Genetically Conspiracy Minded

Late last night I realized that I had talked to all four of my siblings in one day, and not because there was some disaster or news. Strange. We haven't been in the same place since Bubby's wedding, which was in...lemme think back...November 1999.
Wow that was a long time ago.
We are a strange bunch, the five of us.
Four girls, one boy.
Three fathers.
Two kids with criminal records.
One quirky mother in the middle of it all.
And we're all conspiracy minded too; like we all have this sincere belief that someone (or something) is out to get us. Talking to Bubby (who is two years older than me) she is absolutely convinced that carnivals are out to get her in some way, you know, eat her children and whatnot, and we talked about this at length on my drive to work. Then I started getting text messages from E(who is four years younger, lives in Oregon and is an uninspired pastry chef) who seems to have a rather vivid fear of lesbians. He deserves his own flow chart and complementary therapy session. When I got home from work K, the youngest by 8 years, was frantically IMing me from three different screen names, paranoid I might put up an away message, thereby showing my absolute hatred for her, or worse, blocking her from IMing me. This keeps her up at night.
But Bubby is on top of things and was gracious enough to remind me that it was my niece's birthday and to call and say hello. So late last night I called California to talk to Bobo and family (Bobo is 9 years older than me, is about 5'1", 98 lbs soaking wet and has an uncanny resemblance to an Asian woman. Sucked when she worked at China King for a few years in high school) and got to tell my little 2-year old niece happy birthday, before a sprawling, 95-minute convo with my sister til well past 12:30 here. Bobo is someone I will always want on my side in any battle, because that little woman is FIERCE. And she will come after you with teeth and nails and spittle and feet and rough you up good. She has it in good authority that the Republicans are indeed the scum of the earth, heartless bastards whose greed is surpassed only by their overwhelming lack of a soul. I love talking to her, but it does make my stomach lurch to realize all the injustice and evil that lurks. We all want to make a change but don't know how or where to start. Overwhelmed by our own humanity.
Somehow, in all that negativity that causes us to almost seek out the bad in the situations around us, we still manage to love each other dearly, and trust each other. Odd.

Telling Stories

I am finishing up The Virgin of Bennington by Kathleen Norris and have thus started the first novel I have read probably all year, The Red Tent by Anita Diamant. Both books are amazing reads, but latter has surprised me in a way I did not expect.
I am struck by the history and pride of storytelling.
I think about "Beowulf", that ancient literature that existed for hundreds of years as an oral tradition long before it was ever written down. Today we seem to toss aside our stories as we let time erode their significance. We tell the facts but not the story and do not pause to ponder the greater issues addressed in the daily frustrations of humanity.
The Red Tent is the story of Dinah, the only daughter of Jacob, sister to the eventual 12 tribes of Israel. The tent itself was where the women went during their monthly cycle, as it was culturally inappropriate for women to be around men while they were "unclean". But in those few days in the tent, what did the women learn, teach, and pass on as tradition and wisdom to their daughters? What did they impart? Midwifery, herbal medicine, spindles and weaves, gods, cooking, pottery, song, story. How women talk and what wisdom comes out of it, and maybe insight into where we are today.
That coupled with a conversation I had with my friend's mother this morning renewed my awe at the relationship of women to each other and how deep and complex their communication pathways are. Sisters to mothers to daughters to friends to lessers to greaters to crones to maidens, through tears and trials and breakdowns and breakups and births and deaths and blood and cramps and giggles and roars and confidante and loneliness, to assurance and love and confrontation and honesty and affirmation and praise and affection and moodiness and fits and snuggles and joy. Stories form the history and make-up of who we are as a gender and as a people, I wonder what to do to preserve it. .

Nudities

(scribbled in the butterfly notebook after four laps around the traffic circle at 2am with a friend I talk to too much but who still has amazing things to say...)
I had a friend in college who had little problem with being topless or even naked around strangers, but balked at the thought being in a serious, personal relationship with a guy. I thought it strangely ironic how one classification of nudity could be so appealing while another could produce paralyzing fear. My how many ways to naked.
Tonight I wonder, how and where do they meet? To connect the depths of emotional, physical, spiritual and mental intimacy to each other--to create this web in which one may be hung or one may be saved-- what does it entail?
I am Jacob and this is my angel.
I am mystified by this web and cannot fully fathom how to connect them for those I love, or how to accept them from another. Too many careless gifts given and received previously have marred my reactions to the nudities of the human condition, and left me frustrated at my sudden prudish nature.

Eeyore's Got Nuthin'

Today I got an email from that one friend I have whom I haven't seen in years but seems to have the innate ability to call me out on things that no one around me seems to notice. I guess some things are clearer from further away. Anyway, she essentially told me that I was arrogant--well, that the things I had written to her were arrogant.
This disturbs me greatly, as Amelia tends to be very keen on such things.
And, looking back (with the help of another one of those very keen friends), they really were.
At the time I was in this spot where life just seemed to suck; I don't see that as overwhelmingly negative or arrogant; it just genuinely sucked. However, I was (and am) in horseblinders in a way. All I could see was the stuff that was flying at me, weighing me down. I saw nothing else. And I'm not saying what I felt was correct or proper or that she isn't right, but it's still a kick in the crotch.
The conclusion is I've lost the ability to see past my own nose, don't seem to see anything positive in any situations and have taken a liking to wallowing longer than need be. I say that as fact, not to be negative or to make it seem more overwhelming than it is. I do believe there is a time and a place to wallow, but one must stop wallowing before one becomes one of the pigs themselves. All that being said, I need to learn to identify my negativity in situations, or at the very least acknowledge the positive. So yeah, all this shit happens--what else? How are the people around me? What am I doing to enrich or fulfill or love them? How am I serving? How have I been used? How do I accept the love that is given me? Puppies and glitter?
Of course I am a writer, and part of being a writer is obsessive self-analysis and/or self-depreciation, but still, there's a line and if I am ever to be anything in life I need to stop thinking I deserve everything. And learn to see that even the bleakest times have the best opportunities. Or something inspirational like that.

Cloister

(Written on my palm pilot while sitting in the training room at a small Christian college in PA. Don't ask.)
Thought #1:
I am brought to epiphany in repetition and single words. The other day the word cloister came up three or four times, and it is only then that I perk up and pay attention. Cloister: it is solitude, spiritual hermitude. It is devoted to seclusion. The vocabulary of faith, of walk, of decision. A season, a place between the peaks and popularity in which to simmer in the silence. Strange word to have identify me.
Thought #2:
To truly commit to anything has to be a daily choice. For me I cannot simply say "I will do this/choose this/be this until x time" because it is too overwhelming--a day of decisions is all too often too much. I know now why AA's motto is one day at a time; why Joshua said in frustration, "Then choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve,"--any more and defeat will crush any under the weight of time. Am I that weak that the thought of 48 hours of such virtue is exhausting? I wish I could say I'll do or be something for the rest of my life, but I can't be sure. I can, however, commit to it today. Today I will choose who I serve, what I believe, who I love, what I will stand for and what I will let go. It is conscious, cautious and often clandestine. And today, for only today, it will be enough. (Is that weak, wrong or just short-sighted? You tell me)

The Patriotic Parasite

I wish I did something of substance. I wish my day was spent serving a real purpose, making a real change in a life. What I do most of the day is help people who really don't need helping, who just propagate this millstone of capitalism and greed that crushes and rolls over us. We are grist, and instead of doing what my heart wants and trying to stop it, my job--what I am paid to do--is to try to feed that wheel. Ironic how I hate what I do--very biblical, in a Romans 7/lamenting sorta way.
I love to serve in some capacity and at this point in my life all I am doing is taking; I am a parasite. Ugh! I want to be a writer first, but I want to become a professor so that I can try to make a difference as a job. I don't want be what I do, but I want what I do to be a strong reflection of who I am. If and when I move south again, I want to get off my bony little ass and do at least some the following:
(1) volunteer at least once a month in a food bank or shelter
(2) actually volunteer with kids--become invested
(3) Start taking Pilades or Yoga (this is not service, but it'll help me and I need to be reminded that I want to do this)
(4) Switch to at least 75% organic (right now I'm probably 40%) foods. Co-Op preferred. Decrease packing and consumption overall.
(5) Join community env. group.
(6) Possibly Tutor writing
(7) Shop at places besides Home Depot, Wal-Mart and Barnes and Noble

I sincerely want a life that is service first and today I was realizing how little I am doing to see that come to fruition. Volunteering as a baker this past summer cemented in me what servitude can be, and how much it matters. I don't want to live the normal American lifestyle of one's head firmly up one's ass, and the best way to keep it out is to spend time doing things for people besides myself, not for myself.. So you go, Spooner, and you get your serving on. Yeah!

The Aunts Go Marching Four by Four

My sister called me yesterday, and judging by the wide vocal inflections in her voice mail, there was some news to be spread. Bubby thinks I'm hilarious. I can be funny at times, but she seriously thinks I am the funniest girl on the planet. I don't know what's wrong with her. Anyway, I called Bubby back and she breathlessly told me that she was expecting her third (count 'em, 3) child this fall. That will make me an aunt, four times over (my oldest sister, Bobo, has one daughter).
We are so different, my Bubby and I. I don't want children (never have. I have the maternial instinct of a cinderblock) and yesterday she told me, "It's ok--when you get older you may want them." Right about then is when I reminded her that she and I are only two years apart, and when she was my age she already had two kids. She got a little quieter about the issue after that. Foiled again! She has never accepted the notion of me not wanting kids, and that has become amusing. If I don't get married I think her head may explode.
Bubby is one of my closest friends and I love our relationship--there are things about her that only I understand and as we've gotten older we've only gotten closer. Here is my sister, 26 and about to have baby #3...just in time for her 6th wedding anniversary. Wow. We're at such different places in life it's a wonder we have things to talk about, but talk we do, at least once a week. I love her for that. Being the middle kid I'm the mediatior of the family, so that if one sibling has some potential news to share with the other four of us, I'm usually the first one told--my reaction is apparently a litmus test of sorts. Odd.

Meet the Rockers

Sometimes quirkiness is only identified through other's eyes. Last night I was in a cleaning frenzy and was organizing my bookshelf when my roommate came in. She noticed I was labelling rocks with masking tape. This is apparently not a normal thing, but I like to collect small rocks and/or shells as mementos of memorable trips and memorable friendships. I wanted to label them so as to not forget where and when I got it.
Suzy had the task of telling me, much to my shock, that most people don't collect rocks in the first place, much less label them as if they were part of an insect collection.
That's when I realized it's genetic. My whole family collects rocks like squirrels do acorns. When my grandparents moved out of their house in Great Falls, my father carted six hundred (600!) pounds of rocks out with them. These rocks were taken and deposited with the several hundreds of pounds my father has, so by the time I inherit the mountain I may be able to build a house with just the little stones we've picked up along the way. At least build a rather nice wall, or pan for gold in my own garage.
I have a rock my little sister gave me when she was 6 that she labeled malachite and had painted it as such. Tell me, what normal six-year old likes to identify minerals so much that she'd take an ordinary sandstone and paint it to look like malachite? 'xactly. I like my rocks, and I like that I have memories tied to so many of them. They are better than pictures in a way.
Anyway, that's all I got.

Delineate

Things are getting personal; so personal that I can't seem to distinguish myself from my experiences. Today I was talking to my mentor and she asked if I'd been able to write about any of it and I said no. Distance is needed in order to see with perspective; without that space the description is just a jumble of words. Blurbs without thought or direction. It's a magic eye drawing in a way ("It's a Schooner!" "THE EASTER BUNNY'S NOT REAL!" name the movie!*). And I struggle with being personal and being standoff-ish (Story of my life). As this is my journal, my tiny slice of Internet real estate, I should be able to say what I want; however I must delineate my inner conversations with those proper for outside consumption. Write for the masses but relate to me. I forget people might actually read this. Weird.
In conclusion, the personal is overshadowing the insightful, the standoff is defeating the stand up, verbosity is winning the war against brevity. I'm sorry if I seem in a rut; I am.
"If life serves you lemons...say "$#@! those lemons!" and throw the lemons back in life's face! That way, life will be too afraid to mess with you anymore." I love you, Erin Hatcher.

*Movie was "Mallrats" by the way.

Crosswords

I have nothing much to say as I am internalizing.
I love how we now have words and names for the things we do, the habits we have, but that has done nothing but draw them out and make them stronger. There are too many -isms and -izings to contend with that I forget what it was I was after in the first place. Probably fame, glory, inexhaustable riches, immmortality. You know, the normal stuff.
We bought a book of crosswords at work, and I must say, I'm getting rather speedy at them. I love them for their simplicity and yet their complexity. It's nice to have something tangible to distract me.
I've been thinking about it and I think you are right, Things look different on the far side of a five hour cry.

All The Time

As I was pulling out of my apartment complex this morning I watched these two female postal workers trudge through snow drifts that were well past their knees. With heavy bags of mail lifted up to their shoulders, they climbed through these massive and seemingly endless mounds of old, grey snow. And they just kept smiling and talking busily, as if it were something normal and unimpressive. I marveled at them and their dedication, if not to their job then to the habits of it. All the time we trudge through, stepping over the stones and stories ahead and behind. All the time we spend doing what we think of as mundane but others may find fascinating, or at the very least, noteworthy. All the time we doll out like change to those who matter, have never mattered, should matter, or used to matter; a quarter here, a nickel there. Time and money, tying and dividing. Investments. All the time.

Kid Fears

I think I'm still recovering from middle school, and I left 8th grade ten years ago. I read an article recently that called us the "Thin-skinned Generation", that we can't take criticism, or failure, or rejection so we go through life pretending that nothing really matters so our hopes won't get up only to be shot down. I know I suffer from this to a degree, and I still blame Blue Ridge Middle School for most of it. Yeah you Bulldogs, I blame you.
I know there are people who hate me, some who used to be friends who now hate me, and I've become ok with that. I know there are people who won't forgive me, and while I've offered my forgiveness there's nothing more I can do. The people who can say the worst things about me are often the very same people who can say the best things too, and that I guess is the price one pays for close friendships. That price has always been worth it, in my opinion.
But those fears that exist all these years later that still plague me--that thin-skinnedness and/or awkwardness--does that ever go away? Like this paralyzing fear of loneliness; is that more a product of where I am in life, or in who I am? Rhetorical? I think so. It's not a fear of living alone or being alone, it's a fear of staying alone. We all have this intense desire to know and be known, is it ever fulfilled?
Used up my rhetorical question quota for the day and it's only 1pm.
I hate it when I do that.