Kind of hilarious
8 November 2009
George Ellery Hale was the twentieth century’s most important builder of telescopes. In 1897, Hale built a 40-inch-wide telescope, the largest ever built at that time. His second telescope, with a 60-inch lens, was set up in 1917 and took 14 years to build. During that time, Hale became convinced that he suffered from “Americanitis” a disorder in which the ambitions of Americans drive them insane. During the building of his lens, Hale spent time in a sanatorium, and would only discuss his plans for the telescope with a “sympathetic green elf.”
Thank you, Useless Knowledge.
Now back to writing about a central and guiding tragedy in my life. Oh, Mars Hill.
Photos
3 November 2009
Posted some new photos on my art blog: Seattle in the Fall
What I think I want
31 October 2009
I’ve been thinking a lot about my last post, and trying to answer the question, what do I want? And I’ve had several moments of clarity that have helped me to figure that out. All of these answers may not be right, but they seem to make sense for now. And these certainly aren’t necessarily the things that I should want, but I think awareness of them is important.
1. When I ask my therapist to let me tell the whole story without interruption, what do I want from her?
I want her to interrupt.
2. When my actions say to my therapist, “Fuck you. What are you going to do about it?” what do I want from her?
The question isn’t rhetorical. I want her to do something about it. I want her to fight for me.
3. When, in my dream, my mom comes to the door, but says nothing, what do I want from her?
I want her to speak. I want her to get rightfully angry. And I want her to see me.
4. When I decide I’m not comfortable seeing my old therapist and she calls me unexpectedly (though possibly by accident?), and I’m angry about that, what do I want from her?
If I’m honest, I wanted her to call. I wanted to feel like she cared, and like I mattered, even if calling wouldn’t be the best thing for me. At the same time, I want her to care enough to protect my boundaries by not calling. I want to see her, but for some reason, I just don’t think it would be a good idea. Something about it makes me very uncomfortable, and I think the best thing for me will be to let her time in Seattle come and go without crossing paths. I also recognize that the call could have been an accident entirely, but it’s an important question for me to consider, anyway.
5. When I send a deeply valued friend an email about the ways that they have hurt me, but don’t ask for an apology, what do I want from them?
This one is much more complicated. She was right. I wanted to make her feel guilty. I wanted her to hurt, so she would be able to see that a friendship with me is bound to end in heartache. I wanted her to see how toxic I am, so she would just leave me alone… for her sake. At the same time, I think my deeper desire was for her to fight for me, to prove me wrong, to show me that I’m worth the struggle. And that was a burden that I don’t think she could bear, and I’m not so sure she should have.
6. When, after having a complicated week with my anti-depressant medication, I take one of the pills in front of that same friend (now somewhat estranged), what do I want from them?
Your guess is as good as mine.
7. When I’m annoyed with new friends for the way that they chose to take care of me, but I’m glad that they did it, what do I want from them?
I wanted them to hide my pills. They saw me, they heard me, and they took care of me when I couldn’t take care of myself.
8. When I’m angry at my mom for not listening to me, but lie to her when she asks me how I’m doing, what do I want from her?
I want her to search for me. I want her to refuse to accept “I’m good.” I want (and wanted) her to see that I’m not always okay. I want her to push back, even if it makes her uncomfortable.
What… the hell… do I want?
I want to be loved. I want to be pursued. I want to be fought for. But I also recognize that I make that really difficult for people to do, maybe even impossible. So I want to learn how to let myself be loved, pursued, and fought for.
What do I want?
28 October 2009
When I ask my therapist to let me tell the whole story without interruption, what do I want from her?
When my actions say to my therapist, “Fuck you. What are you going to do about it?” what do I want from her?
When, in my dream, my mom comes to the door, but says nothing, what do I want from her?
When I decide I’m not comfortable seeing my old therapist and she calls me unexpectedly (though possibly by accident?), and I’m angry about that, what do I want from her?
When I send a deeply valued friend an email about the ways that they have hurt me, but don’t ask for an apology, what do I want from them?
When, after having a complicated week with my anti-depressant medication, I take one of the pills in front of that same friend (now somewhat estranged), what do I want from them?
When I’m annoyed with new friends for the way that they chose to take care of me, but I’m glad that they did it, what do I want from them?
When I’m angry at my mom for not listening to me, but lie to her when she asks me how I’m doing, what do I want from her?
What… the hell… do I want?
Songs for Me
24 October 2009
I swear this man writes music just for me. These two excerpts from his songs “Breathe” and “Crinan Wood” describe perfectly what this week has been for me:
“And all the suffering that you’ve witnessed
And the hand prints on the wall
They remind you how it’s endless
How endlessly you fall
And the answer that you’re seeking
For the question that you found
Drives you further to confusion
As you lose your sense of ground
You know you are here
But you find you want to leave
So don’t forget to breathe
Just breathe”
– Breathe
“See these knots around my hands around my feet
They would take me down my end for me to meet
And I grow weary of this struggle and this fight
Morning so far off from out here in the night”
– Crinan Wood
Yesterday
19 October 2009
Song for You Alexi Murdoch
So today I wrote a song for you
Cause a day can get so long
And I know its hard to make it through
When you say there’s something wrong
So Im trying to put it right
Cause I want to love you with my heart
All this trying has made me tight
And I dont know even where to start
Maybe thats a start
Cause you know its a simple game
That you play filling up your head with rain
And you know you are hiding from your pain
In the way, in the way you say your name
And I see you
Hiding your face in your hands
Flying so you wont land
You think no one understands
No one understands
So you hunch your shoulders and you shake your head
And your throat is aching but you swear
No one hurts you, nothing could be sad
Anyway you’re not here enough to care
And you’re so tired you dont sleep at night
As your heart is trying to mend
You keep it quiet but you think you might
Disappear before the end
And its strange that you cannot find
Any strength to even try
To find a voice to speak your mind
When you do, all you wanna do is cry
Well maybe you should cry
And I see you hiding your face in your hands
Talking bout far-away lands
You think no one understands
Listen to my hands
And all of this life
Moves around you
For all that you claim
Youre standing still
You are moving too
You are moving too
You are moving too
I will move you
Poem About My Rights
17 October 2009
This is a poem that someone shared in class on wednesday, and it took me by surprise. I found myself in her words as they were read aloud.
“Poem about My Rights”
June Jordan
Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear
my head about this poem about why I can’t
go out without changing my clothes my shoes
my body posture my gender identity my age
my status as a woman alone in the evening/
alone on the streets/alone not being the point/
the point being that I can’t do what I want
to do with my own body because I am the wrong
sex the wrong age the wrong skin and
suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/
or far into the woods and I wanted to go
there by myself thinking about God/or thinking
about children or thinking about the world/all of it
disclosed by the stars and the silence:
I could not go and I could not think and I could not
stay there
alone
as I need to be
alone because I can’t do what I want to do with my own
body and
who in the hell set things up
like this
and in France they say if the guy penetrates
but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me
and if after stabbing him after screams if
after begging the bastard and if even after smashing
a hammer to his head if even after that if he
and his buddies fuck me after that
then I consented and there was
no rape because finally you understand finally
they fucked me over because I was wrong I was
wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong
to be who I am
which is exactly like South Africa
penetrating into Namibia penetrating into
Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if
Pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like the
proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland
and if
after Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabwe
and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to
self-immolation of the villages and if after that
we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they
claim my consent:
Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people of
the wrong skin on the wrong continent and what
in the hell is everybody being reasonable about
and according to the Times this week
back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem
and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so they
killed him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba
and before that it was my father on the campus
of my Ivy League school and my father afraid
to walk into the cafeteria because he said he
was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong
gender identity and he was paying my tuition and
before that
it was my father saying I was wrong saying that
I should have been a boy because he wanted one/a
boy and that I should have been lighter skinned and
that I should have had straighter hair and that
I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should
just be one/a boy and before that
it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for
my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me
to let the books loose to let them loose in other
words
I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.
and the problems of South Africa and the problems
of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white
America in general and the problems of the teachers
and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the social
workers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very
familiar with the problems because the problems
turn out to be
me
I am the history of rape
I am the history of the rejection of who I am
I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of
my self
I am the history of battery assault and limitless
armies against whatever I want to do with my mind
and my body and my soul and
whether it’s about walking out at night
or whether it’s about the love that I feel or
whether it’s about the sanctity of my vagina or
the sanctity of my national boundaries
or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity
of each and every desire
that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic
and disputably single and singular heart
I have been raped
be-
cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age
the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the
wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic
the wrong sartorial I
I have been the meaning of rape
I have been the problem everyone seeks to
eliminate by forced
penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/
but let this be unmistakable this poem
is not consent I do not consent
to my mother to my father to the teachers to
the F.B.I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuy
to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon
idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in
cars
I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
My name is my own my own my own
and I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like this
but I can tell you that from now on my resistance
my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
may very well cost you your life
I Woke Up Laughing
14 October 2009
Normally, I spend my week counting down the days until my next therapy session. But I’ve had two sessions with my therapist here when I have left feeling so wiped out that I was grateful to have at least a week to rest before having to go back to her office. And yesterday was one of those sessions. Don’t get me wrong, it was great. It was a really important session. It was one of the first ones where I felt almost 100% present for the entire hour. But it was also exhausting. My therapist is going to be out of town next week, and I must admit that I’m glad for the break.
Despite feeling completely exhausted when I left the studio, I also felt this overwhelming sense of peace and calm. I felt calm. I think my therapist deserves a pat on the back. That complete sense of calm couldn’t have been further from how I felt when I entered the room. Unsettled. Angry. Frustrated. Overwhelmed. Tired. Panicked. Fifty minutes later, my world had slowed. Calm.
And I gave myself the rest of the day. I’m actually very surprised that I was able to manage any form of self-care considering the burdens that I brought with me to therapy that morning. But I managed somehow. I walked to downtown Ballard (discovering that I love to walk in the Seattle rain) and bought myself a pair of good winter boots, ate dinner with Matt, Victoria, and the girls, watched Away We Go (Amazing!!! I liked it so much more this time around), and finally decorated my new journal. It was a profoundly good night.
And then I dreamed an Office episode (I should write it down, maybe they can use the material someday… haha), that somehow involved Mr. T. Yes, Mr. T.
And I woke up laughing.

Poem
7 October 2009
I read this poem as I was flipping through the City Arts magazine (FREE Seattle art magazine… amazing), cutting out things for my new journal (*smile*). It floored me. Amazingly and profoundly heartbreaking:
One of These Days by JT Stewart
Wash his shorts
clip his toenails
fumigate his socks
throw out his beer bottles
lie about your black eye
thank him for the flowers
remind him to shave
get him a new elegant watch
tell him you still love him
lie about your swollen face
thank him for the flowers
wait on him in coffee shops
learn to watch bowl games on HDTV
iron his shorts and his T-shirts
threaten to move out
lie to your few remaining friends
break all the good dishes
hide most of his credit cards
look for something to burn
lie to your therapist
find a new cosmetic surgeon
buy more candles and incense
lie about your broken thumb
thank him for the flowers
take gourmet cooking classes
memorize exotic wine lists
find new homes for your cats
thank him for the flowers
buy a discreet handgun
lie to your therapist
sleep with your gun under your pillow
dream of your next confrontation
pull out your gun
stand with your back to the wall
hesitate
aim for his head
hesitate
aim for his heart
hesitate
ask him once more
to explain himself
hear him say
You know I don’t mean it
you know I love you
tell him next time you’ll shoot
I will shoot you next time
lower the gun
wait for him to smile
put the gun away
wait for his flowers
lie to your therapist
Being Kind to Myself
4 October 2009
I’m feeling a lot today. And not really feeling about specific events or thoughts… just feeling. It’s one of those days where my body feels the emotion before my mind can tell me what it is. I don’t feel pain because I’m thinking about something painful. I feel an ache in my chest, and eventually my mind gets around to realizing that I’m feeling pain. And right now, my mind doesn’t have to do very much work to figure out where that ache is coming from.
So the question for me is rarely “Where is this pain coming from?” but rather “What do I do with it?” Self-care is an idea that has come up a lot for me recently. So when my mind catches up with my body and realizes that I’m feeling pain, I have to ask, “How am I going to take care of myself?” And I’ve found that I run to movies and TV shows a lot (which is surprising considering how much I hate television, but I’ll save that for another day). But I can’t just watch any movie or TV show and consider it self-care. I really have to think about what I’m feeling, why I’m feeling it, and figure out how to deal with it in a way that holds the emotion well, but is also kind to myself. For example, there was a day this week where I was feeling an intense pain, but felt like I wasn’t able to express it well. After several minutes of deliberation, I put in the movie I Am Sam, and let myself have a good cry. And believe it or not, agree with it or not, that was an act of self-care. But later in the week, I was feeling a pain that was threatening to overwhelm me. If I had put in a movie like I Am Sam and let myself fall apart, I may not have been able to pick up the pieces again. I would be banishing myself to even lower depths. So instead, I watched an episode of The Office… lots and lots of episodes of The Office. Was that dissociation? Probably. Was it a good, healthy dissociation? I think so. Was I running from my pain, or forcing it back down into myself? I don’t think so. I think I was acknowledging the pain, identifying the reason for the pain, and saying, “Not right now.” I think I was holding it well, letting it be, while refusing to let it control me.
And here I am again. I feel the ache, I know the source. And now I have to ask, how can I honor the pain, and how can I honor myself?