Digging Out

I went through and tossed out about fifty pounds worth of old writing and assorted paper from college. Maybe more. One of the first classes I took was creative writing. I was in my mid-forties. It had been years since I'd written anything more than a journal entry. I sort of tried to write some memoir once. I wrote in large scrawl on a large drawing pad. I don't remember if I ever learned grammar but I certainly didn't remember any. It didn't mater much because The class was being taught by a poet of the Beat bend. First thought. Best thought. In my end of semester student review she wrote that I was an accomplished writer. I knew better than to own that. I think the word accomplished might reflect quantity as well as quality. Still, having just reread some of those one page splotches, I did do some pretty cool writing in that class. I was uninhibited by critique. The teacher could barely speak in full sentences. She was dear and eccentric and effusive but not at all interested in being corrective.
In one of the last classes of my BA in Humanities I wrote: It may be ontologically important for creative writing to strive to express itself in ways that are not decipherable.
Huh?
Oh. Well. See. It was in a paper titled: The Problem of Causality: Race, Gender and Class in American Narrative. It was also taught by a poet but a poet who could speak comfortably on many levels and complete complex sentences. She made lots of corrections of my grammar and suggested more perfect ways to say things. I took her praise a bit more to heart. I worked harder to earn it. Rereading it was interesting. I took on quite a lot in a relatively short paper and it was laden with other people's ideas. But I enjoyed the reading and writing I had to do in that class. I looked for a MA program in which I could continue and hone my grasp of theory. I didn't find one and maybe it's just as well.
This digging out of personal history is intense. I spent a whole day reading through things and reeling at what I'd been through and what I'd done and how long ago it was. It doesn't feel like it was that long ago. It never occurred to me that I would like college. And then I graduated and got a job playing a video game.
I mean.
What?
Heh.
Today I found another pile.
I wrote:There are ways in which all writing is an intersection at which a reader and a writer arrive. At an intersection people pause, wait to feel the other's intention. Who will go first? Who has the right? Who got there first? Will everyone obey the rules? How fast will anyone move and will that determine how fast the other can react? One false move and there is calamity, or maybe not calamity but an involvement. Hesitation is not a function of fear. It is a function of awareness.
It feels a bit disembodied but I've pulled it out of context. It was a short page on an Emily Dickinson poem. And thinking back to our class and the time it is fairly good thinking.
This digging out part of moving is reverie, some regret and filled with long forgotten selves. From which I am hoping to assemble what ever or who ever is about to be.
    
      

Moving

I like to say I have a view of Coit Tower. If you stand in the kitchen or the bedroom door and lean your head just the right amount you can see a small pie sliver of the top of Coit Tower. If you don't know what it is and you try to look in the day it might seem like some part of any old building. At night when it's lit up it's more obvious. On days when the Giants are playing big games it glows orange.
I love my apartment. From the minute I moved in I loved it. I've lived here longer than I've lived anywhere, ever. Almost twenty years. I love living in North Beach. I love living in San Francisco. It feels right. It feels congruous.
The downside of my apartment is the steps I need to climb to get in and out of it and get the mail, take out the trash, do the laundry. As my aches and pains have increased I've become a bit of a shut in. And when I do get out I can't walk very far. So I haven't been to my pool in a year.
So.
I'm moving to Hood River, Oregon. One of my oldest friends lives there. Another old friend lives in Portland. And I've met people there when visiting who I am looking forward to knowing better. It's a beautiful town and I'll be living in a beautiful condo. It's all quite amazing and I feel a sense of possibly that I haven't felt in years.

The minute I walk into the condo my life gets easier. There's an elevator. There's a washer and a drier in the bathroom. There's a coffee shop right below me.
I am somewhat worried about the rain since rain hurts my joints and sometimes gets to me emotionally. But I usually have my head in a book, or I'm locked into a screen. I lead an internal life. I also have a feeling that I might actually get out more. Oddly enough.
The Pacific North West is the only part of the country that I thought I'd live in that I have not lived in. In fact I imagined myself living there when I was older. So it also feels congruous.
For the moment I am overwhelmed by the packing and moving process. I am weepy when I think of the people and the life I am leaving. But it feels like the best thing that's happened to me in years.
A link to the condo is here but I'm not sure how long it will be live. A link to a condo above mine with the same layout is here.

Clothing

There's a clothing company that does something stupid every few years and then they get a lot of attention. Negative attention but attention none the less. The CEO said something stupid about not having large sizes because he only wants cool, beautiful people wearing his clothes and there are memes everywhere. More attention.
A factory collapses and garment workers die. It's happened before. It happens because we want cheap clothing and clothing makers want lots of money. The workers live and die in that breach.
I'm not terribly interested in clothing. Maybe I should say that I'm not interested in fashion. I like my clothing. I think I have a style, of sorts. I like natural fibers and clean lines. I generally prefer a loose fit. I like color. I do feel good in a new outfit, or a favorite outfit. But I don't feel like I need new clothes every season, or even every year.
For awhile I've wanted to write about my shirts but as a topic it never got me wound up. The news lately keeps triggering my thinking.
When I was a teenage hippie chick many of us wore thermal underwear shirts under overalls. Well. Actually. I never did because I could find them in my size but I always wanted them and then one day I found them in a Lame Giant catalog. Good colors and my size but always cotton poly blend. I made do.
From time to time I'd get a catalog from Big and Tall. I guess they figured if I was buying big clothing there must be a man in my life who also wore big clothes. One day I noticed thermal shirts on the cover and I looked inside.  They don't seem to be on the site right now but they were 100% cotton and ... they were cheaper.
I mean.
Why?
Why is men's clothing better quality and cheaper?
I bought a few before I went to NC, which turned out to be a mistake because Mom keeps the house at a balmy 75 all of the time. They're great in SF though. As the summer rolled around the catalogs came covered in short sleeved shirts. I bought a few. I love them. All of the shirts are a bit too big. I wasn't sure about the sizing. I still love them.
One day I remembered that I'd heard men's and women's shirts button in the opposite direction. I checked my new shirts against shirts I'd gotten from a women's catalog and yeah. Different. Again I wonder why. But also, if I walk up to you on the street and you're wearing a shirt not specific to your gender I will not notice. I am really quite obtuse about such things. And if someone looks at my shirt and notices ... oh well.
The tag says the shirts were made in India. Of course there's no detail about exactly where. It's unlikely I'll buy more any time soon. Not because I'm boycotting but I just don't buy clothes very often. But it's troubling.
There are small companies that make very nice clothes for fat people and I buy from them as often as I buy from anywhere. I feel like they produce locally but I'm not really sure about that.
And I find myself with not much more to say. I just wish I could buy a shirt, in a fabric and a color and size that I like and know with certainty that no one was living with misery and fear. Having recently read about the history of cotton it seems like it's never been true.

Mother's Day

My relationship with my Mom has been filled with conflict. Some of which is about her, some about me and much about things neither of us could control. I've tended to focus on the conflict. But there's something about being a witness to a person ageing that pierces a narrative.
Physically Mom is in great shape. At 87 she is on no medications. None. Her only physical issues are joint related. She's had both hips replaced, one hip twice and one knee. She should have the other knee replaced but it doesn't hurt and she doesn't want to have more surgery. Mentally she is slowing down. She is an extremely intelligent woman and she is frustrated when she can't remember things or take in information. I'm always watching for signs of deterioration. Always worried about what might go wrong.
I think about it when my almost two year year old neighbor visits. Watching her brain suck up information is great fun. It's not just the rote ability to hear and repeat. It's the dots that connect and her expression of her growing awareness. Such delight!
It's not as simple as the circle of life thing. Childhood is also filled with frustration. And Mom is happy she lived when she lived. She is a person of her era. As am I. Which is part of the problem.
I wrote a piece about Mom once. I tried to contain and frame the conflict and draw out the complexity of our story. She didn't like it. She likes simple, happy stories. She wants a Hallmark world. I do everything I can to give her that world even though it is painfully limiting. We can't live together but we are wound together in ways that are both neurotic and endearing. It's just not simple.
I used to think unconditional love was about letting go of every hurt. Forgiving every injury. Now I think it's about being able to hold both the pain and the love. To be able to see people clearly. All the bad faith and all the effort to be more. We are all fumbling along, bumping into one another. Wounding and wounded. Forgiving and in need of forgiveness.
Well, actually, sometimes it is simple. Sometimes it's about surprising her with cinnamon rolls and taking as much pleasure in the way her eyes light up as she takes in every bite. Sometimes it's about making her laugh.
Today we are on opposite coasts. She is having brunch with friends. She has the card I sent on the table. There are chocolate frogs on the way.
She is my mommy.
The narrative is pierced.
The conflict lays down with the affection.
We are dancing on the field of the lord.

Mom at sixteen.

   

Allison

Yesterday was the anniversary of the Kent State shooting in which Allison Krause was killed. Allison had graduated from my high school the year before I started there. I didn't know her but many people who did were still there. Shock and grief filled the halls. A huge fight broke out around the flag pole because some students had lowered the flag to half mast and others were trying to raise it again.
The word straight was used to describe people who went along with established social structures. The rest of us were hippies. I remember wandering into the battle and being hit by accident but after too much time in an MFA program I question whether my memories have been twisted by the need for drama. I do have a few very clear memories. I remember a young man, a hippie, with a wild Afro in blue jeans and a t-shirt and I remember another young man with short blond hair and a button up shirt. He was a football player who was dating a cheerleader. In any other school he would have ruled. In fact he may have been a prom king. Hippies didn't go to the prom.
In many ways that day shaped who I became. My belief in my country and its institutions was crushed. If the national guard could shoot an unarmed student at the college in which she was an honor student how could they be trusted? You didn't have to know Allison for her death to have that effect. You didn't even need to be a student at her high school. You were part of a generation. And we no longer believed.
Of course the blond kid was also part of my generation. I wonder what happened to him.
There's a Facebook group for my high school and there was some talk about Allison yesterday. Three other students were shot and killed that day. Three other high school student bodies. As a generation we are credited with lots of social awareness. But I'm not sure anymore. What did we do?
I'm reading Twilight of the Elites It's great thinking but as I was reading last night I was thinking about Allison and a fight around a flag pole. I feel like we're still having that same fight around that same flag. Things feel so broken.
I have genuine affection for Obama. I'd vote for him again if I could. Drones. Guantanamo. Education policy. Yeah. I know. But I stopped believing in institutions a long time ago. I don't think there's much good that will come from inside the Beltway. I guess I just feel better with someone who at least articulates values that I share.  
There's a very good thing happening in my life but I'm dealing with a lot of self recrimination as well. Questioning how and why I got where I am. Feeling wrong. But I remember that day. I remember that young woman who I never ever knew. I remember feeling like I was waking up. And many of the values developed during that time are the ones I still hold dear.
We weren't the first generation to want social justice.
I know we won't be the last.  

Responding

I started to write this post awhile ago.
When I was in NC Mom and I watched The Iron Lady. I felt like it painted a relatively full portrait of Thatcher. I grimaced remembering the Thatcher/Reagan years but I had enough distance to see why she thought what she was doing would be good. I basically ignored as much of the news during those years as I could because it was all so crushing. There's been a lot of discussion about her lately. I keep starting to write my on the one hand on the other hand view of her but it feels hollow.
George Orwell wrote that cliche's of the day were a product of contemporary politics. I pay a lot of attention to how I say things. Sometimes I worry that I am too much of a relativist and not clear or definitive. But I do have strong feelings. When I'm with people who I know agree with me I am probably more direct. When I am talking to someone who I know has an opposite opinion I am generally more reserved. When I'm writing a blog post that will be read by two or three friends I am a combination of both because some of my friends don't see things the way I do. I'm not beyond cliches. I aspire to be.  
I was reminded of a conversation I had in a Facebook thread. Conversations in comment boxes are always a bit frustrating. I'm not sure how it started. A friend from EA posted something. This is a person who I never really worked directly with but knew because they were friends with people on my team and had a great reputation. When I left they called to tell me about a possible job. They are a person who truly cares about others and backs that up with action. At some point in the tread that was about something I can't remember, they said something about personal responsibility and choice. It felt so hard and cold. I left the thread. I wanted to write about it then but I was in NC with nothing but my smart phone and arthritic fingers. Now I'm trying to include the memory in a post when I don't even remember details.
I do remember the essential feeling I had.
Choice is always made in context. Entire plot lines are drawn from someone making a choice without all the information they need to make it a good choice. The story is about what happens after the choice and how it all works out. Or doesn't. Life feels more complicated than most narratives. It's so rare that a choice is good or bad. We make a choice and moments later we change our mind our modify our trajectory. Even the most informed choices still leave us feeling our way along.It's too easy to end with the idea of someone making a choice.
Conservative politics often feel hard and cold to me. But I know conservatives. They aren't always hard and cold.
I'm in a pretty good mood these days generally speaking. But the news from Boston hurts the heart. The news out of the senate today hurts the head. When I blogged regularly I felt like I needed to comment on every daily event. But it feels hollow. It feels cliche.
We live in such hopped up times. Less than four hours after the bomb went off in Boston there was already music and a fancy header for every news report. With no solid information news hosts struggle to fill time. Writing that even feels hollow.
Seriously. Is registering when you buy a gun such a big deal? Do we really need all guns to be available to everyone all the time? Seriously? Just because a piece of legislation won't make everything all better should we do nothing? And conflating the event in Boston with gun legislation is just sloppy thinking. That's how I feel. That's what I think.
The Iron Lady's you made your own choices now live with the result social policy was cold and hard. And it didn't work. I mean for the love of everything can we just be a little more nuanced? A little less snarky and snippy and chest thumpy and what ever.
But.
Of course.
I like snarky and snippy some times.
I'm in a pretty good mood lately. Some really truly good things are happening. And I have the news on less often. I listen to music more often. Almost every day. I still like to be informed. I still have a response. I still have a desire to be in the mix. I am still brought to tears daily. The micro and the macro are zones I expand and contract into and out of every day. I think we all pretty much do.
So.
Anyway.
Is started to write this post awhile ago.
And I wanted to finish it.

Some Thing and Some Thing

Some thing happened.
It's not worth detailing. My reaction was disproportionate. I knew it was. I could not control it.
You know those films where a building is being purposefully collapsed? It seems like they always happen in Vegas. The whole building seems to crumble all at once. That's how I felt.
I understand my psychological architecture fairly well. I can usually tell when something has tapped some part of the substructure. There's a Rickie Lee lyric:There are wounds that stir up the force of gravity. A cold that will wipe the hope from your eyes. 
Yeah.
So I've been down. Dumbstruck. Wounded. I stopped listening to music. The one time I tried I felt like my heart was being torn from chest. I slowed participating in social media. Stopped checking in.
I want to say I'm all better but I'm not.
However.
There may be some thing happening.
Many problems may be solved.  
 I did have some fun with food.