time out

I literally took the time today to pull off to the side and just bask in the world. You know, smell the grasss, watch the clouds, listen to the birds. They're all stil lout there. I highly recommend taking a few minutes to rediscover them. Just sit, and breathe, and be. I found my mind wandering back to the paper I need to write, the teaching appointment I was just assigned and am disappointed in, the dinner I was going to make when I got home... all of those things that keep us going and going and going but never getting anywhere. But at least this time, all of those not-so-fun-to-think -about things were not at the forefront, clamouring for attention. Instead, they floated about in my brain, first one coming to the fore, and then another. All were softened, mellowed, brought back into perspective by the soft glow descending upon the world around me, and interrupted by the redwinged blackbird in the rushes, and diminished by the fresh, sweet, cool air that was so much more important than considering exactly how to word that introduction, no matter how pressing the deadline may be. I love rediscovering life.

Only in your dreams

I love afternoon naps - especially those with the rain dripping out the window. My bed puts out an extra oomph of effort to make itself inviting enough to tempt me from everything else I should be doing during the day. I heard just the other day that the time of day you are most craving a nap corresponds to the time twleve hours later during the night that you get your best sleep. How would one even go about checking this?

One of the best things about naps are the dreams - they feel so real! Your lover really is there next to you, that elephant really is in your backyard, and none of the neighbors seem to mind, and the fact that you're running around without your pants is inevitable, yet natural.
They feel so real because you're never quite sure when you crossed from waking to sleep. I'm convinced most naps start with an element of denial--I'm not sleeping, I'm : resting my eyes, checking my eyelids for cracks, thinking really hard and need to focus, writing the next great novel in my head, just blinking for a long time... No matter what it is I'm doing, however, you should probably not be asking me such an inane question, because can't you see I'm busy? I'll create a character that resembles you in that novel of mine, and they'll be the really annoying, nosy type of character that nobody is sad dies half way through.

Nap dreams are also more intensely strange. Part of this is because they feel so much more real, being half awake and all. But perhaps the strange storylines that come out of nap dreams are due to your brain still being up and at 'em, instead of curling into a corner for rest for the enveing. Every thought you tried to put on hold in order to enjoy the sweet abyss of sleep and rest really just hid behind the corner like an errant three year old, so you couldn't see that it intended to spend the next 20 minutes to an hour playing in its room with all the toys you try to hide because they're too loud, age inappropriate, or you have no idea to work them yourself. It is this pile that comes out of the toybox to run screeching and colorful through your nap dreams, like a small child who has discovered that you have no idea what to do when she takes all her clothes off and runs laughing through the house in front of those neighbors you just met. How exactly do you explain to another what it is that just happened, and why? Well, that's also the glory of it - you don't. Just learn to laugh along and close your eyes for the good part of the ride.

standing at the ready

With a few seemingly innocuous sentences, I am once again enveloped in a whirlwind of guilt, frustration, sadness, and anger. The sensations battle one another for dominance, generating a dusty veil of confusion over the lot. As the dust swirls, parts, reforms, I catch glimpses of the reds and blues that colour the warring emotions. My heart beats in my ears, I can't see straight, I can't sit still - I have to move, to pace the lines, to plan the next move. Is there a next move? Has there ever been a move but to sit and wait and occasionally extend a white flag, only to have it crushed underfoot not long after? The stretches of peace vary, and I spend every moment of them walking on eggshells. The tentative, relative sense of calm is simply the break between storms - I can always feel the clouds forming on the horizon, today a whiskey amber, tomorrow a rich burgundy. The hair on my arms stands up as I straighten my back to prepare for a battle I don't want to fight, have never wanted to. How can the cycle end when one side doesn't even realize there is something amiss?
I look beyond my own borders to see the sun shining upon lands of peace and plenty, where the people are happy, the place is healthy, and time is not spent strategizing how to make it through unscathed. My happiness for them manifests in tears of joy on their behalf, highlighting and mingling with my own tears of frustration. I never see the storm clouds cross the border, and I sense a tinge of green within the already swirling blues and reds. My only hope is to weave and wave a still larger white flag, and to slowly build up the neutral zone again, hoping my attempts to push back the incursions upon it go unnoticed. If I can go unnoticed, unremarked upon, indefinitely forgotten, the calmer waiting is infinitely better than tumultuous storm that signals the need to once again dive for the trenches.

I'm such a...

People generally don't believe that I am shy. Why is it that one can't be socially capable and shy? Sure, I can enter a room and strike up a conversation - it's called small talk, people. It means I can pick topics that anyone can comment on - especially if it's related to what's actually going on around us. And when those painful moments arise in which we realize a) we would neverhave any thing to do with each other if it weren't for whatever event threw us together in the first place and b) neither of us can come up with more of these useless tidbits to pretend to be interested in, than I also am able to make an exit, often on the excuse of getting more food or finding the bathroom. Neither of which is particularly graceful, charming, or delicate, but then, I've never been those things anyway. Since entering academia, I've found this point is reached much more quickly, as so many people have no interest in talking about school, teaching, or research (unless they're also acadegeeks, in which case they want to talk about their research).
My method for getting along in a new group generally also involves telling stories that I cross my fingers they will find entertaining - this is more difficult when meeting new people cold, instead of through another acquaintance. Either way, you have to be very careful to read the situation and group you have currently landed in, to avoid offending. (For instance, talking about the best way to cook a rack of lamb is probably not the best conversation fodder when surrounded by vegetarians. Especially if they're bitter about being vegetarians and secretly crave said rack of lamb - they are then just more likely to declare you an enemy of all living creatures, but as long as your reflexes are fast enough to dodge the paint bucket, you should be fine...) But, the situation becomes exponentially easier if you have a mutual acquaintance, because then you can pick a story in which that person features. It's probably a good idea to avoid stories in which you or said friend feature as the recipients of extreme embarrassment, unless said friend is very forgiving.
Back to my original point - why is it that even though I can often get along fine in a room of people, and sometimes even manage to come off as competent (a difficult enough feat in itself), I am therefore told that I can't be shy?? I get nervous before meeting people, to the point where if I can find any way to do so, I will cancel, or find an excuse to not be there? Sometimes finding topics is a painful process that I'm not willing to engage in. Sometimes I really just don't want to talk to people. I was completely called out today by the poor man I had just met for the first time. I was distractedly staring off into space, possibly lesson planning in my head, but probably just staring off, as I am wont to do. I know I forget to smile unless I think about, and I must certainly have forgotten, because he actually pointed out how uninterested I looked in hanging out. Imagine my chagrin to a) be called out, and b) to have to try and explain that no,of course I wasn't uninterested, I had just started thinking about everything I needed to be doing instead of being here.... I know, sounds bad, right? I think I managed to pull it off without embarrassing both of us, but from then on, all I was thinking was, "See, I knew I should have called to cancel at the last minute... why'd he actually have to show... I hate meeting new people, it's so awkward..."
A lot of this awkwardness may stem from my ambivalence about meeting most people. I have been very fortunate in that there have been several cases where I just "click" with a person from the beginning. This is not just the ability to hold a conversation; instead, it is the inability to end the conversation. Both of you just get one another to the point that you can talk, easily shifting back and forth between topics, the layers of talk rippling over one another seamlessly, until you reach a point that you don't need to talk anymore. But even then, the conversation hasn't ended. It's just on pause for the moment while you simply enjoy the company. These are people who I make every attempt to keep in my life, because we can be apart or not speak for months, but when we do it's as if the gapnever happened. We still "get" one another, and fall back into an easy pattern to relating to one another. As much as I love this, it also means that when I meet people with whom this doesn't happen, I am highly ambivalent about them. I've heard the adage that some people need to grow on you, but I would prefer that the people I spend time around can not be compared to lichen.
When I came home today and my roommate asked about the date, as I shrugged my shoulders and made the face I worry she has come to know too well, she cried out, exasperated - "you're such a .....!" She doesn't even have to fill in the blank, because I know I am "such a..." so many things. I don't know if I am relieved or disappointed to hear from my brother that he is the same way - perhaps I can use the excuse that it's genetic? Something tells me that won't work, however. I don't know if my ambivalence is related to my shyness, but it may be in the sense that if I don't see an immediate result from meeting this new person, I am hesitant to put myself through the stress of seeing/meeting them again. All of this makes me sound so selfish, but I don't know how else to explain it.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

The girl (I say 'girl', because she is - she can't be older than 13 or so) next to me on the bus is applying eyeliner while we're in motion. That does not seem safe, especially considering the stop and start nature of this bus ride. I'm concerned that the next time I see her she will be wearing an eye patch. Eyeliner pencils should come with warning labels. So should things like eyelash curlers, mascara wands, and various other implements of feminine beauty – they all look like torture devices.

Is it a sign of a civilized society when we (pretend to) choose uncomfortable standards of attractiveness? My reference to 'civilized' should of course be taken with a grain of salt,as it often seems those societies deemed most civilized are also those that are most oppressive to groups deemed “not them.” The idea of who counts as civilized is also generally,unfortunately, conflated with who is Western. More specifically, who are white, heterosexual, man, and western.

I think I disagree with my own question. Although many of the current beauty trends of the western world involve discomfort (a particular level of thinness, beauty products, cosmetic procedures, high heels, neckties, male circumcision), I also must take into consideration such practices as neck rings in Burma, labret stretching in parts of Africa, and bodily scarring in areas around the world, among others. (Although not for beauty pruposes, I don't think it fair to include scarring practices by nonwestern groups without including the physical scarring that western groups have inflicted upon others).

Without a doubt one must also include female circumcision on this list, as it is still deemed a desirable trait for women in many parts of the world. I'm not sure whether people would classify China as a civilized society at the time or not (I would, but as they are not western, I think others may disagree), but the former tradition of foot binding definitely qualifies as uncomfortable!

I would also argue that the western beauty practices I listed above involve a level of both physical and emotional discomfort. How does one feel when s/he cannot achieve the idealized/expected/enforced/preferred standard? I will never be a Rockette – in addition to not being able to dance or maintain a can-can line with precision, I do not have the correct proportions. Although being a Rockette has never been my life's ambition, I sympathize with those wo/men who did, do, will want it and can't have it.

There are so many more practices from both western and nonwestern traditions that I have not mentioned, and indeed do not even know about. Indeed, the few examples here are not even the tip of the iceberg, but are instead extreme examples of a system of practices that we often unwittingly conform to every day. Not all of them apply to women, I should note, but it appears that on the whole, women's bodies are interfered with far more regularly than men's in the name of what is desirable.

Scratching the surface

Sometimes it's great to see beneath the old coat of paint to reveal the true wood shining through. However, sometimes the veneer peels off to reveal only cheap, unwelcome particle board. It is this second instance that I hate. Especially when it is the people in my life showing their true colours. Perhaps I missed the signs before, or did not want to admit that you are racist, shallow, small-minded, bigoted, angry, petty, elitist... but when it becomes apparent, I question not only you, but also me, for not realizing sooner. What counts as a deal-breaker? At what point do I lose respect for you, or can I just avoid particular topics and we can pretend this didn't happen? Does that make me a bad person also? To whom do I owe my allegiance when you bad-mouth those people I thought were mutual friends?

It was not so many years ago that I finally realized that members of my family are not perfect. I think this is one of the hardest realizations a person can come to in her life. These people, to whom I have been taught to look up, are as capable of being mean-spirited and small-minded as those people they have taught you to criticize. There are many things they say that I am at least slightly disgusted by, but I stay silent to keep the peace. At what point is the peace no longer worth it? When do we learn to speak up in such a way that those who love us will actually listen, instead of nodding their heads sagely and staring over your head as they allow the words to flit through their heads without sticking? Why is it that it is often those we love who are the hardest to speak to, and with, and sometimes even about?

No one wants to admit that those people in their life are not perfect, and what skeletons are not worthy to be drawn from the closet vary by individual. I am more likely to reveal information about my family that many would deem highly personal and private, while holding to my breast bits and pieces that may appear mundane in comparison. But they are my bits and pieces to hold or drop, as the situation allows. Knowing me, I'll make the wrong decision about who I told what and when, so perhaps I should just let it all out? But where's the mystery in that?

I have had an inkling for some time now that however it is I present myself to others is not actually how I see myself. This has become increasingly apparent as I hear my friends mention things they think they know about me, and I find myself disagreeing. But how do you tell the people you have spent the most time with over the last few months that they seem to have no idea who you actually are? This was brought home to me as I spent time with my sister shopping, and as we pulled out the dresses I liked, I commented that none of the friends I was currently spending time with would agree that "that's my style." As my sister sagely pointed out, "well, perhaps I know you better than they do." I hope this is true, but it is still troubling. If they don't know who I am, and I don't know how I present myself to them to make them think thus, then do I really even know who I am? If someone scratched my surface, would they find oak or particle board? Would I shine with polishing and stand the test of time, or instead crumble as I am handled? I would hope the former, but perhaps I no longer know. How does one find out? Trial by fire, even if only metaphorical, does not sound particularly desirable. Introspection has obviously not worked to this point. Other suggestions?