What lies previous to this posts are the posts from my previous blog which was created and destroyed in 2009. Luckily I saved these literary brain blurt gems and posted them all on here today for your reading pleasure.
What comes after this are some articles I've written for suite101.com - the link to my personal page can be found to the left of your screen. Please do not click on any ads, though, so I don't get accused of click fraud.
Thanks!
Friday, February 26, 2010
June 2009 | Chapitre Six
Economic Recession. Depression. Yes. I don’t feel recessed. I feel depressed. People keep knocking on my mailbox asking for their money and I’m scrounging around trying to figure out from where my next dollar will be found. Ideas float around in my head all day. And some of them even take flight. My kids’ drama workshop, for instance, is a fantastic idea that has such possibilities, almost none of which are flourishing. I feel like I’ve built the baseball field and there’s no line of cars snaking down the highway into the sunset. Sure, I have a solid handful of interested parties, but only a few come forward with their money.
Doing fundraisers for the historical society is no better. We usually get about 500 people at our yearly event, and this year we only got 69. Yup. 69. We’re screwed.
So shall I make art and sell it at art festivals? Shall I write a novel and see if I can get it picked up? Or a children’s book? Shall I sell antiques from around the house on ebay? Or shall I ditch it all and sell myself to corporate America? Like they’d want me.
Doing fundraisers for the historical society is no better. We usually get about 500 people at our yearly event, and this year we only got 69. Yup. 69. We’re screwed.
So shall I make art and sell it at art festivals? Shall I write a novel and see if I can get it picked up? Or a children’s book? Shall I sell antiques from around the house on ebay? Or shall I ditch it all and sell myself to corporate America? Like they’d want me.
June 2009 | Chapitre Cinq
In my mind, there are 2 major problems with keeping a diary. First, it’s hard to write well because it ends up being simply emotions spilling forth onto the page in no coherent order. Second, I can never keep up with writing in them with any regularity, as can be proven by the frequency of this blog. However, an art journal is a distinctly different beast because its intention is to strike while the emotions are hot. It is not the clinical cataloging of the days’ events.
I wonder, though, whether all this scrapbooking and blogging and journaling we’ve become addicted to in our culture is a byproduct of boredom or just another avenue of creative expression. The optimist in me thinks these are all interesting pastimes that allow a somewhat non-creative person to be able to tap into their inner artist or writer. This is an excellent thing because it brings art to the masses and makes it accessible to more people than those who have studied it in higher education. In fact, you could be illiterate and put together a scrapbook. You could be colorblind and write a blog. You could be utterly stupid and make a powerful journal. These are all fantastic things.
But this brings me back to my previous concern. Who are the people who have the time to write a blog or keep an intricate scrapbook or journal? Are they people who work a 9-5 and bring home no thoughts or lingering issues from work and therefore have from 5pm to 6am free to do whatever? Are they people who are trying to escape dealing with their kids? Are they people who get addicted and edge out all other things? Just questions I ponder.
I wonder, though, whether all this scrapbooking and blogging and journaling we’ve become addicted to in our culture is a byproduct of boredom or just another avenue of creative expression. The optimist in me thinks these are all interesting pastimes that allow a somewhat non-creative person to be able to tap into their inner artist or writer. This is an excellent thing because it brings art to the masses and makes it accessible to more people than those who have studied it in higher education. In fact, you could be illiterate and put together a scrapbook. You could be colorblind and write a blog. You could be utterly stupid and make a powerful journal. These are all fantastic things.
But this brings me back to my previous concern. Who are the people who have the time to write a blog or keep an intricate scrapbook or journal? Are they people who work a 9-5 and bring home no thoughts or lingering issues from work and therefore have from 5pm to 6am free to do whatever? Are they people who are trying to escape dealing with their kids? Are they people who get addicted and edge out all other things? Just questions I ponder.
April 2009 | Chapitre Quatre
Blog, the Fourth
In which Amelia almost departs from the precipice.
Today’s blog shall consist of a blog within a blog. Or, shall we say, prickly difficulties, encased in warm gooey comfort. I am about to admit that which I never do: I am not perfect. Now, this may come as a shock to one or two of you out there. I know it was for me. But hold fast friends! I know that since I have had the ability to come to terms with this issue numerous times, you can too. However, here’s…the Thing. The Thing, dear readers, is that I’ve had to cope with the very opposite thought as well. I must now also admit (against better judgment) that I’ve had a troubling couple of weeks here, trapped inside my head. Nothing I wish for you to worry your pretty heads over. No, no, no. Just a simple detour of the mind. For those to whom I have not yet divulged my personal struggle, it is a mental disorder called Bipolar II. “Disorder,” obviously, being a key word here.
Whenever I stumble upon my life’s path, I turn to writing to point my self in the proper direction. In the twenty-first century, this very personal coping mechanism is edited drastically and posted in the form of a blog for all the world to read. This is perfectly fine, as long as I am in control. Who else could possibly be in control of my own blog, to which only I have the secret passcode decoder key, you ask? Well, read on, dear friends.
Although depression has always been more prevalent for me, today’s post will focus on my more interesting and recent troubles with hypomania, a form of mania in which there is no mental break from reality. Hypomania comes in two forms, where I am concerned. The darker side is a mixed episode, or what I call “rough” hypomania. In this state my logic is clouded, my emotions are irritated, and my energy is stretched wafer thin. I have snapped at many I love, or cried uncontrollably at them, unable to understand why they seem to hate me. I’ve lost friendships and lovers, colleagues and mentors. But the worst feeling is that I know, when I am in this state, the torrent of words, spit, tears, and snot flowing furiously from my uncontrollable face can not and will not be stopped. And thus, those closest to me are at least driven away, and at most crushed.
With the more entertaining side, what I call my “smooth” hypomania, creativity, energy, and the good mood all run rampant. As an example, if any high school chums are reading this, you may remember that I spent a good deal of high school being considered fearless, cool, and hilarious. Fortunately for many of you, I was a ton of fun with boundless energy. Unfortunately for me, I have very little memory of the specifics of high school because I was usually flying at top speed. And when I was not, I was trying my best to look like I was because I was, instead, swirling down the toilet of depression.
Now that you have some background information, allow me to let you in on one of my firsthand accounts during a bout with some “smooth” hypomania. Other than a few omitted uninteresting thoughts and the concealment of my rival’s name, the passage is exactly as I wrote it.
Blog, blog, blog! That’s what keeps twirling through my mind on this manic Friday and Saturday. Sorry Manic Monday, you’re sooo twenty years ago. But about what can I blog? I could blog about the fact that work is going really well and I’m enjoying myself immensely. I could blog about the fact that the puppy did her business on the couch. Or I could blog about the fact that it’s spring and there’s fresh snow on the ground. But rather than speak of the mundane, I feel that the best way to express myself today is to allow my mania to run free across the transoms of my brain, then tingle their way around my heart, and then dance out the ends of my fingertips as I blurt out all the randomness that clouds my focus on this sunny weekend. Mania. I keep using that word. To some, it’s a dirty word. A word that represents panic and disorder. A word tinged with the chaos of an uncontrollable state. To me, however, it represents creativity and freedom and recklessness. Well, the recklessness is not necessarily a good thing to those looking in on my world, but to me the recklessness can be quite a jolly load of fun. As long as I don’t regret it tomorrow. Or the day after. Or next year. Invariably, I will. And I accept that challenge. Partly because…well…what other choice do I have? But also partly because I don’t really feel like I have a lot of problems that result from the recklessness because I have always been very lucky.
Luck is not something that one might first associate with recklessness. But I certainly do. Think of all the people who drive in a reckless manner only to wrap themselves around a tree, or worse, wrap someone else around a tree. I’ve never wrapped myself around a tree. Therefore, I am lucky.
Today is so glorious. A day to jump and sing and crow to the sun how beautiful she is! A day to start digging in the earth with my bare hands…ah, but the snow! I do forget. This is a day to do laundry, to do the dishes, to organize cabinets, to write papers, to organize files, to put folded clothes away, to read books, watch movies, to go go go and do do do and talk talk talk. Unfortunately for my mother, she is the only one around to listen to my blather. Last night at dinner I inundated her with talking. And more talking. My throat was sore by the end of dinner. And yet I’d eaten until my limbs were full all the while that I was talking. A whirlwind of words and calories mingling in a frenzy of what must have been a disgusting spectacle. I do my best to try and hide these higher aspects of my persona, but I know I have only so much skill in keeping things in check.
I have two extremes with a little fortress of pills trying to keep me in the center. And I suspect the pills are not working entirely properly right now for I feel myself beginning to turn on the no smoking light, asking myself to buckle my seatbelt, and prepare for take off. It’s a good thing I live in Oshkosh. Oshkosh, home of the largest airshow in the world. Home of airplanes and pilots and…isn’t it an appropriate thing that my name is Amelia. Like Earhart. A woman who flew so high that she lost herself.
My lows, my trenches, seem so far away. And M. wants to come out to play. I am M.’s flight suit and when M. straps in, I go along for the ride. M. takes me all over the place at breakneck speed, and I am eager to see all M. wishes me to experience.
I have no time for food or sleep or practicality when M. takes over. M. is me, unleashed. I do wish my friends could see M. in action. It’s so much fun. But when I have attempted to allude to said fun I’ve had with my dear M., my other friends get a worried brow. And I feel that they probably don’t understand. As a matter of fact, they seem so reserved in their reactions that it resembles concern. Or worry. And the last thing I can stomach is making others worry over someone like me.
So fret not, friends. M. has come to play. And the dog seems to enjoy my 2am walking needs. I haven’t driven anywhere yet, but I certainly do feel a roadtrip coming on. One in which I drive as fast as I can as far as I can in half the time I have, and then turn around. Responsible irresponsibility. I am nothing if not ultimately responsible. The problem with a blog is that when one feels the need to divulge information such as random and spontaneous roadtrips, then it shatters the whole illusion of being a stoic and dependable person.
I shake my head trying to sort out the fog, but it just makes my neck hurt and lashes my bangs out into my eyes. This makes my nose itch, and rubbing my face makes me have to squirm. My skin crawls and I’m not even on drugs. Well, not illegal ones, anyway…
Whew! Now that that’s over, let me uncover a bit of the darker side. My “rough“ hypomania. This section was written a few days after the first one. It has been heavily edited for a number of reasons, and what we are left with is simply a smattering of the idea. Hope it suffices to paint the picture. And yes, I am aware I have a mixed metaphor in the first sentence. Keep in mind I was out of mine.
Should I keep working, brick by brick, maintaining my carefully sewn exterior? I'm made up of a crazy quilt. Pieced together from all the shreds of fabric left intact from childhood. Do I wax poetic, or did mother wield a seam ripper? Is it possible to have damaged my fabric so much that it's useless to repair? There's always more fabric. And all the king's horses and all the king's men always have at least the ability to sew Amelia together over M. again. M. shows up at the strangest intervals. When the fabric rips, M. is my stuffing. And right now I am leaking M. all over myself. Is there a cure? Nah. The stuffing will always be there. The question will always be, has always been, how strong is my outer fabric?
My body is tired. My mind is not. It spins like a wet top, whipping thoughts out in every direction. I can't sleep. Repetition is too loud.
So there you have it…er…a bit of it. I am still unsure as to why I chose this topic for my blog post. Am I looking for attention or sympathy? Definitely not. So if the desire to choose this option strikes you, please do not voice this thought to me as it will only cause me to feel horrid that I caused you any semblance of worry. I think what I’m really after is understanding. I strive to understand myself and have others understand me. I function as a human being quite well, and expect to go on doing so for quite some time. But I also harbor a hope that the me that dwells within and the me that dwells without might be able to merge a bit more. Anyway, here’s to hoping. Thanks for reading.
In which Amelia almost departs from the precipice.
Today’s blog shall consist of a blog within a blog. Or, shall we say, prickly difficulties, encased in warm gooey comfort. I am about to admit that which I never do: I am not perfect. Now, this may come as a shock to one or two of you out there. I know it was for me. But hold fast friends! I know that since I have had the ability to come to terms with this issue numerous times, you can too. However, here’s…the Thing. The Thing, dear readers, is that I’ve had to cope with the very opposite thought as well. I must now also admit (against better judgment) that I’ve had a troubling couple of weeks here, trapped inside my head. Nothing I wish for you to worry your pretty heads over. No, no, no. Just a simple detour of the mind. For those to whom I have not yet divulged my personal struggle, it is a mental disorder called Bipolar II. “Disorder,” obviously, being a key word here.
Whenever I stumble upon my life’s path, I turn to writing to point my self in the proper direction. In the twenty-first century, this very personal coping mechanism is edited drastically and posted in the form of a blog for all the world to read. This is perfectly fine, as long as I am in control. Who else could possibly be in control of my own blog, to which only I have the secret passcode decoder key, you ask? Well, read on, dear friends.
Although depression has always been more prevalent for me, today’s post will focus on my more interesting and recent troubles with hypomania, a form of mania in which there is no mental break from reality. Hypomania comes in two forms, where I am concerned. The darker side is a mixed episode, or what I call “rough” hypomania. In this state my logic is clouded, my emotions are irritated, and my energy is stretched wafer thin. I have snapped at many I love, or cried uncontrollably at them, unable to understand why they seem to hate me. I’ve lost friendships and lovers, colleagues and mentors. But the worst feeling is that I know, when I am in this state, the torrent of words, spit, tears, and snot flowing furiously from my uncontrollable face can not and will not be stopped. And thus, those closest to me are at least driven away, and at most crushed.
With the more entertaining side, what I call my “smooth” hypomania, creativity, energy, and the good mood all run rampant. As an example, if any high school chums are reading this, you may remember that I spent a good deal of high school being considered fearless, cool, and hilarious. Fortunately for many of you, I was a ton of fun with boundless energy. Unfortunately for me, I have very little memory of the specifics of high school because I was usually flying at top speed. And when I was not, I was trying my best to look like I was because I was, instead, swirling down the toilet of depression.
Now that you have some background information, allow me to let you in on one of my firsthand accounts during a bout with some “smooth” hypomania. Other than a few omitted uninteresting thoughts and the concealment of my rival’s name, the passage is exactly as I wrote it.
Blog, blog, blog! That’s what keeps twirling through my mind on this manic Friday and Saturday. Sorry Manic Monday, you’re sooo twenty years ago. But about what can I blog? I could blog about the fact that work is going really well and I’m enjoying myself immensely. I could blog about the fact that the puppy did her business on the couch. Or I could blog about the fact that it’s spring and there’s fresh snow on the ground. But rather than speak of the mundane, I feel that the best way to express myself today is to allow my mania to run free across the transoms of my brain, then tingle their way around my heart, and then dance out the ends of my fingertips as I blurt out all the randomness that clouds my focus on this sunny weekend. Mania. I keep using that word. To some, it’s a dirty word. A word that represents panic and disorder. A word tinged with the chaos of an uncontrollable state. To me, however, it represents creativity and freedom and recklessness. Well, the recklessness is not necessarily a good thing to those looking in on my world, but to me the recklessness can be quite a jolly load of fun. As long as I don’t regret it tomorrow. Or the day after. Or next year. Invariably, I will. And I accept that challenge. Partly because…well…what other choice do I have? But also partly because I don’t really feel like I have a lot of problems that result from the recklessness because I have always been very lucky.
Luck is not something that one might first associate with recklessness. But I certainly do. Think of all the people who drive in a reckless manner only to wrap themselves around a tree, or worse, wrap someone else around a tree. I’ve never wrapped myself around a tree. Therefore, I am lucky.
Today is so glorious. A day to jump and sing and crow to the sun how beautiful she is! A day to start digging in the earth with my bare hands…ah, but the snow! I do forget. This is a day to do laundry, to do the dishes, to organize cabinets, to write papers, to organize files, to put folded clothes away, to read books, watch movies, to go go go and do do do and talk talk talk. Unfortunately for my mother, she is the only one around to listen to my blather. Last night at dinner I inundated her with talking. And more talking. My throat was sore by the end of dinner. And yet I’d eaten until my limbs were full all the while that I was talking. A whirlwind of words and calories mingling in a frenzy of what must have been a disgusting spectacle. I do my best to try and hide these higher aspects of my persona, but I know I have only so much skill in keeping things in check.
I have two extremes with a little fortress of pills trying to keep me in the center. And I suspect the pills are not working entirely properly right now for I feel myself beginning to turn on the no smoking light, asking myself to buckle my seatbelt, and prepare for take off. It’s a good thing I live in Oshkosh. Oshkosh, home of the largest airshow in the world. Home of airplanes and pilots and…isn’t it an appropriate thing that my name is Amelia. Like Earhart. A woman who flew so high that she lost herself.
My lows, my trenches, seem so far away. And M. wants to come out to play. I am M.’s flight suit and when M. straps in, I go along for the ride. M. takes me all over the place at breakneck speed, and I am eager to see all M. wishes me to experience.
I have no time for food or sleep or practicality when M. takes over. M. is me, unleashed. I do wish my friends could see M. in action. It’s so much fun. But when I have attempted to allude to said fun I’ve had with my dear M., my other friends get a worried brow. And I feel that they probably don’t understand. As a matter of fact, they seem so reserved in their reactions that it resembles concern. Or worry. And the last thing I can stomach is making others worry over someone like me.
So fret not, friends. M. has come to play. And the dog seems to enjoy my 2am walking needs. I haven’t driven anywhere yet, but I certainly do feel a roadtrip coming on. One in which I drive as fast as I can as far as I can in half the time I have, and then turn around. Responsible irresponsibility. I am nothing if not ultimately responsible. The problem with a blog is that when one feels the need to divulge information such as random and spontaneous roadtrips, then it shatters the whole illusion of being a stoic and dependable person.
I shake my head trying to sort out the fog, but it just makes my neck hurt and lashes my bangs out into my eyes. This makes my nose itch, and rubbing my face makes me have to squirm. My skin crawls and I’m not even on drugs. Well, not illegal ones, anyway…
Whew! Now that that’s over, let me uncover a bit of the darker side. My “rough“ hypomania. This section was written a few days after the first one. It has been heavily edited for a number of reasons, and what we are left with is simply a smattering of the idea. Hope it suffices to paint the picture. And yes, I am aware I have a mixed metaphor in the first sentence. Keep in mind I was out of mine.
Should I keep working, brick by brick, maintaining my carefully sewn exterior? I'm made up of a crazy quilt. Pieced together from all the shreds of fabric left intact from childhood. Do I wax poetic, or did mother wield a seam ripper? Is it possible to have damaged my fabric so much that it's useless to repair? There's always more fabric. And all the king's horses and all the king's men always have at least the ability to sew Amelia together over M. again. M. shows up at the strangest intervals. When the fabric rips, M. is my stuffing. And right now I am leaking M. all over myself. Is there a cure? Nah. The stuffing will always be there. The question will always be, has always been, how strong is my outer fabric?
My body is tired. My mind is not. It spins like a wet top, whipping thoughts out in every direction. I can't sleep. Repetition is too loud.
So there you have it…er…a bit of it. I am still unsure as to why I chose this topic for my blog post. Am I looking for attention or sympathy? Definitely not. So if the desire to choose this option strikes you, please do not voice this thought to me as it will only cause me to feel horrid that I caused you any semblance of worry. I think what I’m really after is understanding. I strive to understand myself and have others understand me. I function as a human being quite well, and expect to go on doing so for quite some time. But I also harbor a hope that the me that dwells within and the me that dwells without might be able to merge a bit more. Anyway, here’s to hoping. Thanks for reading.
March 2009 | Chapitre Trois
Good day, dear readers, and welcome to this, my most recent re-entry to the blogosphere (an untidy word that brings to mind squishy round oozing substances, if I do say so myself). Today, I am overflowing with a soggy desire to empty, cleanse, and disinfect my home from top to bottom and back again.
I have far too many ideas for the meager free time in which I have to create, and so I stockpile ideas like the squirrel does his nuts for winter, or Frederick does his colors. I intend to follow through on at least some of these juicy morsels. And in the meantime, I use work as my outlet for creativity – wherever I can infuse it. Sure, I have a few novels in process. And I find myself wanting to blog more often. About more topics. On a more regular basis. I feel like I’ve written so many, and yet this is only the third! I have to kill the urge to procrastinate. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Remember, never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after that.
Responsibility is an easy thing. Taking care of pets and parents and friends my whole life has made it exceedingly easy to be responsible. But responsibility takes on a different light when one considers how to be responsible for taking care of oneself. Do I brush my teeth every night? Do I eat a healthy dose of vegetables every day? Do I do my laundry and dishes on a regular basis? No. I’m afraid I do none of those things. Am I, therefore, irresponsible for myself?
For right now, all I know is that this crazy writer/artist must set aside her childhood toys (or at least better organize them). I must become an adult in my space at home. I must transform the kitchen for efficiency. And beauty. Should I get a stove? Replace the refrigerator? I must certainly pick up the bedroom. I have to remember to clean out the litter box once every 24 hours. May I still call it “forgetting” if I walk past it each morning and evening? I’ve returned to wearing my grandmother’s/godmother’s ring. I feel as though it cloaks me in adulthood, even if I still feel like I’m faking it at 35. In a recent great burst of adulthood I have returned to the idea of publishing my thesis. Academic publications certainly feel very adult, don’t they?
On the other hand, I just got developed a mountainous zit on my lower lip that refuses to erupt, I will never not wear flip-flops, and pizza is the easiest and tastiest meal in my freezer.
So the question remains - am I growing up? Or am I forcing myself to grow up? Or, disaster of disasters, am I attempting to appear grown up for those who still see me as a kid? Maybe a little of each. It’s hard to return to your hometown and not be treated like the kid you were way back when. Especially while wearing flip-flops and eating pizza, with a zit on your face.
I have far too many ideas for the meager free time in which I have to create, and so I stockpile ideas like the squirrel does his nuts for winter, or Frederick does his colors. I intend to follow through on at least some of these juicy morsels. And in the meantime, I use work as my outlet for creativity – wherever I can infuse it. Sure, I have a few novels in process. And I find myself wanting to blog more often. About more topics. On a more regular basis. I feel like I’ve written so many, and yet this is only the third! I have to kill the urge to procrastinate. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Remember, never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after that.
Responsibility is an easy thing. Taking care of pets and parents and friends my whole life has made it exceedingly easy to be responsible. But responsibility takes on a different light when one considers how to be responsible for taking care of oneself. Do I brush my teeth every night? Do I eat a healthy dose of vegetables every day? Do I do my laundry and dishes on a regular basis? No. I’m afraid I do none of those things. Am I, therefore, irresponsible for myself?
For right now, all I know is that this crazy writer/artist must set aside her childhood toys (or at least better organize them). I must become an adult in my space at home. I must transform the kitchen for efficiency. And beauty. Should I get a stove? Replace the refrigerator? I must certainly pick up the bedroom. I have to remember to clean out the litter box once every 24 hours. May I still call it “forgetting” if I walk past it each morning and evening? I’ve returned to wearing my grandmother’s/godmother’s ring. I feel as though it cloaks me in adulthood, even if I still feel like I’m faking it at 35. In a recent great burst of adulthood I have returned to the idea of publishing my thesis. Academic publications certainly feel very adult, don’t they?
On the other hand, I just got developed a mountainous zit on my lower lip that refuses to erupt, I will never not wear flip-flops, and pizza is the easiest and tastiest meal in my freezer.
So the question remains - am I growing up? Or am I forcing myself to grow up? Or, disaster of disasters, am I attempting to appear grown up for those who still see me as a kid? Maybe a little of each. It’s hard to return to your hometown and not be treated like the kid you were way back when. Especially while wearing flip-flops and eating pizza, with a zit on your face.
February 2009 | Chapitre Deux
A blogging we will go, a blogging we will go, heigh ho & cheerio. A blogging we will go.
Good day, readers. On this dismal, dank, dreary day blood has already flowed twice as the result of an overly tumultuous game of puppy fetch. Unfortunately, Anubis has yet to grasp the entire concept of returning the thrown object whence it came. When I attempt to assist her by taking the object upon her galloping return, I seem to phind my phalanges amidst a phrantic phrenzy of teeth! Of course, she glances up at me, moments later, with her ears all wonky and large ''innocent'' eyes, and I hear myself forgiving her as I tape on a band-aid. There. It's like it never happened. Let's do it again!
My sweet Anubis joined the family business last night when she graduated from puppy kindergarten. And she's not even six months old yet! Her behavioral issues have been ameliorated massively. Her facial expressions have shifted from merely inquisitive to confident sagacity. And it's all due to her education. So bear this in mind, kiddies, and stay in school like Anubis. Just imagine what you, too, could accomplish with a degree.
With my degree, however, I feel compelled to warn against an advanced degree unless you have the freedom to move after grabbing your diploma. An MA in English, amid a recession, without the ability to move out of a mid-size mid-western town, is tantamount to being called out as a witch in jolly old Salem back in the good old days.
When applying for jobs that don't like their workers to be too educated, I try to insist that this isn't my nose, it's a false one! Sadly, most companies around here don't even want to weigh me. They've already assumed I weigh more that a duck, so they don't even bother farting in my general direction. Such are the politics of employment in the Fox Valley.
And yet. And yet, despite this, I still advocate education as the answer to all life's problems. All of them. Education is the key to life, and it only starts at school. There's homework, life lessons, and the simple act of reading books. The more information one possesses about a situation, the more familiar you become, the more familiar the less frightened, and therefore the more comfortable you become. And that's when your ability to understand kicks in. Followed by being able to see the big picture. Whatever that may be.
Good day, readers. On this dismal, dank, dreary day blood has already flowed twice as the result of an overly tumultuous game of puppy fetch. Unfortunately, Anubis has yet to grasp the entire concept of returning the thrown object whence it came. When I attempt to assist her by taking the object upon her galloping return, I seem to phind my phalanges amidst a phrantic phrenzy of teeth! Of course, she glances up at me, moments later, with her ears all wonky and large ''innocent'' eyes, and I hear myself forgiving her as I tape on a band-aid. There. It's like it never happened. Let's do it again!
My sweet Anubis joined the family business last night when she graduated from puppy kindergarten. And she's not even six months old yet! Her behavioral issues have been ameliorated massively. Her facial expressions have shifted from merely inquisitive to confident sagacity. And it's all due to her education. So bear this in mind, kiddies, and stay in school like Anubis. Just imagine what you, too, could accomplish with a degree.
With my degree, however, I feel compelled to warn against an advanced degree unless you have the freedom to move after grabbing your diploma. An MA in English, amid a recession, without the ability to move out of a mid-size mid-western town, is tantamount to being called out as a witch in jolly old Salem back in the good old days.
When applying for jobs that don't like their workers to be too educated, I try to insist that this isn't my nose, it's a false one! Sadly, most companies around here don't even want to weigh me. They've already assumed I weigh more that a duck, so they don't even bother farting in my general direction. Such are the politics of employment in the Fox Valley.
And yet. And yet, despite this, I still advocate education as the answer to all life's problems. All of them. Education is the key to life, and it only starts at school. There's homework, life lessons, and the simple act of reading books. The more information one possesses about a situation, the more familiar you become, the more familiar the less frightened, and therefore the more comfortable you become. And that's when your ability to understand kicks in. Followed by being able to see the big picture. Whatever that may be.
January 2009 | Chapitre Un
For this, my very first venture into blogging, I harbor a familiar fear: it must be done perfectly, or not at all. This mental road block has allowed me to procrastinate beyond all records I had established previously for myself. That was, until I took Ariana Huffington’s sage and succinct advice: just start blogging. Now. And so I have.
I do not know to whom I am writing. Perhaps it will be my friends and family who will want to see what I’m up to and what I’m thinking about. Perhaps it will be prospective employers, attempting to determine my writing skills and personality. Perhaps it will be the random strangers of cyberspace, searching for like-minded friends. Or, perhaps, it will be only for myself. In any case, I intend to write for writing’s sake. The rest is just superfluous fun.
Today I am consumed by thoughts of the economy. Many people in this country are struggling, including me. And even though I have supreme confidence in President Obama’s admirable ideas, I am also aware that it takes quite a bit of time to redirect an entire country’s economy toward prosperity. Spirits are low right now. Across the country, and in my home. I know people who are terrified of being laid off, others who are trying to keep the flow of incoming business steady in an increasingly cautious world, and others who are sending out literally hundreds of resumés in the hopes that even just one interview will be scheduled. For those of us working from home, the mounting tension is compounded by a sense of isolation. And from this environment of isolation, I have decided to do something. To make a voice for myself. To create words and images that might document this period of time in my life. To forge connections with other humans through the decidedly impersonal internet. Thus, I begin my own journey toward making my own life one I will enjoy living. And if I can offer something you enjoy reading and perusing, so much the better.
I need to admit that I have spent the majority of my life dreaming and planning and then not following through. I’m afraid my father was much the same way. Since my dad and I were so close, it shouldn’t be a surprise that we share personality traits. My mother follows through on every little thing. I used to think it was tiring to watch her spend so much time on mundane tasks; she has always been so pragmatic. Never any talk of lifelong goals or childhood fantasies. Her feet have always been planted firmly on the earth, and there they shall stay forever rooted. Ironically, she also loves to garden. My head has always been floating in the clouds. Well, my new year resolution for 2009 is to follow through. I have been making lists of my dreams for so many years, but have never before planned the details of how to achieve those dreams. This year, I intend to make my dreams come true. A daunting task, to be sure. And while I am determined to succeed, I am also frightened enough to heed the advice that Rachel gave her sister Jill on the TV show Friends. She warned, “You know what happened to the little girl who tried to do too much…She died, Jill.”
Wish me luck.
I do not know to whom I am writing. Perhaps it will be my friends and family who will want to see what I’m up to and what I’m thinking about. Perhaps it will be prospective employers, attempting to determine my writing skills and personality. Perhaps it will be the random strangers of cyberspace, searching for like-minded friends. Or, perhaps, it will be only for myself. In any case, I intend to write for writing’s sake. The rest is just superfluous fun.
Today I am consumed by thoughts of the economy. Many people in this country are struggling, including me. And even though I have supreme confidence in President Obama’s admirable ideas, I am also aware that it takes quite a bit of time to redirect an entire country’s economy toward prosperity. Spirits are low right now. Across the country, and in my home. I know people who are terrified of being laid off, others who are trying to keep the flow of incoming business steady in an increasingly cautious world, and others who are sending out literally hundreds of resumés in the hopes that even just one interview will be scheduled. For those of us working from home, the mounting tension is compounded by a sense of isolation. And from this environment of isolation, I have decided to do something. To make a voice for myself. To create words and images that might document this period of time in my life. To forge connections with other humans through the decidedly impersonal internet. Thus, I begin my own journey toward making my own life one I will enjoy living. And if I can offer something you enjoy reading and perusing, so much the better.
I need to admit that I have spent the majority of my life dreaming and planning and then not following through. I’m afraid my father was much the same way. Since my dad and I were so close, it shouldn’t be a surprise that we share personality traits. My mother follows through on every little thing. I used to think it was tiring to watch her spend so much time on mundane tasks; she has always been so pragmatic. Never any talk of lifelong goals or childhood fantasies. Her feet have always been planted firmly on the earth, and there they shall stay forever rooted. Ironically, she also loves to garden. My head has always been floating in the clouds. Well, my new year resolution for 2009 is to follow through. I have been making lists of my dreams for so many years, but have never before planned the details of how to achieve those dreams. This year, I intend to make my dreams come true. A daunting task, to be sure. And while I am determined to succeed, I am also frightened enough to heed the advice that Rachel gave her sister Jill on the TV show Friends. She warned, “You know what happened to the little girl who tried to do too much…She died, Jill.”
Wish me luck.
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