com/shop/AlliKate
St. Valentine's Day
by Norah Pollard
My father was unable to hug me
or talk to me. He could never say
"I love you." He was too shy.
Too, his mind was in
another world.
But whenever he came home from his journeys,
he'd bring me presents--Little Lady Toilet Water,
that grand midnight blue Stetson,
those many Waterman and Parker pens,
the pocketbook with the brass eagle clasp.
And for all occasions, overblown cards
with the puffy scented satin heart or rose
on the ront. Inside, his scraggy signature,
"To my Paddy, from her Daddy."
When you did not give me
a Valentine today,
I was undone.
And I wept in the shower
even though I am an adult and know
gifts are materialistic shallow
commercially driven wasteful crap.
But why, why could you not have
Wasted some mute love on me?
My father was unable to hug me
or talk to me. He could never say
"I love you." He was too shy.
Too, his mind was in
another world.
But whenever he came home from his journeys,
he'd bring me presents--Little Lady Toilet Water,
that grand midnight blue Stetson,
those many Waterman and Parker pens,
the pocketbook with the brass eagle clasp.
And for all occasions, overblown cards
with the puffy scented satin heart or rose
on the ront. Inside, his scraggy signature,
"To my Paddy, from her Daddy."
When you did not give me
a Valentine today,
I was undone.
And I wept in the shower
even though I am an adult and know
gifts are materialistic shallow
commercially driven wasteful crap.
But why, why could you not have
Wasted some mute love on me?
Sunday, February 7, 2010
This Paper Boat
by Ted Kooser
Carefully placed upon the future,
it tips from the breeze and skims away,
frail thing of words, this valentine,
so far to sail. And if you find it
caught in the reeds, its message blurred,
the thought that you are holding it
a moment is enough for me.
Carefully placed upon the future,
it tips from the breeze and skims away,
frail thing of words, this valentine,
so far to sail. And if you find it
caught in the reeds, its message blurred,
the thought that you are holding it
a moment is enough for me.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
One of the Butterflies
by W. S. Merwin
The trouble with pleasure is the timing
it can overtake me without warning
and be gone before I know it is here
it can stand facing me unrecognized
while I am remembering somewhere else
in another age or someone not seen
for years and never to be seen again
in this world and it seems that I cherish
only now a joy I was not aware of
when it was here although it remains
out of reach and will not be caught or named
or called back and if I could make it stay
as I want to it would turn to pain.
The trouble with pleasure is the timing
it can overtake me without warning
and be gone before I know it is here
it can stand facing me unrecognized
while I am remembering somewhere else
in another age or someone not seen
for years and never to be seen again
in this world and it seems that I cherish
only now a joy I was not aware of
when it was here although it remains
out of reach and will not be caught or named
or called back and if I could make it stay
as I want to it would turn to pain.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Flat Hedgehogs
For Isaiah Berlin
When the hedgehogs here at night
see a car and its fierce lights
coming at them, they do the one
big thing they know.
— Jack Gilbert
When the hedgehogs here at night
see a car and its fierce lights
coming at them, they do the one
big thing they know.
— Jack Gilbert
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
An Epistle and A Blasphemous Borrowing of the Bible
by Amy Mashburn on occasion of my receiving my umpteenth job rejection notice.
Chapter 1
Prologue
1 In the land of Lincoln, there lived a woman whose name was Alli. This woman was flawless and smokin' hott; she feared feet and shunned research not from primary sources. 2 She had two sisters and two roommates, 3 and she owned many cute outfits from Banana Republic, a car named Ruby, and the most glorious head of hair known to mankind. She was the greatest woman among all the people of the Great Chicagoland area, and the Minnesota National Guard to boot.
4 Her friends used to take turns holding tea parties in their dorm rooms, and they would invite the Wheaton College Debate Team to eat and drink with them. 5 When the period of college had run its course, Alli would invite them to her cute apartment and have them speak in debate jargon. Early in the morning she would sacrifice some eggs and fresh bell peppers and onions for each of them, thinking, "Perhaps my friends are hungry and curse the world at large if they don't eat and drink coffee before 9:00 a.m." This was Alli's regular custom.
Alli's Test
6 One day the angels came to present themselves before the LORD, and Satan also came with them. 7 The LORD said to Satan, "Where have you come from?"
Satan answered the LORD, "From roaming through the earth and going back and forth in it."
8 Then the LORD said to Satan, "Have you considered the redheaded bombshell Alli? There is no one on earth like her; she is flawless and smokin' hott, a woman who fears feet and shuns research not from primary sources."
9 "Does Alli fear God for nothing?" Satan replied. 10 "Have you not put a hedge around her and her household and everything she has? You have blessed her with the sharpest wit, the quickest mind, the vastest memory, the fastest feet, the hardest work ethic, the coolest friends (ahem), and THAT HAIR. 11 But stretch out your hand and strike everything she has, and she will surely curse you to your face."
12 The LORD said to Satan, "Whatevs, son, because Alli has already endured so much that she has remarkable strength of character. JUST YOU WATCH and she will withstand any test, nbd."
Then Satan went out from the presence of the LORD.
13 So then the LORD allowed Alli to be tested for what seemed like forever. Twas a pretty sucktastic test that involved a long period of unemployment and rejection from teenager asshats parading around as non-profit administrators. 14 However, Alli prevailed with a resourceful that impressed even the Baudelaire siblings (have you READ Lemony Snicket?) 15 and filled her time by reading a ton of books, single-handedly saving the Wheaton College Debate Team, going on runs, and receiving long, hand-written letters from Major Generals.
16 She filled her apartment with wonderful songs and her blog with inspiring poems.
17 Then she fell to the ground 18 and said:
"Never naked I came from my mother's womb,
and never naked I will depart.
George Senior gave and the Court system has taken away;
Who knows what that reference is from, kids?"
Chapter 1
Prologue
1 In the land of Lincoln, there lived a woman whose name was Alli. This woman was flawless and smokin' hott; she feared feet and shunned research not from primary sources. 2 She had two sisters and two roommates, 3 and she owned many cute outfits from Banana Republic, a car named Ruby, and the most glorious head of hair known to mankind. She was the greatest woman among all the people of the Great Chicagoland area, and the Minnesota National Guard to boot.
4 Her friends used to take turns holding tea parties in their dorm rooms, and they would invite the Wheaton College Debate Team to eat and drink with them. 5 When the period of college had run its course, Alli would invite them to her cute apartment and have them speak in debate jargon. Early in the morning she would sacrifice some eggs and fresh bell peppers and onions for each of them, thinking, "Perhaps my friends are hungry and curse the world at large if they don't eat and drink coffee before 9:00 a.m." This was Alli's regular custom.
Alli's Test
6 One day the angels came to present themselves before the LORD, and Satan also came with them. 7 The LORD said to Satan, "Where have you come from?"
Satan answered the LORD, "From roaming through the earth and going back and forth in it."
8 Then the LORD said to Satan, "Have you considered the redheaded bombshell Alli? There is no one on earth like her; she is flawless and smokin' hott, a woman who fears feet and shuns research not from primary sources."
9 "Does Alli fear God for nothing?" Satan replied. 10 "Have you not put a hedge around her and her household and everything she has? You have blessed her with the sharpest wit, the quickest mind, the vastest memory, the fastest feet, the hardest work ethic, the coolest friends (ahem), and THAT HAIR. 11 But stretch out your hand and strike everything she has, and she will surely curse you to your face."
12 The LORD said to Satan, "Whatevs, son, because Alli has already endured so much that she has remarkable strength of character. JUST YOU WATCH and she will withstand any test, nbd."
Then Satan went out from the presence of the LORD.
13 So then the LORD allowed Alli to be tested for what seemed like forever. Twas a pretty sucktastic test that involved a long period of unemployment and rejection from teenager asshats parading around as non-profit administrators. 14 However, Alli prevailed with a resourceful that impressed even the Baudelaire siblings (have you READ Lemony Snicket?) 15 and filled her time by reading a ton of books, single-handedly saving the Wheaton College Debate Team, going on runs, and receiving long, hand-written letters from Major Generals.
16 She filled her apartment with wonderful songs and her blog with inspiring poems.
17 Then she fell to the ground 18 and said:
"Never naked I came from my mother's womb,
and never naked I will depart.
George Senior gave and the Court system has taken away;
Who knows what that reference is from, kids?"
Monday, January 4, 2010
When Does It Become Genocide?
By Nadia Hijab
*Nadia Hijab is an independent analyst and a senior fellow at the Institute for Palestine Studies.
During a visit to Ramallah a year ago while the Israeli bombardment of Gaza was underway, I shared my fears with a close Palestinian friend. "It may sound insane, but I think the Israelis' real objective is to see them all dead."
My friend told me not to be silly, the assault was horrific, but it was not mass killing. I said that wasn't the issue: This was a population already very vulnerable to disease, ill-health, and malnutrition after years of siege, with its infrastructure rotted, its water and food contaminated. Israel's war would surely push the people over the brink, especially if the siege was maintained -- as it has been.
In other words, Israel would not directly kill tens of thousands of Palestinians, but it would create the conditions for tens of thousands to die. Any epidemic could finish the job. My friend fell silent at these words, but still shook his head in disbelief.
Two things have changed since last year: More people have started to apply the term "genocide" to what Israel is doing to Gaza. And not only is Israel being directly accused but also, increasingly, Egypt.
Is it genocide? "The Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide" -- a clear, concise document adopted by the United Nations in December 1948 -- states that genocide is any of five acts committed "with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group."
Three acts appear to apply to the situation in Gaza: "(a) Killing members of the group; (b) Causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group; (c) Deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part."
Legal scholars disagree about how to interpret the Convention's articles and it has proven difficult, over the years, to define crimes as genocide, let alone to prevent or end them. In line with the Bosnia precedent -- the only authoritative legal treatment of genocide to date -- it would be necessary to establish deliberate intent for an accusation of genocide against Israel to stand up in court.
Israel's leadership has not, of course, issued a declaration of intent. However, many leading Israeli officials can be said to have done so. For example:
• Putting the Palestinians of Gaza "on a diet" -- Dov Weisglass, chief aide to Ariel Sharon, in 2006.
• Exposing them to "a bigger shoah (holocaust)" -- Matan Vilnai, former deputy defense minister, in 2008.
• Issuing religious edicts exhorting soldiers to show no mercy -- the Israeli army rabbinate during the actual conflict.
Such declarations echo at least three of the "8 stages of genocide" identified by Genocide Watch president Gregory Stanton in the 1990s after the Rwanda genocide: Classification, dehumanization, and polarization.
Then there is the deliberate destruction or barring of means of sustenance as Israel has done on land and at sea. Already, the Goldstone Report has said that depriving the Gaza Palestinians of their means of sustenance, employment, housing and water, freedom of movement, and access to a court of law, could amount to persecution.
Since the December-January assault, there have been many authoritative reports by human rights and environmental organizations on the impact of the war and the ongoing siege on the people, soil, air, and water, including the increase in cancers, deformed births, and preventable deaths. The death toll in Gaza from swine flu reached nine in mid-December and 13 a week later -- an epidemic in waiting.
The eighth stage of genocide Stanton identifies is denial by perpetrators "that they committed any crimes." Ironically, Stanton headed the International Association of Genocide Scholars during the conflict, which shut down discussion of Israel's actions despite protests by, among others, genocide scholar and author Adam Jones. Jones and 15 other scholars had posted a declaration stating that Israeli policies were "too alarmingly close" to genocide to ignore and calling for an end to the silence.
Alarmingly close is right. Here is how Raphael Lemkin, the Polish-Jewish legal scholar who pushed for the genocide convention, defined it in 1943: "genocide does not necessarily mean the immediate destruction of a nation.... It is intended rather to signify a coordinated plan of different actions aiming at the destruction of essential foundations of the life of national groups, with the aim of annihilating the groups themselves. The objectives of such a plan would be the disintegration of the political and social institutions, of culture, language, national feelings, religion, and the economic existence of national groups, and the destruction of the personal security, liberty, health, dignity, and even the lives of the individuals belonging to such groups."
It is hard to conceive of a better description of what is going on in Gaza.
All UN member states have the duty to prevent and stop acts of genocide. What is needed is a country brave enough to take the lead, before it is too late.
*Nadia Hijab is an independent analyst and a senior fellow at the Institute for Palestine Studies.
During a visit to Ramallah a year ago while the Israeli bombardment of Gaza was underway, I shared my fears with a close Palestinian friend. "It may sound insane, but I think the Israelis' real objective is to see them all dead."
My friend told me not to be silly, the assault was horrific, but it was not mass killing. I said that wasn't the issue: This was a population already very vulnerable to disease, ill-health, and malnutrition after years of siege, with its infrastructure rotted, its water and food contaminated. Israel's war would surely push the people over the brink, especially if the siege was maintained -- as it has been.
In other words, Israel would not directly kill tens of thousands of Palestinians, but it would create the conditions for tens of thousands to die. Any epidemic could finish the job. My friend fell silent at these words, but still shook his head in disbelief.
Two things have changed since last year: More people have started to apply the term "genocide" to what Israel is doing to Gaza. And not only is Israel being directly accused but also, increasingly, Egypt.
Is it genocide? "The Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide" -- a clear, concise document adopted by the United Nations in December 1948 -- states that genocide is any of five acts committed "with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group."
Three acts appear to apply to the situation in Gaza: "(a) Killing members of the group; (b) Causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group; (c) Deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part."
Legal scholars disagree about how to interpret the Convention's articles and it has proven difficult, over the years, to define crimes as genocide, let alone to prevent or end them. In line with the Bosnia precedent -- the only authoritative legal treatment of genocide to date -- it would be necessary to establish deliberate intent for an accusation of genocide against Israel to stand up in court.
Israel's leadership has not, of course, issued a declaration of intent. However, many leading Israeli officials can be said to have done so. For example:
• Putting the Palestinians of Gaza "on a diet" -- Dov Weisglass, chief aide to Ariel Sharon, in 2006.
• Exposing them to "a bigger shoah (holocaust)" -- Matan Vilnai, former deputy defense minister, in 2008.
• Issuing religious edicts exhorting soldiers to show no mercy -- the Israeli army rabbinate during the actual conflict.
Such declarations echo at least three of the "8 stages of genocide" identified by Genocide Watch president Gregory Stanton in the 1990s after the Rwanda genocide: Classification, dehumanization, and polarization.
Then there is the deliberate destruction or barring of means of sustenance as Israel has done on land and at sea. Already, the Goldstone Report has said that depriving the Gaza Palestinians of their means of sustenance, employment, housing and water, freedom of movement, and access to a court of law, could amount to persecution.
Since the December-January assault, there have been many authoritative reports by human rights and environmental organizations on the impact of the war and the ongoing siege on the people, soil, air, and water, including the increase in cancers, deformed births, and preventable deaths. The death toll in Gaza from swine flu reached nine in mid-December and 13 a week later -- an epidemic in waiting.
The eighth stage of genocide Stanton identifies is denial by perpetrators "that they committed any crimes." Ironically, Stanton headed the International Association of Genocide Scholars during the conflict, which shut down discussion of Israel's actions despite protests by, among others, genocide scholar and author Adam Jones. Jones and 15 other scholars had posted a declaration stating that Israeli policies were "too alarmingly close" to genocide to ignore and calling for an end to the silence.
Alarmingly close is right. Here is how Raphael Lemkin, the Polish-Jewish legal scholar who pushed for the genocide convention, defined it in 1943: "genocide does not necessarily mean the immediate destruction of a nation.... It is intended rather to signify a coordinated plan of different actions aiming at the destruction of essential foundations of the life of national groups, with the aim of annihilating the groups themselves. The objectives of such a plan would be the disintegration of the political and social institutions, of culture, language, national feelings, religion, and the economic existence of national groups, and the destruction of the personal security, liberty, health, dignity, and even the lives of the individuals belonging to such groups."
It is hard to conceive of a better description of what is going on in Gaza.
All UN member states have the duty to prevent and stop acts of genocide. What is needed is a country brave enough to take the lead, before it is too late.
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