My Sisters

My sisters and I got into a "remember when..." conversation recently.  At a wedding (which may or may not have influenced the direction of our conversation).

It's funny how time and memories can alter any event.  Each pair of eyes sees a different image.  Could there really have been only one image to begin with?  People say that hind sight is 20/20.... they could not be more wrong.  

My sister's wanted to allude to an event that my memory finds rather hazy.  Something about my refusal to admit that I was going to get married.  My sisters would have you believe that whenever the opportunity arose I was all about condemning marriage.  Saying things like, "who say's I'm even getting married, anyway?" I was a born feminist, I guess.

I, however, remember a very different event.  A car trip.  In this car trip my sisters and I are playing a game of M.A.S.H. or some other nonsensical girly game.  Perhaps they were playing and I was overhearing.  Perhaps I was playing too.  That part has slipped from my mind.  What I do remember was the taunting.  "You're going to die alone!  You and your 20 cats!" The part about the 20 cats was definitely a word for word quote.

There was nothing I could say to dissuade them of this, if my memory serves.  It might because, I had denied it on previous occasions.  Maybe.  But, that is the marriage memory I have.

Anyway, when I brought up this fond childhood memory, my sisters seem to have completely forgotten this event.  My sister, who we all claim has the memory of an elephant (at least where she is concerned) laughed and said she had no recollection of such an event.

It's funny what we hang on to.  I remember being entirely offended and hurt.  My sisters remember a girl who refused on principle to marry as an adult.

The past is such a pliable thing, it would seem.  It changes as we change.  Pieces disappear and others appear years later.  Who can tell what really happened.

But, as a point of memory keeping, which I suppose a blog can act as, if I so choose it to, I will add this memory to the mix:

The dreaded, who's getting married next came up during this same conversation.  And, since my little brother is suddenly facebook friendly (i.e. relationship status change-worthy) with a cheerleader at school, my sisters and I felt it would be important to set up some ground rules.

The word "BIRTH ORDER" came up several times.

It was pounded in and spelled out.  Our brother was not, under any circumstance, allowed to marry before any of his older sisters.  With the small caveat loop hole that he proposed himself : in the event that we (his sisters) were still single on his 30th birthday (a non-negotiable number) he would then be allowed to marry with our consent.

The other rule introduced was the rule of "PERMISSION."

This rule involved the permission receiving of all siblings prior to a marriage.  Our brother was to ask each of us for our permission prior to even asking the father's permission.

Now, this relationship may be new and against great odds, but my sisters and I would take no chances.

The rules were followed by (no surprise since both of my sister's are born teachers) a list a consequences should either of these rules be broken.

Threats, if you will.  I believe blackmail, stalking, harassment, terrorism, and even physical violence may have been thrown around.

"We would track you down."

"You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family" (or nose?)

Anyways, the girl would feel unwelcome, was the point, I believe.



I feel better having written the rules down.  They seeem more impermbiable and solid typed out this way.

I hope my sisters remember these rules, because I think they apply to each of us.  That's right.... BIRTH ORDER people.

More Work Grumbling.

If you are not yourself, or have never really known a nurse, this little rant may go over your head.  However, you are welcome to read either way.

Scheduling is one of the ongoing battles that rage ceaselessly in the hospital.  Your manager wants you in committees (for whatever reason), and so you are volentold into a committee.  These committee meetings range in time from an hour to 8hrs in length, depending on the topic of debate.  Which means that week, your time working as a floor nurse is subtly (or significantly) altered.

I was most recently volentold into a committee focused on "standardizing" (the word of the year, it would seem, considering the way it's thrown around as if it were the cure to cancer or something) shift-to-shift report. 

This particular meeting was 4hrs in length.  And, so, to not incur overtime on my behalf, I was scheduled an 8hr day.  The 8hr shift happened to be on a Saturday (today, in fact), which you might assume to be something exciting.  A shortened weekend day;  nothing better (save not working the weekend at all).  However, this little "princess" shift in my weekend has reeked havoc on the floor.

Lordy-goodness.  It's ridiculous.



It has meant an entirely new patient assignment for me today.  And will mean an entirely different assignment tomorrow (as all of my new patients discharged today).  Because, as an 8hr nurse, I can't care for the patients I did yesterday or be in charge.  The whole thing is rigged, I swear.

I was a bit miffed when I found this out this morning from the power-hungry charge nurse (especially after my boss arranged a schedule so that I could keep my patients and outlined it carefully yesterday).

I may have stormed around a bit.  May have even seen a bit of red (well, maybe not that hard-core, maybe just pink).

But, what really gets my goat... a text message from my boss saying "I hope you understand the charge nurse's decision. it's a good one."  Are you kidding me?  Not only does this mean that the charge nurse called our boss to whine about my storming, but that he actually thinks this shuffle is good.  Is my boss seriously siding with power-hungry drama king? 

Sometimes I really hate work politics. 

It's a really good thing I only worked 8hrs today.  I think it may be time for me to go to bed and pray for a better tomorrow.

Jeopardy

Okay,  if you weren't already convinced I am an old soul, or at least an old-fashioned soul, here's today's revelation: my most favorite show on T.V. is Jeopardy.

Unfortunately the show airs, without fail, every weekday from 7pm-7:30pm (in case you were unaware or lived under a rock or something).  This time coincides with "change of shift hand overs" at work (i.e. the time when I am meant to be telling the oncoming night shift nurse all about the patient they will be caring for).

On the up side, these reports are happening more and more often at the bedside (if you're not a health care person, perhaps you are unaware that for eons and eons nurses have had the ritualistic passing of the baton in a place discrete and hidden from patients).  What this means is, I happen to be near a T.V. during the Jeopardy 1/2 hour.  And, lucky for me, most of my patients are of an age where Jeopardy happens to be what they watch (or else they fell asleep during the evening news and never turned off their T.V.).

Anyway, it so happens that occasionally I will be in my report zone... a place in my mind where information spews out of me faster than the speed of light (oftentimes earning me glares from the oncoming nurses as they are not able to write "glioblastoma" as quickly as I leave it in my dust) and I hear the sweet sounds of "dom da dom da dom da dom. dot du dom dom dom dom dom" (my literary conversion of the Jeopardy theme song). 

People tend to give me an odd look when, in the middle of report, I stop talking mid-sentence and turn eyes and ears in their natural direction: toward Alex Trebek.  Don't missunderstand me... I don't idolize Trebek.  I actually find him rather pompous and condesending (espcially when he does his French accent, or does some silly video jeopardy on a beach).  But I just love the show.

My night shift counterpart will look at me with great confusion.  Did I just de-rail for Jeopardy?  Oh, yeah.  That just happened.

Somehow, I manage to pull myself away from the program after a question or two and make a concerted effort to finish my report and depart, cursing once again the poor timing.

On the other hand, I only work 3 days a week (and 1 of those is a weekend day).  So the majority of the time my Jeopardy hour is able to remain sacrade.  I can sit, sip wine, work on Russian homework, tinker with the mail, etc and enjoy my trival time.  I can pick the contestant I feel worthy of my support and subsequently jeer or laude the players.  Like I said, I do love this show.

However, do understand that while I stratigically select a player to rout for, I don't actually care to know them.  The segment of the show where contestants blather on about some trivial nothing-or-other snipit of their live's is acturally my least favorite part of the show.  I don't care that "Walt-an-enginer-from-Pennslyvania" saved a kitten from a burning building, or that "Sarah-a-school-teacher-from-Rhode-Island" has a thing against eating anything red. I'd almost rather watch "Extra" with that annoying child-actor-all-grown-up from Saved by the Bell.

In the end I'm there for the occassional answerable question (or is it, questionable answer? Answerable anwser?) and the music (I can't help but hum along... aloud.  Wherever I am).

How about you?

snow

In Portland, as in Seattle (where I grew up), snow is a rare and magical thing. 

I can distinctly remember watching my fathers' weather reader for hours growing up.  The watch pot never boils.  But that didn't stop us. 

"Oh, oh! It says 36 degrees now.  It could snow at any moment..."

"Oh no! It went back up to 38 degrees. Dang...."

"Oh, back down to 37.."

And so on.  For countless hours.  Or at least until bedtime.

As I have grown older (not that I'm ancient or anything) the trill of snow has refused to abate.  Whenever the air gets nippy I start seeking weather information.  The TV news is turned to on.  The internet is honed into a frequently updated site.  I do frequent "step outside" checks, and of course, I do the peep my head around the curtain to and peer knowingly into the street lamp more times that I will admit here.

Still no snow.

I just checked again.  The speed and size of the precipitation around the street lamps looks a bit to fast and small.  Not quite snow.  But, moving quickly in that direction... or so I hope.

My mother and sister and I drove from Eastern Oregon today, back into Portland, and it would seem that snow is the name of the game everywhere but here. 

In fact, there is so much snow going around that the passes are for the most part closed (which made for an interesting detour around the mountain... and when it wasn't snowing the rain and standing water were enough to spike my blood pressure into that panic level... and I wasn't even the one driving).  

While I detest driving in bad weather, and, perhaps detest being a passenger in bad weather even more, I do in fact love snow.  I feel as though the day has been tainted.  Snow and bad weather when I was in no position to enjoy them, and now, snuggled up in bed, writing my blog, nothing but cold, wet, rain. Boring.

The good news. There should be snow coming.  Or, so my aforementioned sources sources tell me.

Let it snow!

Prompts

Perhaps fate.  Perhaps happenstance.  Or perhaps I just have been waiting for something to speak to me.  And something did.


I was reading a friend's blog (what better way to come up with ideas, than to copy someone else's ideas) who was all excited by a writting prompt challenge.


I said to myself, "that's exactly what I need.  A prompt."  I thought, "surely I can find a prompt somewhere online."  And I found one.  For a contest, no less.  Of course they want me to pay them money or some such nonsense to enter, so I said, "haha, you're funny.  I'm not going to pay you anything.  But, I will steal your prompt and do my best to fufill the breif."  Okay, so I may have been alone and just said those things in my head.   

So here's the prompt:

Your character is in a car accident. Describe their reaction.
The task is simple: Write about your character's reaction to the car accident as an exercise to introduce your character to the reader.

Your story must:
Introduce your character using the given prompt.
Be written from the third person limited point of view.
2000 words or less: Word count must be provided at the bottom of the item or your entry will be disqualified.
Genre: Sci Fi

My Response:

The windows had fogged and the slightest touch sent rivers of condensed wet sliding down the smooth surface.  Smudging her hand along the glass provided Ekaterina with a clear view of her world as it disappeared behind her into the dark and white of winter.  She let her head lean against the coldness, feeling the frosty outside attempting to snuff out the rosy pink flush across her cheek.

With each bump and jolt, Ena’s head would tap loudly against the window.  Her blond hair would slide and leave behind a hundred thin trails for water to slip down.  She liked the thud she felt as her head returned to the cold glass.  She wondered if the reckless driver were to hit a big enough hole, if her head might break through.  The thought delighted her for an instant.  She imagined how the night air would let her breathe in a way the stuffy artificial heat of the car had been suffocating her from the moment she was herded into the vinyl prison.

Tears refused to come.  She had always thought they would make an appearance if she found herself on this road, in a car, moving faster than her feet could ever carry her.  Perhaps they had decided they were unneeded, that the wet fog sliding down the window and Ekaterina’s cheek were more water than the occasion required.

Her hand in her lap fidgeted restlessly with the parcel in her hands.  The course brown paper that covered the perfectly square box on her lap weighed no more than a hide leather bag her mother was famous for crafting and looked to be no bigger than a hat box.  It was all her mother could offer and so she clung to it like the lifeline she knew it was meant to be.

While the bags her mother created were beautiful and were worth an ungodly amount in The Center, they would not be likely to save Ekaterina from her fate.  Still, she held it tightly and hoped the offered bribe with help in some small way.

Staring blankly into the town that she once called her home the girl with the pink cheeks bid farewell to all she had once loved.   Lost in her own self-pity and fear, Ena closed her eyes. The darkness lasted all of a moment before she heard the loud screech of tires beneath her, and the unsettling whoosh of sound and speed as her body was lurched away from the window and into the padded bench in front of her. The floor came up to meet her and the air rushed out of her with this second hit. She felt the spaces around her stir, meld, bend, and break.  The sounds that accompanied the movements were stark, harsh, and jarring.  All sense of self-orientation abandoned her and the girl with the pink cheeks found her final resting place.

Only the girl with the pink cheeks was not ready to finally rest.  Her moment of self-pity played out, and the girl with the pink cheeks took a sharp shallow breath and crawled onto her elbows towards the cold night air that tickled her skin.

++++++

It's just a start.  But, what do you think?  Do you care about Ena?  Want to know what happens to her?  Why she was in the car?  Let me know.

K

Learning the Language

Did I mention that I'm taking an introductory Russian language class?  Well, I am.

It's a four credit class at the community college ACROSS town twice a week.  The professor is bubbly and likes to be called by her first name.  She's easily excited about all things Russian, demands we speak in Russian only (did I mention this was an intro class) and has dubbed us all with Russian names. It's pretty fantastic.

In the past week or so the pace of the course was accelerated, while the novelty has worn off.  Thus, I find myself suddenly a few steps behind.

After working all weekend and feeling drained and uninspired I wanted desperately to skip class, maybe drop the course all together.  What did it matter?  I've already done the whole "get-a-degree" and "your-GPA-really-counts" deal-i-o, and found that in the end, your GPA really doesn't count, just the degree matters, which I already have.  So, I found myself in my own head interrogating the me that wanted to learn Russian in the first place.  The exhausted, burnt out, unhappy me encouraged the aspiring linguist to give it up, that it wasn't worth the time and effort.

And then I skipped class on Monday.

Don't worry.  I made up class again on Tuesday by going to the other section.  The reason I changed me mind?  The reason I decided to finish what I started?  Well, at first I wasn't sure.  Most likely it was that parental nag in the back of my mind that has never completely faded.  I could hear the same inundation of parental pressure: Shine's aren't quitters.  Parents can be pretty unoriginal, no?

But, as I rode the shuttle bus ACROSS town on the Tuesday morning I had a few moments to chat with another student.  This guy was working on his associates in science and had big dreams of nursing school.  When I told him that I was an nurse he nodded his head enthusiastically and said, "oh, so your in the nursing program."  I'm not sure how, "I'm a nurse," got confused with "I'm in nursing school," but I clarified that, no, I had already been there, done that, refuse to go back, and have been working as a nurse for several years now.

He seemed so impressed and I won't lie, it made me feel a little fabulous.  He had many questions about my career and I did my best to answer them.  Only after some time did a light bulb seem to flicker in understanding over his head when he asked, "so what are you doing at PCC?"

I told him I was, "just taking a Russian class."  He nodded again, piecing together the separate pieces I had given him.

As we got off the bus, heading in the same direction he asked me one last question, posed more like a statement than a real question, "you want to go to Russia as a nurse?"

I found myself smiling and nodding vigorously in agreement.  I think I said something like, "more than anything."  In retrospect, I think I told the poor bloke about my Ugandan adventure and how I wanted to work for Doctor's Without Boarders.  I was verbal diarrhea-ing all over him.

None of this information I claimed is particularly new information.  That is indeed the reason I took the class (that and I felt it would be good for me to know the language working in Portland, as it is the 3rd most popular language in the area).  The thing that struck me however, was my enthusiasm.  Hadn't I been ready to quit the day prior?  Hadn't I found the class to have served whatever novelty purpose it was meant to serve?

All of a sudden I was re inspired by the practicality of the language.  All at once I was eager and excited to learn a language that I would hopeful use as a means of getting overseas and working as a community health nurse.

Daydream Believer

I feel my eyebrows sliding lower and lower on my forehead, by the end of next week they will completely obscure my vision.  My slouch in growing more prominent and even the chickens are unable to make me smile. It's getting serious.

I don't know if it was the addition of my Russian class at the community college, my lack of time off since last May (to work in Uganda, not really a break), or all the drama unfolding before me a home.  Whatever the cause, the effect is the same: I have become the Grinch (rather bad timing as the holidays are right around the corner).

Flipping through pictures of friends in Hawaii may have just set me off.  "I want to go," I thought lamely.  I can even hear the way the last note turns up ever so slightly to given the comment a true whine.  Even my own whine is annoying me right now. 

I need to get of town.  I almost left with my mother yesterday and did just that, but that tiny bell of responsibility was ringing just loudly enough for me to forgo the adventure.  Besides, what I want is a get WAY out of town, a get out of state, get out of country, get out of hemisphere kind of adventure.

I need a vacation.  Maybe to St Petersburg.  That photo does look intriguing, no? I wonder how my manager would feel about that?  I can dream.

Napping

Is it just me, or does everyone have a very concrete, unchangeable, very polarized view about napping?  With all the campaign crap exploding out of every orifice, I have been thinking a lot about what swedes decisions for people.  Do the smear ads convince people?  Do the debates sway voters? Or is it the support of other people (friends, social media, traditional media, other politicians)?  Or is it the way a political votes on specific issues?

Do campaigns really make much different?  We have had an entire lifetime to develop our opinions and formulate a kind of personal map about what principles are priorities for us, what we think is important.  Perhaps these campaigns just tap into that story.  They help us identify who is most like us.  The more I think about this, the more I wonder, to which camp do these politicians belong on my hot button issue: napping.

I just want to know, are you a napper?  Do you accept nappers?  Do you abhore and condesend to nappers?  Because, I know you have an opionion about it.  Everyone does.

I'll refrain from identifiing my affiliation at this moment, but I promise not to keep you in suspense for too long.

I can't help but see napping as a medium for people to identify with a world view.  If you like napping you might argue that a little rest mid-day refreshes and revitalizes your spirits and helps you focus your energy for the rest of the day.  However, if you are anti-napper, you may argue that you are truly ambitious, that you do not sleep your day away, that you get things done, that you are a hard worker, and nappers are entirely lazy and unproductive.

Which way do you vote?

Okay, I'll tell you what brought this on.  Today I got up for work at 0500 and made it home by 1300 (millitary time) and what full of vigor and enthusiasm about what I had accomplished in the morning (there can be much said about people who do and do not like the mornings as well, I am sure) and then had a lovely lunch with my mother who was passing through town.   About 1430 it hit me, my energy sagged (could it have been the experienmetal accupuncture from work?) and I could function no farther.  And so I laid down for an afternoon nap.  I slept for two hours and woke like a new person.  It was like magic.

So you've found me out.  I rarely have the opportunity to nap, but when I do, and when I can actualy sleep, I am never happier.  There you have it, I vote yes on napping.  And, accupuncture for that matter.

Sparkly Clips and Poofy Scrunchies.

You can watch virtually any T.V. show online these days.  And I do. There's the trashy stuff : ANTM (America's Next Top Model... and many of it's international satellite shows), Project Runway, and Biggest Loser.  And then there's the slightly less trashy shows: House, The Daily Show, and Jeopardy.

After working a run of days at work I find I can easily fill a day off with catch up episodes online.  Mini marathons. It's fantastic.

However, oftentimes I just want to watch the tube. I want to sit on the couch with a bowl of yogurt (or some other minimal effort food), flip on the T.V. and "chillax," for lack of a better word.  I want to let the great T.V. God to give me a small selection of mostly things I would never seek out online to peruse.

After 13 hours at work, this is what I wanted.  Tuesdays are usually promising.  I figured out recently that Biggest Loser is on on Tuesdays (so I can watch it "live" instead of online.)  Unfortunately, there was a basketball game on (not that I particularly dislike basketball, but really, it's no Biggest Loser).  I was so irritated that I made a point with the T.V. not to watch the game.

It's never a good sign when gymnastics on the sports channel is the winner.  But I will not complain about this. I actually like watching gymnastics.  The leotards are always so fun and bejeweled; those girls push the boundaries of where rhinestones can be worn. 

What I like most about watch gymnastics is that you can play the role of commentator and say things like, "oh, she didn't stick it.  That's going to cost her," and other nonsensical comments about how trivial things like a "wobble" on the beam will make the difference between gold and silver.

So, here's what I have a problem with.  While I do enjoy the outfits.  While I love the sparkles, bright colors, powdery chalk covering every body surface, and the elegant uniformity of the gymnasts,  I hate the hair do's.  They are such hair-don'ts!  The glittery hair clips pulling tighter a pony tail that looks like it could also function as a face lift, held up by a fluffy outdated "scrunchy."  And, to top it off, the placement is never high enough to be a true high pony (which might look cute in a childish kind of way, which those petite little girls could totally pull off) and never low enough to look dignified.  It's a travesty.  Perhaps I am watching too much ANTM and Project Runway?

So, I was commenting to my roommate that if I were an elite gymnast (because we were apparently playing the imagination gone wild game) I would never where such a gaudy statement piece. I most certainly would refrain.  And she argued that these accessories were part of the uniform, that as part of the team I would be required to partake in clips and scrunchies.

It was an Epiphany.  I suppose I assumed that these young girls had all individually chosen to wear these accessories; that each girl, in seeing gymnasts before them is similar garb, had thought to themselves, "that's a credible look, I too should were sparkly clips and colorful scrunchies."  Writing out this way has made it appear all the more ridiculous.  Of course they would never actually choose to wear those pieces.  Or would they?  What do you think?

Holiday Rant

24 October 2010

The Holiday Schedule is out. Notice how I capitalized the schedule like it is a proper noun.  Oh yeah, this schedule is no laughing matter, it determines what holiday you are giving up.  It's a lose-lose situation.  You either work Christmas or Thanksgiving (or if you are extremely lucky, you work only New Years, and if you are extremely unlucky, you get to work some combination of the three).

The Schedule Gods smite me every year, and then I get to call my family, who in turn curse the Schedule Gods (and perhaps me a little for working in a job that requires working on holidays).  It's been this way the last three years.  I call home and my siblings go on and on about how they have to postpone Christmas and their holidays end up lame because of me.

I hope you readers (I write with plural in the hopes that I have more readers than just my dad), if ever you should be unfortunate enough to be in the hospital on a holiday (or have a friend or relative suck inside it's antiseptic walls) that you remember to thank the people who care for you and are giving up (however unwillingly) their holiday, their family, their lives.

So back to this year's Holiday Schedule.  It was released to the greater public this past week and I had the opportunity to examine my fate this past Thursday.  For some reason I got excited.  Because of my history of being smited year after year, I, like many in any abusive relationship, hoped that this year would be different.  That this year I would perhaps work New Years (a sham of a holiday really) and have Thanksgiving and Christmas off.

I was promptly disillusioned. You'd think I would have learned my lesson.  Talk about putting you in a mood.  I took one look and was ready to quit my job and work somewhere else, anywhere else.

So here's the outlook (bleak as it may be): I am working Thanksgiving eve and subsequently Thanksgiving day (and the following weekend).  Then, praise be to the almighty, I have Christmas Day off, but there is the whole working Christmas Eve and the day after Christmas.  Did I mention that my family lives a good three hours away, which means going home for Christmas is a a six hour drive!  My first exclamation point, feel free to read it faster and louder, as that is how I meant it.

I worked Christmas last year.  And the year before that, for that matter.  I hate that I can't go home and see my family, my sisters that are strewn thither and yon, my brother growing up faster than I can keep track of, my parents who desperately want "all the kids home."

And there is really nothing to be done but pout and whine (it just comes naturally).  The holiday season will come and go, I will be irritated, my family will be irritated, and the coming year will arrive and I will most likely forget how annoying this whole business is, until next year when I the Holiday Schedule returns to scorn and spurn me again.

Bah Humbug.

Mother's Advice

Okay Mom, it's finally happened.  I've have given the "mom" speech. 

Let me take you a step backwards: my roommate is in the midst of a dramatic cluster-f.  Her brother and sister-in-law are on the splits and oh yeah, she works with her sister-in-law.  Drama in sues.  There is all that emotional baggage and character demonetization that comes when hearts are left feeling tattered and abused.

And my roommate is now strategically placed in the middle of this horrific apocalypse.  There is a plethora of "he said/ she said" hanging about everyone's head and my roommate was giving me the, "I won't be the bigger person"- garbage. 

And that's when it happened.  I felt it coming, but there was nothing I could do.  My mother's words just seemed to spew from me like a fountain of maternal grace.  I found myself saying things like, "you can't control what the people around you say or do," and, "you can only control how you react."

They're good words.  The way they play off my tongue sounds almost as if they were my words to begin with, and not complete plagiarism.  I could have gotten away with it, I am almost positive.

I got the expected results: tears and that look that says an epiphany has maybe just happened before your eyes.  It was like magic.  Who knew?  The conversation veered into the, "yeah well maybe I should..." and "I could be better." 

I was internally shocked by my results.  Even now, writing this, I'm a bit amazed that there was such a shift in attitude and acceptance.

After our little tete-a-tete Amy (my roommate) advised me to, "write about that in your blog."  She's brilliant sometimes.  Of course I then had to give all the credit to my mother. So yeah, thanks Mom, for all that malarkey growing up about taking on the world the only way you can, accepting what others around me do and working to respond in a way I can live with at night.

Take that Annie Dilliard... perhaps I don't need you after all.  I have an insightful mother.

1st Entry: Refections on Tinker Creek

22, October 2010

I love writing the date the way I have above.  It makes me feel foreign and sophisticated.  I have no idea from where this notion spurs, but I like it nonetheless.  Not to mention, it just makes so much more sense to start with the smallest measure of time (the day) and then progress to the greatest measure of time (the year).

Tangential much?  It happens. Frequently. 

Since this is my first entry, I feel like I ought to write about something substantial (i.e. not about how I like to write the date).  This concern stems most likely from too many years studying literature (as if there could be too many), but I want to dig into some of the more weighty self revelations that seem to be bottomless as I have been reading Annie Dillard's, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. 

At this point, with several deep creases splicing open the spine of the book, and thoughts littering the margins I have not yet reached half way.  I think I have approached this writing differently than I do most.  The guy at the book store, and my boss's wife both checked the book, gave it an appraising nod and seemed to connect with me in that way that people do when they respect your reading choice and feel like you belong in their mental book club, or something.  It's comical how much their little anecdotal praise of my reading selection may or may not have "tainted" my reading experience.

Dillard seems to go on and on about sycamores.  She is fascinated by trees, big trees (and insects, apparently).   She mentions at one point wanting to pay such close attention to the environment around Tinker Creek that she would be able to deduce the exact moment that Spring had arrived.  She writes, " I want to stick a net into time and say 'now,' as men plant flags on ice an snow and say, 'here.' But it occurred to me that I could no more catch the spring by the tip of the tail than I could untie the apparent knot in the snakeskin; there are no edges to grasp. Both are continuous loops."   Dillard makes the claim that she is continually trying to chase the present. 

It's a lovely concept.  This inability to ever exist in the present because it is impossible.  Is it because the present in infinitely connected to both the past and the future.  Or is it because the present is gone by the time we have realized it.  Do I miss the moment by analyzing the moment prior, or worrying about a moment to come?  Or, rather, is it the self-reflection, the act of meta-analysis that kills the present, that makes it intangible, unknowable?

Perhaps Dillard describes it better: "Consciousness itself dose not blind living in the present.... self consciousness, however does blind the experience of the present. It is the one instrument that unplugs all the rest. So long as I lose myself in a tree... the tree stays tree. But the second I become aware of myself... the tree vanishes.... it dams, stills, stagnates."

She does this page after page.  Some passages are convoluted and lofty, but for the most part, her stream-of-consciousness writing opens my mind and fills it with all sorts of different ideas.  Her reflections feel deeper than my own uninspired self revelations.  Her words stir in me a kind of initial reflection and then later a much more narcissistic reflection in which I wonder why my thoughts are not more original, why I need her words to think deeper and to look more acutely at the world around me: the trees, the insects.

I believe this may be the reason I have opened up the account and put finger to keyboard.  Perhaps I envy her her written reflective moments.  I want my own reflective moments.  Will mine be so well read?  Will the guy at the book store smile when he comes across it and say to the buyer of books, "Good book.  I especially like the first chapter about her cat"?  Highly unlikely.  But, the whiner can dream.