Neither god nor skeleton nor
Pretty-faced girl, but rather
A sweetsmiling granny in
Slippers and bathrobe
With a hot mug of Alzheimer's
Clasped between her bony fingers.
She feeds it, drop by drop
To her patients lying abed
Slowly slipping away from her
Silent ministrations.
And then, afterwards,
A heartworm in the guts of survivors
Gnawing and gnawing and--
The pain strikes, a bolt of lightning,
Electric shock, a burst of tears
Geysering at random moments:
It's not the missing so much as the
Regret, softsharp within,
Of memories never made.
Actually, this poem is more about my Grandfather--no, the other one--who died a year ago in August. It wasn't unexpected--he'd been sick for years (diabetes), and had suddenly begun declining early in June. We were actually about to visit when we got the call that he died. I'm grateful that he went fast, instead of lingering for months on end--it's better that way. But since then, I've learned all this stuff about my grandfather--in particular, what a strong man he was. Oh, he had his flaws, but everyone who knew him remembers him as this engine of a man who got up around five or six and went to bed at one or even later. The grandpa I knew was a fragile, slow (literally--he moved very slow because he had lost a leg to diabetes) old man, very dignified and intelligent to the very man. And I wish I'd known him as the man he was for most of his life. It depresses me. I know, I know, this sounds very soppy, but it's true--it's not the losing that hurts so much as the regret. You regret all those times you didn't visit, that you didn't say anything, that you'll only have a handful of memories already fading with time.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Letter to My Mother, 11/20/06
Another poem from class. Actually, it comes from an exercise I invented: Write a frank poem about your parents. It was part of a presentation on Sharon Olds.
Letter to My Mother, 11/20/06
Yesterday
You shouted at me.
Called me a liar and
Told me my essay was crap--
Ruined!--all because
Of one line:
"You'll never get into college,"
You said. "It's amateurish
And contrived. They'll
Never let you in with that."
I shouted back
"It's MY essay, MY application!"
And when dad took my side
(You, turning to scold him)
I ran upstairs to grab my purse,
And return, wallet in hand,
To send in the application--
Not to finish it, but to
Anger you more.
MY card, MY application
And none of your damn business!
Later on you came down with
A perfect cup of tea.
Chai, with milk, and
Two sugar cubes on the side--
You know I drink my tea like
They do in Turkey:
Sugar cube clenched, melting
Crunchysweet between my teeth
And hot liquid scalding my tongue.
I remember your face
At 10 o'clock last morning:
"Things are going to change,"
You said, and introduced
The latest development in the crisis
With grandma and grandpa
Frozenserious like the way
You told us, five years before,
About the spot they'd found
On your latest mammogram.
I took your words emptily
And never shed a tear
Patted the bed beside me. You
Sat down, my arm around you--
We never said a single word
Letter to My Mother, 11/20/06
Yesterday
You shouted at me.
Called me a liar and
Told me my essay was crap--
Ruined!--all because
Of one line:
"You'll never get into college,"
You said. "It's amateurish
And contrived. They'll
Never let you in with that."
I shouted back
"It's MY essay, MY application!"
And when dad took my side
(You, turning to scold him)
I ran upstairs to grab my purse,
And return, wallet in hand,
To send in the application--
Not to finish it, but to
Anger you more.
MY card, MY application
And none of your damn business!
Later on you came down with
A perfect cup of tea.
Chai, with milk, and
Two sugar cubes on the side--
You know I drink my tea like
They do in Turkey:
Sugar cube clenched, melting
Crunchysweet between my teeth
And hot liquid scalding my tongue.
I remember your face
At 10 o'clock last morning:
"Things are going to change,"
You said, and introduced
The latest development in the crisis
With grandma and grandpa
Frozenserious like the way
You told us, five years before,
About the spot they'd found
On your latest mammogram.
I took your words emptily
And never shed a tear
Patted the bed beside me. You
Sat down, my arm around you--
We never said a single word
Sunday, November 26, 2006
In Memorial: Pierre Gemayel
Yes, this is late, but I'm afraid I've been kept out of my blog for the past few days. Damn you Blogger Beta!
But now is not the time. Right now, I want to write about Pierre Gemayel and Lebanon.
First, I'd like to point out the sheer tragedy of the situation. The brutality is simply breathtaking--they surrounded his car and poured lead into it. You look at pictures of the car, it's a wreck. Gemayel was a young man (34!) with life ahead of him and did not deserve this kind of death.
But what is truly breathtaking is the sheer chutzpah that goes into this assassination. They did this in broad daylight--broad daylight!! The assassins are saying, "We do not care about the sanctity of life. We do not care about civilization. We do not care about the will of the people. We do not care about accountibility or law and order. We do not give a DAMN about the democratic process." By assassinating Gemayel--an action they must have known would destabilize Lebanon--they prove that they do not care about the well-being of Lebanon. It disgusts me.
More importantly, it convinces me that the perpetrator is Syria. Gemayel was a minister in the government--with his death, the government slips closer to destruction. Assad is trying to stop the tribunal at all costs. But more importantly, he is trying to throw Lebanon into chaos. A Lebanon in the midst of a civil war would give him the opportunity to reassert his hegemony over the country. Hell, he might even be able to send in the army.
I hope to God that it wasn't Hizballah though. Yes, I know--it's Hizballah we're talking about, a bunch of thugs. I know the disregard they've shown for international law, e.g., declaring war on Israel WITHOUT THE CONSENT OF THE REST OF THE LEBANESE PEOPLE. And they are certainly more interested in their own power than the democratic process, as can be seen by their earlier threat to mobilize until Hizballah was given one third of the ministerial posts (e.g., veto power). But I hope Hassan Nasrallah cares enough about his own country not to pull something like this. But I would be naive to count out the possibility.
Overall, a terrible tragedy for Lebanon. Hopefully, the new mobilization of the March 14th coalition will stop Hizballah in its tracks (and indeed, Hizballah did postpone the planned demonstrations). What would be better is for everyone to stop and think: is this what we want for our country? Where assassinations and murder determine political decisions? Because I am sure that any sane Lebanese will say "No" to that option. They've been though a civil war. They don't need another. Things have gotten much more tense since Gemayel's death, but hopefully people will stop before that tension becomes war. (Though if you read the Post, it would seem like the country is on the verge of a war!) Okay, okay, burn a few posters and shout a few obsenities (frankly speaking I sympathize, though I'm not about to burn anything) but don't carry it beyond that. As such, thanks to all the politicians who, while calling for action, have still urged for peace.
My condolences go out to Gemayel's family and friends in this difficult times. Rest in Peace Pierre Gemayel--may your death not be in vain.
P.S. For a blog with excellent insight on the situation, I recommend beirutspring.com. Great blog for all those interested in Lebanese affairs.
But now is not the time. Right now, I want to write about Pierre Gemayel and Lebanon.
First, I'd like to point out the sheer tragedy of the situation. The brutality is simply breathtaking--they surrounded his car and poured lead into it. You look at pictures of the car, it's a wreck. Gemayel was a young man (34!) with life ahead of him and did not deserve this kind of death.
But what is truly breathtaking is the sheer chutzpah that goes into this assassination. They did this in broad daylight--broad daylight!! The assassins are saying, "We do not care about the sanctity of life. We do not care about civilization. We do not care about the will of the people. We do not care about accountibility or law and order. We do not give a DAMN about the democratic process." By assassinating Gemayel--an action they must have known would destabilize Lebanon--they prove that they do not care about the well-being of Lebanon. It disgusts me.
More importantly, it convinces me that the perpetrator is Syria. Gemayel was a minister in the government--with his death, the government slips closer to destruction. Assad is trying to stop the tribunal at all costs. But more importantly, he is trying to throw Lebanon into chaos. A Lebanon in the midst of a civil war would give him the opportunity to reassert his hegemony over the country. Hell, he might even be able to send in the army.
I hope to God that it wasn't Hizballah though. Yes, I know--it's Hizballah we're talking about, a bunch of thugs. I know the disregard they've shown for international law, e.g., declaring war on Israel WITHOUT THE CONSENT OF THE REST OF THE LEBANESE PEOPLE. And they are certainly more interested in their own power than the democratic process, as can be seen by their earlier threat to mobilize until Hizballah was given one third of the ministerial posts (e.g., veto power). But I hope Hassan Nasrallah cares enough about his own country not to pull something like this. But I would be naive to count out the possibility.
Overall, a terrible tragedy for Lebanon. Hopefully, the new mobilization of the March 14th coalition will stop Hizballah in its tracks (and indeed, Hizballah did postpone the planned demonstrations). What would be better is for everyone to stop and think: is this what we want for our country? Where assassinations and murder determine political decisions? Because I am sure that any sane Lebanese will say "No" to that option. They've been though a civil war. They don't need another. Things have gotten much more tense since Gemayel's death, but hopefully people will stop before that tension becomes war. (Though if you read the Post, it would seem like the country is on the verge of a war!) Okay, okay, burn a few posters and shout a few obsenities (frankly speaking I sympathize, though I'm not about to burn anything) but don't carry it beyond that. As such, thanks to all the politicians who, while calling for action, have still urged for peace.
My condolences go out to Gemayel's family and friends in this difficult times. Rest in Peace Pierre Gemayel--may your death not be in vain.
P.S. For a blog with excellent insight on the situation, I recommend beirutspring.com. Great blog for all those interested in Lebanese affairs.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Grandparent Crisis, part 2
Latest update--apparently Grandma isn't coming to stay with us after all. Mom told me while driving me home today (that's right, I still don't have my license. Shut up.) that the doctor suddenly changed his mind. He isn't going to declare Grandpa incapable, at least not yet. First they're going to run those neurological tests. Afterwards? Maybe. After all, the disorientation may have just been a temporary flash. The doctor suggested calling Adult Care Services (or whatever the equivalent of Child Care Services is), but Mom isn't going to do that, not yet. She says that the government will only interfere if it's really, really obvious that the person is suffering neglect. And how (to quote Mom) do you show a person isn't eating? ...Don't look at me like that. It's not like she's wasting away. Well, she is, but slowly. Over the years. In that aging sort of way, you can contribute it to the general downhill slide. Grandma eats, just not much.
It's almost ironic. When I was young, I didn't eat a lot. Still don't eat so much (least in the mornings). I weighed very little as a child. My grandparents were always asking me everytime they saw me--"How much do you weigh?" And if I'd gain pounds, Grandpa would give me money. Well, he's a grandpa. He probably would have done that anyway, you know how grandparents spoil the kids. But it was like a reward for gaining weight. And then Grandma was always urging me to eat, eat. She always had a stash of candy to feed me, God, I remember that stash. Mom says she used to do the same when she was young. Maybe something left over from the Depression?
And now, when she's very old and not doing so well, Grandma still urges me to eat. I'm eating, I tell her, what about you? I won't eat if you don't eat. I weigh a perfectly normal amount, 120-something at last count (long time ago, admittedly)--it's Grandma who's underweight. And she's still telling me to eat. And barely touching the food on her plate. It's heartbreaking. Every meal is a struggle. Another reason why it's so painful to visit them.
They're still coming down from Baltimore for Thanksgiving. Mom might drive them down. I think she wants to take away Grandpa's license--she's afraid that he'll hurt somebody. She's been talking about that a lot lately--guess the disorientation thing really scared her. What if he crashes the car into the curb?--that kind of thought. Well, the doctor told her that you can't take a license away against someone's will, unless there's an incident. But she told me tonight that what he said wasn't true. If she reports Grandpa, he'll have to take a driving test, and officials will decide whether he can drive or not.
It's almost ironic. When I was young, I didn't eat a lot. Still don't eat so much (least in the mornings). I weighed very little as a child. My grandparents were always asking me everytime they saw me--"How much do you weigh?" And if I'd gain pounds, Grandpa would give me money. Well, he's a grandpa. He probably would have done that anyway, you know how grandparents spoil the kids. But it was like a reward for gaining weight. And then Grandma was always urging me to eat, eat. She always had a stash of candy to feed me, God, I remember that stash. Mom says she used to do the same when she was young. Maybe something left over from the Depression?
And now, when she's very old and not doing so well, Grandma still urges me to eat. I'm eating, I tell her, what about you? I won't eat if you don't eat. I weigh a perfectly normal amount, 120-something at last count (long time ago, admittedly)--it's Grandma who's underweight. And she's still telling me to eat. And barely touching the food on her plate. It's heartbreaking. Every meal is a struggle. Another reason why it's so painful to visit them.
They're still coming down from Baltimore for Thanksgiving. Mom might drive them down. I think she wants to take away Grandpa's license--she's afraid that he'll hurt somebody. She's been talking about that a lot lately--guess the disorientation thing really scared her. What if he crashes the car into the curb?--that kind of thought. Well, the doctor told her that you can't take a license away against someone's will, unless there's an incident. But she told me tonight that what he said wasn't true. If she reports Grandpa, he'll have to take a driving test, and officials will decide whether he can drive or not.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Feel it in My Knees, Part 2
Which brings us to today. And college. And applications. And essays. And arguments.
God I so fucking hate this entire process. It is hell. Hell on earth. I swear, AP and college board are you enemies, they just want to fuck up your life as much as possible. And sometimes I wonder, what the fuck is with these colleges?!! These crazy applications!!!
Fortunately, I managed to get most of my applications over and done with much earlier. But I still had my pittsburgh and common app to send out. today I decided to send out the Pitt one. Which brings us to the current situation.
See, my mom ain't satsified with my college essay. She's an editor--I guess it comes naturally. And there were some slight improvements she wanted to make. I can't tell you why I get so upset every time she brings it up--I think it's fine, and I just want to send the damn application off. We were shouting back and forth. Dad was getting involved, too:
Lawrie: Alright alright, I made all the changes!!
Mom: No you didn't! You didn't take out this phrase here!!
L: That's because I wanted it in!
M: It's stupid and you should take it out! It'll drag down your entire essay!
Dad: No it won't. It's colloquial.
M: Look, I'm an editor, I know these things! And you said you made all the changes!
L: Well I did!
M: You didn't change that line! That's the most important change!
L: I wanted it in!
M: Then you didn't make all the changes! You're lying!
Etc.
I just got so upset that I actually got my debit card and submitted the damn application itself while my mom and dad were arguing over whether the phrase "No, I'm lying--" was acceptable or not. And of course all the agony over my grandparest poured into it, we were all just shouting at each other. Talk about a breaking point. I just couldn't stand it anymore. I felt so unhappy and tense. I still feel that way right now. And that's when I started thinking about you, dear friend. I needed to get this stress out somehow. Hence these two posts. Just so you know how shitty my life is at the moment.
I remember reading a phrase somewhere, "Stop the world, I want to get off." Boy, do I feel that way now.
God I so fucking hate this entire process. It is hell. Hell on earth. I swear, AP and college board are you enemies, they just want to fuck up your life as much as possible. And sometimes I wonder, what the fuck is with these colleges?!! These crazy applications!!!
Fortunately, I managed to get most of my applications over and done with much earlier. But I still had my pittsburgh and common app to send out. today I decided to send out the Pitt one. Which brings us to the current situation.
See, my mom ain't satsified with my college essay. She's an editor--I guess it comes naturally. And there were some slight improvements she wanted to make. I can't tell you why I get so upset every time she brings it up--I think it's fine, and I just want to send the damn application off. We were shouting back and forth. Dad was getting involved, too:
Lawrie: Alright alright, I made all the changes!!
Mom: No you didn't! You didn't take out this phrase here!!
L: That's because I wanted it in!
M: It's stupid and you should take it out! It'll drag down your entire essay!
Dad: No it won't. It's colloquial.
M: Look, I'm an editor, I know these things! And you said you made all the changes!
L: Well I did!
M: You didn't change that line! That's the most important change!
L: I wanted it in!
M: Then you didn't make all the changes! You're lying!
Etc.
I just got so upset that I actually got my debit card and submitted the damn application itself while my mom and dad were arguing over whether the phrase "No, I'm lying--" was acceptable or not. And of course all the agony over my grandparest poured into it, we were all just shouting at each other. Talk about a breaking point. I just couldn't stand it anymore. I felt so unhappy and tense. I still feel that way right now. And that's when I started thinking about you, dear friend. I needed to get this stress out somehow. Hence these two posts. Just so you know how shitty my life is at the moment.
I remember reading a phrase somewhere, "Stop the world, I want to get off." Boy, do I feel that way now.
Feel it in My Knees, Part 1
Every time i get tense, I can feel it in my knees. So right now, when I'm feeling that funny "oh-crap-my-life-sucks" feeling in my knees, I know I'm tense. All the shit really hit the fan this weekend, and what I was hoping would be a nice break from the tough times at school has turned into a nightmare.
First, grandparents. You have to understand, this goes back to when I was thirteen. At least, that's when I date it back to. 2001-2002 (seventh grade): The Year My Life Turned to Shit. Nothing wrong in school or friends, just everything else when wrong. Bat Mitzvah (huge stress), brother got sick, Mom got sick (as in cancer sick, but don't worry, they caught it very early and she's fine), Dad lost his job, I got my foot run over, and all through this a hellish renovation. And Grandma starts to fall apart. That was seventh grade.
But all those problems I noted above got solved by the end of the year. The renovation ended. Mom's cancer was solved very quickly--it was very tiny, just beginning, so they zapped that tumor to nothing. Dad got another job. Jacob got better. I was wearing thick shoes and socks when my foot got run over, so I came out okay. But Grandma didn't get better.
Turns out she'd had a series of mini-strokes. She couldn't function so well anymore. At first, it was (relatively) minor--I mean, she could still keep it together, though she was notably fragile. But over the years it's just gotten worse and worse. She can't order from a menu anymore. She doesn't know how to make choices. She gets disoriented very easily. She can't follow conversations. She has a hard time forming sentences. You get the idea.
This is hard enough to watch by itself, but to make things worse is the situation with my grandfather. All this time my mother and uncles have been fighting it out with my grandfather over how grandma should be treated. They wanted to put her in assisted living, where she could be taken care of. He wanted to keep her at home. But they were worried (for good reason) that he wouldn't take care of her. Senior neglect. Like he wouldn't make sure that she was eating, bathing, things like that. I could go on and on. Like when he got upset because she lost control and urinated on herself. There's more, but I don't want to go into great detail. It feels like airing family secrets. But you get the idea.
And the thing is, as we got deeper and deeper into the fight over the years, all this stuff came out of my mom. I always knew she didn't really have a great family life growing up--I knew, for example, that as soon as she graduated she just piled her stuff into a friend's car and drove off, and never came back (not permanently, at least). But all these ugly stories started coming out, all these reflections on her family life, just started coming out. It was like a revelation. I never thought of my mom as coming from one of those SERIOUSLY dysfunctional families you hear about, with manipulative parents and mean siblings and everthing. And it was depressing, to impose this image onto my grandfather. I mean, he's my grandpa, right? I'm supposed to love him. But how do I deal with these stories?
And the thing was, it wasn't just hearing these awful stories from mom, it was seeing the way grandpa acted about grandma. Because grandma was really going downhill, and grandpa simply wouldn't accept that. She hunches over, and he would tell her to stand up straight. She can't stand up straight! It's miserable. And every so often there would be a crisis of some sort, and then I'd come downstairs on weekends to eat my cheerios, and there's mom having this scary conversation clearly about my grandparents over the phone. Depressing. Seriously sad. And this has been going on for years.
I should mention at this point that I always regarded my grandfather as very healthy for his age. He regularly swam at the local JCC--even boasted about the number of laps he could still do. Very healthy. Good shape. I just want you to understand that before I go on.
Now you see, in the past year or so I've slowly become aware that grandpa isn't doing so well himself. Getting, well, a little senile. But I never thought it more than that.
But this Friday, we get this call from his doctor. Apparently grandpa went somewhere and got seriously disoriented, had no idea where he was. So he called his doctor and told him the problem. The doctor called us to tell us that there's probably something wrong with his brain. As in, defintely not able to take care of grandma. As in, maybe Alzheimer's? Mom mentioned that as a possibility, I dunno. How scary is that? But there's definitely something wrong. It's finally reached the breaking point. The shit has really hit the fan. I guess it's not much of a surprise. Only, instead of the problem being about my grandma, as I expected, it's about my grandpa.
So mom comes into my room today and says, things are going to change. They're finally taking grandma away from granpa--sending in a sheriff to take her out of there. And so she'll be with us for a few days. I took it in silence. I already knew about the troubles; this was just a new development. And Uncle Leonard will be coming up from Houston after they take this action. He's a lawyer. He'll know how to handle the situation.
I just took the news blankly. It's weird, but whenever I get these Life-Shaking Revelations, I never react that loudly. Not usually. I guess I just shut off, detatch myself. I felt empty, in a way--like I should have some dramatic, Hollywood reaction. But I felt nothing. Just like I should comfort my mom. And also, "Oh shit."
Because you see, I've come to dread seeing my grandparents. There, I've said it. I feel like I should. It's my duty, isn't it? Like you hear all these old people complaining their kids don't visit them--well, I'm not going to be one of those people. And yes, I love them, but in a way that make it harder. It's so depressing, to see Grandma all falling apart. Almost smothering. I get tense and unhappy. I can't stand it for long. And as soon as I see them, I want to leave. I don't say any of this to them, of course, though I've mentioned something like this along the lines to my mom. Not as an insult. But you have to understand, I've got a pretty good relationship with my mom.
And now my grandma is coming to live with us. Not now, but in the future. Probably. God. I don't know what I'm going to do.
I'm sorry if this post is a little scatterbrained and grammatically incorrect, but I think you can understand that I'm not very together at this moment.
First, grandparents. You have to understand, this goes back to when I was thirteen. At least, that's when I date it back to. 2001-2002 (seventh grade): The Year My Life Turned to Shit. Nothing wrong in school or friends, just everything else when wrong. Bat Mitzvah (huge stress), brother got sick, Mom got sick (as in cancer sick, but don't worry, they caught it very early and she's fine), Dad lost his job, I got my foot run over, and all through this a hellish renovation. And Grandma starts to fall apart. That was seventh grade.
But all those problems I noted above got solved by the end of the year. The renovation ended. Mom's cancer was solved very quickly--it was very tiny, just beginning, so they zapped that tumor to nothing. Dad got another job. Jacob got better. I was wearing thick shoes and socks when my foot got run over, so I came out okay. But Grandma didn't get better.
Turns out she'd had a series of mini-strokes. She couldn't function so well anymore. At first, it was (relatively) minor--I mean, she could still keep it together, though she was notably fragile. But over the years it's just gotten worse and worse. She can't order from a menu anymore. She doesn't know how to make choices. She gets disoriented very easily. She can't follow conversations. She has a hard time forming sentences. You get the idea.
This is hard enough to watch by itself, but to make things worse is the situation with my grandfather. All this time my mother and uncles have been fighting it out with my grandfather over how grandma should be treated. They wanted to put her in assisted living, where she could be taken care of. He wanted to keep her at home. But they were worried (for good reason) that he wouldn't take care of her. Senior neglect. Like he wouldn't make sure that she was eating, bathing, things like that. I could go on and on. Like when he got upset because she lost control and urinated on herself. There's more, but I don't want to go into great detail. It feels like airing family secrets. But you get the idea.
And the thing is, as we got deeper and deeper into the fight over the years, all this stuff came out of my mom. I always knew she didn't really have a great family life growing up--I knew, for example, that as soon as she graduated she just piled her stuff into a friend's car and drove off, and never came back (not permanently, at least). But all these ugly stories started coming out, all these reflections on her family life, just started coming out. It was like a revelation. I never thought of my mom as coming from one of those SERIOUSLY dysfunctional families you hear about, with manipulative parents and mean siblings and everthing. And it was depressing, to impose this image onto my grandfather. I mean, he's my grandpa, right? I'm supposed to love him. But how do I deal with these stories?
And the thing was, it wasn't just hearing these awful stories from mom, it was seeing the way grandpa acted about grandma. Because grandma was really going downhill, and grandpa simply wouldn't accept that. She hunches over, and he would tell her to stand up straight. She can't stand up straight! It's miserable. And every so often there would be a crisis of some sort, and then I'd come downstairs on weekends to eat my cheerios, and there's mom having this scary conversation clearly about my grandparents over the phone. Depressing. Seriously sad. And this has been going on for years.
I should mention at this point that I always regarded my grandfather as very healthy for his age. He regularly swam at the local JCC--even boasted about the number of laps he could still do. Very healthy. Good shape. I just want you to understand that before I go on.
Now you see, in the past year or so I've slowly become aware that grandpa isn't doing so well himself. Getting, well, a little senile. But I never thought it more than that.
But this Friday, we get this call from his doctor. Apparently grandpa went somewhere and got seriously disoriented, had no idea where he was. So he called his doctor and told him the problem. The doctor called us to tell us that there's probably something wrong with his brain. As in, defintely not able to take care of grandma. As in, maybe Alzheimer's? Mom mentioned that as a possibility, I dunno. How scary is that? But there's definitely something wrong. It's finally reached the breaking point. The shit has really hit the fan. I guess it's not much of a surprise. Only, instead of the problem being about my grandma, as I expected, it's about my grandpa.
So mom comes into my room today and says, things are going to change. They're finally taking grandma away from granpa--sending in a sheriff to take her out of there. And so she'll be with us for a few days. I took it in silence. I already knew about the troubles; this was just a new development. And Uncle Leonard will be coming up from Houston after they take this action. He's a lawyer. He'll know how to handle the situation.
I just took the news blankly. It's weird, but whenever I get these Life-Shaking Revelations, I never react that loudly. Not usually. I guess I just shut off, detatch myself. I felt empty, in a way--like I should have some dramatic, Hollywood reaction. But I felt nothing. Just like I should comfort my mom. And also, "Oh shit."
Because you see, I've come to dread seeing my grandparents. There, I've said it. I feel like I should. It's my duty, isn't it? Like you hear all these old people complaining their kids don't visit them--well, I'm not going to be one of those people. And yes, I love them, but in a way that make it harder. It's so depressing, to see Grandma all falling apart. Almost smothering. I get tense and unhappy. I can't stand it for long. And as soon as I see them, I want to leave. I don't say any of this to them, of course, though I've mentioned something like this along the lines to my mom. Not as an insult. But you have to understand, I've got a pretty good relationship with my mom.
And now my grandma is coming to live with us. Not now, but in the future. Probably. God. I don't know what I'm going to do.
I'm sorry if this post is a little scatterbrained and grammatically incorrect, but I think you can understand that I'm not very together at this moment.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Better Exercise, Better Result
Actually, the title's deceptive. I think this exercise was kinda stupid, but I liked what I got out of it.
As I'm sure you've noticed, I take Creative Wrting at school. We just entered the poetry unit. Today we were given a poem, called "Once in the 40s." I type it up, just so you can compare with what followed.
We were alone one night on a long
road in Montana. This was in winter, a big
night, far to the stars. We had hitched,
my wife and I, and left our ride at
a crossing to go on. Tired and cold--but
brave--we trudged along. This, we said,
was our life, watched over, allowed to go
where we wanted. We said we'd come back some time
when we got rich. We'd leave the others and find
a night like this, whatever we had to give,
and no matter how far, to be so happy again.
So we had to type this poem up, triple space it, print it, and then write new lines in between each line. Weird, huh? I can't say I really like the idea--I want my poetry to be my own. I get really hung up when people ask me to imitate other writers. How do you expect me to do that?? Style is something natural, it just FLOWS--and I don't want to pick that flow from the story. Style is part of the fabric; pulling it out unwinds the piece.
Still, it wasn't like she was telling us to imitate the writer. Just put our lines in between his. Still not something I'm a fan of.
Actually, it got me thinking of Simon and Garfunkel. You know "Scarborough Fair"? I love that song. I'd love to perform it a cappella in a choir someday, though I'm sure it would be tough. But done right, it would be gorgeous. Maybe I'll suggest it to Mrs. P., who leads both choirs in school (I'm in the Women's Choir). I doubt I'll get a chance to sing it since I graduate in January--more on that later--but maybe in the future they'll do it and it will sound so pretty.
But Scarborough Fair. You know how Simon wrote this complementary song to it, "Canticle"? You can hear it at the end of each line if you listen carefully. That was what I wanted to achieve. I didn't want to add to the story the poem told; I wanted a complement. Or something. So here's how it turned out:
We were alone one night on a long
(empty freezing and flat)
road in Montana. This was in winter, a big
(wrapped up in darkness, so cold so chill)
night, far to the stars. We had hitched,
(eyes watching not saying a word)
my wife and I, and left our ride at
(abandoned at the center of the world)
a crossing to go on. tired and cold--but
(like gladiators, alone in arena)
brave--we trudged along. This, we said
(so isolated in the noise of the crowd)
was our life, watched over, allowed to go
(to play back regret, a dusty old tape)
where we wanted. We said we'd come back some time
(watch--stop--pause, and listen)
when we got rich. We'd leave the others and find
(to crackling dreams, burnt away to ash)
a night like this, whatever we had to give,
(the fuel for a fire so needed fro warmth)
and no matter how far, to be so happy again.
So my words (in parenthesis) were supposed to complement it--not be a part of it. Do you get it? And then we were supposed to rework our lines into yet another poem:
(empty freezing and flat)
(wrapped up in darkness, so cold so chill)
(eyes watching not saying a word)
(abandoned us at the center of the world)
(like gladiators alone in arena)
(so isolaed in the noise of the crowd)
(sword so bloody, surrounded by bodies)
(stories ended in a single thrust)
(a game, a sine, a dark melanoma)
(a blotch inerasable, marking the past)
(so play back regret, a dusty old tape)
(watch--stop--pause, and listen)
(to crackling dreams, burnt away to ash)
(the fuel for a fire so needed for warmth)
(that gives off smoke--the wisps of ghosts)
(stand silent, accusing)
(in the dark of night.)
The second verse is better, I think. Could use some work, but hey, first draft. I kinda like it, what do you think?
As I'm sure you've noticed, I take Creative Wrting at school. We just entered the poetry unit. Today we were given a poem, called "Once in the 40s." I type it up, just so you can compare with what followed.
We were alone one night on a long
road in Montana. This was in winter, a big
night, far to the stars. We had hitched,
my wife and I, and left our ride at
a crossing to go on. Tired and cold--but
brave--we trudged along. This, we said,
was our life, watched over, allowed to go
where we wanted. We said we'd come back some time
when we got rich. We'd leave the others and find
a night like this, whatever we had to give,
and no matter how far, to be so happy again.
So we had to type this poem up, triple space it, print it, and then write new lines in between each line. Weird, huh? I can't say I really like the idea--I want my poetry to be my own. I get really hung up when people ask me to imitate other writers. How do you expect me to do that?? Style is something natural, it just FLOWS--and I don't want to pick that flow from the story. Style is part of the fabric; pulling it out unwinds the piece.
Still, it wasn't like she was telling us to imitate the writer. Just put our lines in between his. Still not something I'm a fan of.
Actually, it got me thinking of Simon and Garfunkel. You know "Scarborough Fair"? I love that song. I'd love to perform it a cappella in a choir someday, though I'm sure it would be tough. But done right, it would be gorgeous. Maybe I'll suggest it to Mrs. P., who leads both choirs in school (I'm in the Women's Choir). I doubt I'll get a chance to sing it since I graduate in January--more on that later--but maybe in the future they'll do it and it will sound so pretty.
But Scarborough Fair. You know how Simon wrote this complementary song to it, "Canticle"? You can hear it at the end of each line if you listen carefully. That was what I wanted to achieve. I didn't want to add to the story the poem told; I wanted a complement. Or something. So here's how it turned out:
We were alone one night on a long
(empty freezing and flat)
road in Montana. This was in winter, a big
(wrapped up in darkness, so cold so chill)
night, far to the stars. We had hitched,
(eyes watching not saying a word)
my wife and I, and left our ride at
(abandoned at the center of the world)
a crossing to go on. tired and cold--but
(like gladiators, alone in arena)
brave--we trudged along. This, we said
(so isolated in the noise of the crowd)
was our life, watched over, allowed to go
(to play back regret, a dusty old tape)
where we wanted. We said we'd come back some time
(watch--stop--pause, and listen)
when we got rich. We'd leave the others and find
(to crackling dreams, burnt away to ash)
a night like this, whatever we had to give,
(the fuel for a fire so needed fro warmth)
and no matter how far, to be so happy again.
So my words (in parenthesis) were supposed to complement it--not be a part of it. Do you get it? And then we were supposed to rework our lines into yet another poem:
(empty freezing and flat)
(wrapped up in darkness, so cold so chill)
(eyes watching not saying a word)
(abandoned us at the center of the world)
(like gladiators alone in arena)
(so isolaed in the noise of the crowd)
(sword so bloody, surrounded by bodies)
(stories ended in a single thrust)
(a game, a sine, a dark melanoma)
(a blotch inerasable, marking the past)
(so play back regret, a dusty old tape)
(watch--stop--pause, and listen)
(to crackling dreams, burnt away to ash)
(the fuel for a fire so needed for warmth)
(that gives off smoke--the wisps of ghosts)
(stand silent, accusing)
(in the dark of night.)
The second verse is better, I think. Could use some work, but hey, first draft. I kinda like it, what do you think?
Monday, November 13, 2006
Sunday Tea
Just in case you think I suck as a writer, I'm gonna post one of my flash fictions from Creative Writing. I intend to use this blog to publish myself. Who knows, maybe someone will actually read them. HA HA! Just kidding.
This one is called "Sunday Tea."
I don’t like the strange woman. She’s too big, too stiff, and she has this look on her face, this big grin, like a Barbie doll, with lipstick smeared all over her lips. I don’t know why she smiles so much, but I smile back, even though she kind of scares me. You’re supposed to be polite to guests, that’s what Mum always says. But I don’t think Mum likes her, either. She seems pretty nervous. Still, she puts on a pot and makes tea for all of us. The lady sits herself on the sofa and looks around as she waits for the tea.
I want to leave but Mum tells me to stay. She hands the lady a cup and they both sip the tea, talking about St. Mary’s. Mum and Dad have been talking about that place a lot lately—it’s this school they’ve been looking at. We visited once to look at the grounds—it was very pretty, but I got bored eventually. They want me to go there. Real competitive, they say. You’ll learn all sorts of things. Live with a whole horde of girls your own age. Won’t that be fun? I told them I already knew girls my age, and they said New girls. They’re very interested in St. Mary’s.
(I’m not. I don’t want to go. It scares me.)
Mum asks about payment. The lady talks about assisted tuition and scholarships, and I play with the carpet fringe. Boring, really. Mum laughs, kind of strange—like she’s nervous about something. I slump against her armchair, hoping the conversation will end soon. The lady talks about dormitories, meal plans. We take very good care of our girls, she says. I close my eyes and think of dragons.
So it’s settled? Mum asks, and the lady gets up. She nods and stretches, holding out her hand. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Walcott. You’ll get the acceptance papers in the mail. She bends down to look at me, smiling so wide. I’ll see you next year, okay, Jessica?
No, it’s not okay, I want to say, but I smile back. Mum smiles, too, and the lady smiles, and I smile—we all smile at each other, like we’re the happiest people in the world. And finally the door closes behind the lady.
I don’t want to go to St. Mary’s. But I’m going next year. And I know I will smile when I say goodbye to Mum and Dad, to the neighborhood, to London itself. Smiling like the happiest girl in the world.
This one is called "Sunday Tea."
I don’t like the strange woman. She’s too big, too stiff, and she has this look on her face, this big grin, like a Barbie doll, with lipstick smeared all over her lips. I don’t know why she smiles so much, but I smile back, even though she kind of scares me. You’re supposed to be polite to guests, that’s what Mum always says. But I don’t think Mum likes her, either. She seems pretty nervous. Still, she puts on a pot and makes tea for all of us. The lady sits herself on the sofa and looks around as she waits for the tea.
I want to leave but Mum tells me to stay. She hands the lady a cup and they both sip the tea, talking about St. Mary’s. Mum and Dad have been talking about that place a lot lately—it’s this school they’ve been looking at. We visited once to look at the grounds—it was very pretty, but I got bored eventually. They want me to go there. Real competitive, they say. You’ll learn all sorts of things. Live with a whole horde of girls your own age. Won’t that be fun? I told them I already knew girls my age, and they said New girls. They’re very interested in St. Mary’s.
(I’m not. I don’t want to go. It scares me.)
Mum asks about payment. The lady talks about assisted tuition and scholarships, and I play with the carpet fringe. Boring, really. Mum laughs, kind of strange—like she’s nervous about something. I slump against her armchair, hoping the conversation will end soon. The lady talks about dormitories, meal plans. We take very good care of our girls, she says. I close my eyes and think of dragons.
So it’s settled? Mum asks, and the lady gets up. She nods and stretches, holding out her hand. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Walcott. You’ll get the acceptance papers in the mail. She bends down to look at me, smiling so wide. I’ll see you next year, okay, Jessica?
No, it’s not okay, I want to say, but I smile back. Mum smiles, too, and the lady smiles, and I smile—we all smile at each other, like we’re the happiest people in the world. And finally the door closes behind the lady.
I don’t want to go to St. Mary’s. But I’m going next year. And I know I will smile when I say goodbye to Mum and Dad, to the neighborhood, to London itself. Smiling like the happiest girl in the world.
Depressed and Angry
Lord.
I finally turned in my portfolio into Creative Writing today, only to be reminded hey, you had a presentation to make. I felt like shit. It's a long story why I felt so upset, having to do with the large workload I had lately. But we were supposed to write poems that day. About directions. I tried. It didn't work. I was just too angry. So I wrote this instead:
"You had a project due today." "I forgot, I was working on your paper." "You should have remembered." "I know." "You've been late very often recently." "I'm sorry. There's so much to do." "You need to keep up." (But last night I stayed up past 1, all to finish your paper. Doesn't that count? Doesn't that count?) "By the way, another response is due tomorrow." "What?" "That's right. Make sure you get both in. You need to learn to make time. You're almost 18. Act your age." (I am 18, and the only thing I've learned here is how to sacrifice. How much time to give up. How much sleep to go without. How hard to push myself before I crack.)
Not exactly a masterpiece. But maybe that gives you an idea of the crap I'm going through right now. I'll try to tell you about it another time.
I finally turned in my portfolio into Creative Writing today, only to be reminded hey, you had a presentation to make. I felt like shit. It's a long story why I felt so upset, having to do with the large workload I had lately. But we were supposed to write poems that day. About directions. I tried. It didn't work. I was just too angry. So I wrote this instead:
"You had a project due today." "I forgot, I was working on your paper." "You should have remembered." "I know." "You've been late very often recently." "I'm sorry. There's so much to do." "You need to keep up." (But last night I stayed up past 1, all to finish your paper. Doesn't that count? Doesn't that count?) "By the way, another response is due tomorrow." "What?" "That's right. Make sure you get both in. You need to learn to make time. You're almost 18. Act your age." (I am 18, and the only thing I've learned here is how to sacrifice. How much time to give up. How much sleep to go without. How hard to push myself before I crack.)
Not exactly a masterpiece. But maybe that gives you an idea of the crap I'm going through right now. I'll try to tell you about it another time.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Let's Begin
So: you're wondering, what is this blog about? "Writing into Space?" What the hell kind of title is that? Well, my original title was "The Bitching Corner," but then I decided against it. Who knows, maybe I'll change it eventually (if possible). But the truth is, I suck at titles. There, I've said it. And when I do think of good titles, I can't think of anything to go with it.
Some introductions are in order, though:
I am, in no particular order, female, Jewish, American, and white. Middle-class. East Coast. I shan't give you my name or age, for fear of predators; I once got some sketchy emails and I've been pretty cautious since then. But that's another story. You may call me Lawrnce, or Lawrie for short. Why Lawrence? Inside joke, involving history class, the Civil War, and a crappy, four hour-long movie that mauled the great book it came from. Kudos if you can guess the movie.
You: cyberspace. At least, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not stupid; I know just how many blogs are out there. Thousands. Millions. Most are only read by the author's friends. Me, I don't know if I'll even tell my friends about this. Why? Let me tell you about confession.
When I was a little kid, I used to be fascinated with confession. The idea of going to some place and confess your guilt anonymously really appealed to me. And that is what this is about. I'm not here to weepingly confess my guilt to you; I am only here to talk. Write. Post my thoughts. And all this anonymously. In short, this is an outlet.
It came to me yesterday, when I came to school very tense and upset. I felt very bitter and angry. Have you ever felt like your brain is overflowing with feelings? You feel ready to explode, you need to let it out, never mind what it is. That was me, 8:15 AM on Thursday. I thought about going to my guidance counselor, but I decided not to, because I knew she would respond with answers to my situation. Is there a problem, honey? How can I help? And that's the thing: I didn't want help, I didn't want solutions. I wanted to shout. To rant. And I wanted someone to sit and listen. Because to say it into air would do nothing. Perhaps this isn't rational, but I wasn't in a very rational mood then.
I started scribbling my feelings in my assignment notebook, just desperate to get it out. And that's when it struck me: I need a blog. I need someone, something to write to. Not just a notebook, like a diary: someone, someone who will read my thoughts and listen. Someone anonymous, who doesn't know me--who I can confide my deepest thoughts because they will never meet me, never give me away. I am writing into the depths of cyberspace--hence the title. Crazy? Paranoid? Perhaps. And like I said, I realize few if any will read this. But the illusion is enough.
What to expect: anything, everything. Tomorrow, for example, I will post those thoughts I was writing into my assignment notebook. After that, who knows? Essays. Stories. Thoughts. Observation. Comics to Israel to fantasy and everything in between. I hope you enjoy it.
Some introductions are in order, though:
I am, in no particular order, female, Jewish, American, and white. Middle-class. East Coast. I shan't give you my name or age, for fear of predators; I once got some sketchy emails and I've been pretty cautious since then. But that's another story. You may call me Lawrnce, or Lawrie for short. Why Lawrence? Inside joke, involving history class, the Civil War, and a crappy, four hour-long movie that mauled the great book it came from. Kudos if you can guess the movie.
You: cyberspace. At least, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not stupid; I know just how many blogs are out there. Thousands. Millions. Most are only read by the author's friends. Me, I don't know if I'll even tell my friends about this. Why? Let me tell you about confession.
When I was a little kid, I used to be fascinated with confession. The idea of going to some place and confess your guilt anonymously really appealed to me. And that is what this is about. I'm not here to weepingly confess my guilt to you; I am only here to talk. Write. Post my thoughts. And all this anonymously. In short, this is an outlet.
It came to me yesterday, when I came to school very tense and upset. I felt very bitter and angry. Have you ever felt like your brain is overflowing with feelings? You feel ready to explode, you need to let it out, never mind what it is. That was me, 8:15 AM on Thursday. I thought about going to my guidance counselor, but I decided not to, because I knew she would respond with answers to my situation. Is there a problem, honey? How can I help? And that's the thing: I didn't want help, I didn't want solutions. I wanted to shout. To rant. And I wanted someone to sit and listen. Because to say it into air would do nothing. Perhaps this isn't rational, but I wasn't in a very rational mood then.
I started scribbling my feelings in my assignment notebook, just desperate to get it out. And that's when it struck me: I need a blog. I need someone, something to write to. Not just a notebook, like a diary: someone, someone who will read my thoughts and listen. Someone anonymous, who doesn't know me--who I can confide my deepest thoughts because they will never meet me, never give me away. I am writing into the depths of cyberspace--hence the title. Crazy? Paranoid? Perhaps. And like I said, I realize few if any will read this. But the illusion is enough.
What to expect: anything, everything. Tomorrow, for example, I will post those thoughts I was writing into my assignment notebook. After that, who knows? Essays. Stories. Thoughts. Observation. Comics to Israel to fantasy and everything in between. I hope you enjoy it.
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