Calvin: Act 4 Scene 1

Well—I dun it. One semester down, one to go. Whether or not I actually passed my class is a separate issue. (I’ll go out on an egotistical and cliché limb here and think I did—well, if a D is passing . . . silly Information Technology classes.) I had some good classes this semester. So I really hated the paper for Visual Rhetoric, but surprise, surprise, I didn’t do well on it. Anyway, I prefer the lectures to the analytical confusion. Apply it? What? Okay, so that’s a lie. I do like the analytical stuff. Sometimes.

Visual rhetoric was an fantabulous class. It helps liking the Professor—she’s one cool cat, to say the least—however, I wouldn’t change having chose it if I could. I even enjoyed the final—is that sick or what?

And Creative Non-Fiction—that’s a class I’d take again. Also an excellent professor. (With a sweet puppy; or full grown dog named Maisy who barks along to the U of M fight song “Hail to the Victors.” And barks aggressively at the mention of the Buckeyes. Only in Michigan.) It’s such a lovely thing to be able to write without the constraints of convention: fragment, long sentence, use active voice, just not right . . . To be able to write without those comments and be told that they are an absolutely fine thing, yes, that is so nice. I was called “the Queen of Fragments.” I accidently snorted. It was a compliment, though.

Developmental Psychology, also superb. So much to learn! (Some sex statistics to shock your stockings , too; if you want ‘em, I’ve got ‘em.) And yet another wonderful professor.

We’re lucky here at Calvin. I’ve been über lucky on top of it all. Professors who wear hats they don’t have to, who listen, who teach with passion for the subject and the students, who go to tea/coffee or lunch, who are gifts. Yep. Spoiled. 

The Trouble with Thinking

Recently I have been dabbling about the denominational doctrines; it’s a dangerous place for this probing puppy. However, that’s what I get for writing a social critique on certain aspects of Christianity: notes from a professor that require explanation and an explanation that opens some windows through which I can peer, windows that provoke musings and questions, questions that invite more conversations . . . you get where this is going. I’m in trouble.

Professor Rienstra has been my go-to-gal for this situation. (Duh. She’s the English professor who teaches the class for which I wrote the critique.) Calvin being staunchly CRC (the professors are all members of a church of said denomination—by obligation—which they are to attend), it seems this might be a poor place to get a wider view—not true. It gets quite tiresome hearing those accusations, actually.

Perhaps as my musings evolve into thoughts (rather than a list of questions) or reflections, they’ll wind up here. Maybe not. 

Only rolling abundance

 “When Daddy comes in, he carries you to bed. Is there anything you feel like you could eat, Pokey? Anything at all?

“All you can imagine putting in your mouth is a cold plum, one with really tight skin on the outside but gum-shocking sweetness inside. And he and Mother discuss where he might find some this late in the season. Mother says hell I don’t know. Further north, I’d guess.

“The next morning, you wake up in your bed and sit up. Mother says, Pete, I think she’s up. He hollers in, You ready for breakfast, Pokey. Then he comes in grinning, still in his work clothes from the night before. He’s holding a farm bushel. The plums he empties onto the bed river toward you through folds in the quilt. If you stacked them up, they’d fill the deepest bin at the Piggly Wiggly.

“Damned if I didn’t get the urge to drive to Arkansas last night, he says

“Your mother stands behind him saying he’s pure USDA crazy.

“Fort Smith, Arkansas. Found a roadside stand out there with a feller selling plums. And I says, Buddy, I got a little girl sick back in Texas. She’s got a hanker for plums and ain’t nothing else gonna do.

“Through the window you see the Lawrences’ new rosebush, its base of burlap sticking out of the fresh red dirt. Its white buds are tight-clenched knots. But it’s when you sink your teeth into the plum that you make a promise. The skin is still warm from riding in the sun in Daddy’s truck, and the nectar runs down your chin.

“And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody—anybody—who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given.

Cherry Mary Karr

Processing the Past

Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time in my past. It’s an awkward, sometimes unpleasant, rather foggy place to rummage around, and not my favorite. However, with an essay memoir of sorts, it’s hard to avoid. I’ve spent some time in sixth grade, considered earlier, written strait through seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh—the last three quite briefly as I don’t remember much—returned to junior high, and attempted to stay present. And keep a fraction of the future in mind. Such as that paper due tomorrow.

 People have told me I ought to write a memoir. As in a memoir memoir. Not an essay but a full-blown bound book that Amazon might pick up and sell for Kindles cheap and I could make ten cents per copy . . .

I’m not sure why. I do know it’d take a long time. Even though, at this point, writing beyond age eighteen seems a bit absurd. Truth is, to me, a foremost principle in creative non-fiction. The question is, which truths? What would be worthwhile to the readers? What creates something more than a self-indulgent exposé of Annie? That is part of the experiment of the memoir-essay assignment in our class.

Right now, the essay comprises of two sections: sixth grade and eighth grade. It is quite possible, after two weeks, with one week left, that I will set it aside. Pick a different approach. A different time. That is writing, I suppose. 

On Procrastination

This piece is indeed an act of procrastination—to an extent. However, it often bites me in the bum when I have writing material bouncing around my mind (that is, I’m talking to myself about absurdities completely unrelated to anything of consequence), for when I put it away to focus on whatever task is at hand, it is gone when I return. Yes, excuses.

So I’ll leave this document open for random bits.

I shall drill into my own children one day the ways of life; maybe I won’t do so, because it is painful to see how ignorant the masses are regarding what seems to be common sense. Yes, ha-ha, common sense is a joke. It is a phrase that should be banned. It is cliché to the extent that it quite honestly means nothing (to me, and therefore everyone, right?). Or it should be revised in the dictionary, since that too has much authority.

Spray not, smelly stuff in the house, or anywhere. It doesn’t make anything smell better. Cook something if you must. Or bundle up and open the windows. You don’t smell like roses when you puke Frebreeze or whatever foulness on yourself. You smell like chemicals. Put on deodorant. Light a candle. But, please, spray not.

Yelling does not make you better heard in most situations; it makes you more deaf and thus more likely to yell louder. It is a downward spiral. Don’t do it. There are so many volumes besides loud and louder, explore them, and ask for some input. They lie if they tell you aforementioned volumes are favorable. Or hard of hearing. Acceptable if elderly, unfortunate if young, don’t become that unfortunate youth.

Don’t refer to the good old days. The good old days were worse than the their good old days. Unless you have a concrete example, such as a can opener that has been in the family for twenty years but was bought from a yard sale and works like chocolate on a bad day. Compare that sucker to the brand stinkin’ new can opener that lasted two months made by a reputable company. Then there is an example of good ole days. Back when music was clean? Ha, ha, ha. Listen to Tight Fittin’ Jeans by Conway Twitty and you will realize sexual innuendos and bald-face speak isn’t new.

HAIR DOES NOT GO DOWN THE DRAIN. Lie. It does. And it creates a wad of foulness, that if lucky, one might remove without it breaking and clogging the drain in a slimy bend out of reach. Lucky is an understatement. And realize it will be gross. If only I had taken a picture of that rodent-sized glob of hair and soap-scum that I removed from our shower drain. All of a sudden, the shower did not puddle into a bath. The screw that had to be removed looked as though it was stripped, useless. But, no, it was simply wrapped in hair tightly enough to hold a person on belay. Sick. As in foul.

A Sunday Morning

            To the right there is a demon, my right hand man, with a pint glass in hand, on a pint glass, announcing, “You’re not worthy,” the slogan of Arrogant Bastard Ale. Ha. Spacing ahead, staring blankly over my head is an owl perched upon the fridge, fattened with cookies; they’re not mine. To the left, a clean counter—beautiful. At four o’clock stand trees etched across a grey sky attempting to clear, over a leaf-spotted soccer field. And a sip of the scent of coffee. Silence.

Not Naked

I have just polished off a bag of Bear Naked granola Original. How disappointing. I should know better than to buy granola that claims to be granola by name AND appearance. (Trader Joe’s pumpkin granola does not look like granola, therefore, it is acceptable to buy, try, whatever.) Having made granola for so long, I have high standards. But that was below my lowest of low standards. As I looked over the package and ingredients, as if looking at the ingredients in the store wasn’t enough, I shook my head. Crisped this, that, and the other. Soy protein isolate. What are you on crack? What else . . . canola oil, fine, fine, we used to use that. The cranberries’ ingredients: cranberries, sugar, and glycerin. Glycerin . . . that makes me think of explosions. Big explosions. Maybe that’s nitroglycerin. And then it makes me think of homemade snow globes. I don’t know where I get these ideas.

Back to Butt Naked. Erm, Bear Naked. A serving size is a quarter cup.

You’re shittin’ me, right?

You know, I’ve never actually understood that expression, but no, I’m not “shitting you.”

Who eats a quarter cup of granola? Maybe if you’re sprinkling it over ice cream . . . As I continued to peruse the package that seemed less than recyclable, I saw that at least they made an effort to encourage customers to send it back, as they have a proud partnership with TerraCycle. Cool. As if anyone does that. Maybe recyclable containers? Living with people for whom recycling is like pulling ticks, I think we need to keep it simple. Oh, they call it natural too. Isn’t that cute? If Prop I can’t remember which passes, no more of that garbage. I seriously hope not to see that tramp-stamp reading “natural” on items that may or may not classify as food (The other classification: consumable compound).

I’ve gotten off topic. I’m washing away the taste with my organic, two percent milk. (Yes, when I drink milk, I drink two percent. Bite me.) Ah, yes; as I looked over the package, I found its home: La Jolla. Oh. That explains a lot. “Granola” that is “natural” and hip (it is a protein boost!) and healthy (and that protein comes from soy! and since vegetarians consume soy, it must be magical!) and born in southern California. In LA JOLLA. Southern California is an okay place, there are some great features, such as my sister, however, La Jolla has no business making granola or pretending to know anything about it. Even if the founder attended UCSC or Humboldt State, her/his brain and mode of being has surely been polluted by the confusion of that place. Or, La Jolla has sent the original butt naked granola down the drain, thus providing customers with a sorry product that is only bear naked.  

A Role Model

The Creative non-fiction class is taught by a snarky introvert who is one of my favorite professors at Calvin. She sent us a link for our reading pleasure as she finished grading our reviews, writing You might also derive perverse pleasure from my previous two posts. One is about Hazlitt, and the one before that about college admissions literature. And I thought she was hilarious and clever in person. The link sends you to Get Off My Lawn, Thou Knave. If you press her name, Debra Rienstra, just under the title, it will take you to her other articles. The most recent is her review on Introvert, Be Free! and the one following her article on Hazlitt (follow the link . . .) is what she has titled "Cruise Ship College." Enjoy!!

A Wordy Modge-Podge

And on the seventh day, she showered. No. Lie. On the seventh day she rested. On the eighth day she showered. Ahhhh. Waita be green. And lazy. And gross. But it was green when I took the shower (no, not what came off my body and out of my hair); it was one of those on/off showers—wet the legs, water off, shave, rinse the razor, water off, shave, etc., wet down hair, water off, shampoo, rinse, water off, conditioner and soap up, rinse, y finito! So no one wants to know my sanitation—ha, ha, rather, lack-there-of—habits. But no one said reading this is an obligation.

It’s probably not of any interest, either, that I have had a drug change. This means I could be loopy, but who knows, not I. It was a week ago, and if I could read minds, I’d let you know what has been going through mine lately, but, alas, I cannot. “Alas.” Ha, again. (It’s great, finding oneself so humorous.) “Thankfully” would be more accurate a word-choice. This also means that I have an abundance of drugs in quantities no longer relevant to my current habits: time to start a pharmacy.

Professors provide even better laughter: marfs. Huh? Our psychology professor, who I wish I had on tape, was talking about gender and its influences from society, particularly how, in this country, the difference in dress is no longer so stark. Looking at us, we all looked quite similar. (Not ‘cause of all the white-Dutchies.) “Well, the main difference is the scarf’s but men are starting to wear them too, they already do in Europe, marphs.” (If you don’t get it . . . stinks. Okay, okay, fine: man + scarf = marf)

This is the only reason I pick up the school newspaper (besides using it as grace for oops moments when I paint): the “Professors say the darndest things” section.

            “I just compared Mark Twain to Sarah Palin. What blasphemy.”

–Prof. Fondse (Darn good thing you admitted it, too.)

There has not been much material for this blog lately; although, I have been writing quite a bit. Perhaps I should just stick whatever, whenever I write up for perusal. And, no, that was not an intentional Shakira reference.

And now some words from Melody Beattie, who has formed them well in her book The Language of Letting Go:

“The process of adapting to change and loss takes energy. Grief is draining, sometimes exhausting. Some people need to “cocoon for transformation,” in Pat Carnes’s words, while going through grief.

We may feel more tired than usual. Our ability to function well in other areas of our life may be reduced, temporarily. We may want to hide out in the safety of our bedroom.

Grief is heavy. It can wear us down.

It’s okay to be gentle with ourselves when we’re going through change and grief . . . we can be compassionate with ourselves. We do not have to expect more from ourselves than we can deliver during this time. We do not even have to expect as much from ourselves as we would normally and reasonably expect.

We may need more rest, more sleep, more comfort. We may be more needy and have less to give. It is okay to accept ourselves, and our changed needs, during times of grief, stress, and change.

It is okay to allow ourselves to cocoon during times of transformation. We can surrender to the process, and trust that anew, exciting energy is being created within us.

Before long, we will take wings and fly.

Peace out, folks.

WUI

I’ve come up with a new acronym. We’ve got DUI, which can refer to quite a number of “influences.” But what about writing? WUI. (Or should it be said “Triple-UI?” Because “Double U, U, I” is hard to say . . . anyway.) Writing Under the Influence. It’ll be stamped to all books written with unnatural substances in the author’s body—the way they’ve stamped doper across Lance Armstrong. Great idea, right? People will get back into reading because it will involve scandal and drama. Until the doping deal went down, no one gave a rat’s ass about cycling, except for Lance, his record number of wins in a row, and I’m sure the French cared. And us goofy bike lovers. Moreover, the authors—who, as Donald Miller says, “get paid a dollar”—would be getting their book covers on cereal boxes. Sponsored. “I got Cornelius here, how bout you??” “I got the NRA. And rooster for dinner sounds fiiine.” Author trash talk. It’d be classy. But what about folks like me?? If I’m not under the influence, it becomes very clear why I have a seat reserved for me in hell. The drugs just make me capable of being semi-pleasant and present while I’m on earth. Would a WUI be awarded, er, would my writing be condoned with a WUI for my use of mind-altering drugs?? Or would WUIs be stamped on the books of those who should be on drugs but have failed to take them and therefore have written without them? Not taking them is a trip. That’s a sticky issue. If so, this paper has been condoned.

                                                      WUI

Rambling? Yup. It's Rambling . . .

Effexor. Don’t ever take it. Even if it works, missing a day is a bitch. It’s as if the meds had never been in one’s system. It’s sick. Not to mention it is a $200+ dollar drug. Without insurance. We have a high deductible to hit before insurance kicks in. So puking up $200 a month for some spin-off of tri-cyclic depressants, because it’s new and oh-so-exciting and if not we’d have to use those old one’s with all their side effects. Hmm. Name a few. Do they include a hard, fast fall back to depressed out of the ability to simply put on shoes and walk outside? Tingling down the arms? Episodes of vertigo? Inability to focus? All at once? Or is it just “weight gain?” Because I can handle that.

            Of course, that raises the questions of how. Of course you can, I can hear Reagan saying, of course. Smart-ass. Hey—if my counselor can call me that, I’ll shoot it right back at her. It’s an equal playing field.

            That may be what I like most about working with Reagan, why she is the first counselor who actually stuck. She treats me like an equal. She doesn’t hide her humanity from me. It helps that I went to her with my palms up saying, “I don’t know what I need; I’m following directions. The doctor-doctor told me to come here. You know, the one you go to if you’re sick or need a physical . . .” Even so, while the client-therapist relationship is respected, she tells me stories of her morning runs, her time back with family in Chicago—she’s not cold. We have mutual friends. It’s a small area. But I’d bet, if we had met through those people, we’d have hit it off as friends. But I can only guess so and I can only trust her because of her openness. 

I Wanna be like Peter Pan . . .

What do you want to be when you grow up??

Well, I didn’t have plans to grow up, actually . . .

What does possibly graduating college have to do with anything?

Fine.

I could hop into the teacher circuit. Get credentialed and find out if that hayride is worth the fleas. That was the plan. But in my drug induced dreams (kidding . . .) I have come up with some projects (that other, more motivated people can do for me)

Bikes for Better

Problem: Colleges are so stinkin’ wasteful. I see it every year when Calvin hauls these big-ass metal catch-alls for crap onto campus—a lot of them. Last year, I saw two kids—excuse me, young men—throw a bike each into one of these metal monstrosities.  !  Excuse me? What on earth do you thi—oh wait, you’re not thinking. Currently, there is a bike missing a wheel and no longer chained to, simply leaned against, a bike rack. It needs a new chain. The gears? Probably rusted out. The frame? Fine. Perfectly fine. Trash? No.

Solution: Bikes for the community program. Create a program to collect defunct bikes, salvage parts, and create functioning bikes for low-income families in the neighborhood.

Bona fide

Be Open, Not Alone. Friends In Disguise Education. Maybe that’s an overboard, stretched title. ;) Junior year of high school I worked with Keidi Lewis (Beck) in the ESL classroom. We had a small group of students from both the High School and the Junior High. One boy from the junior high had somehow missed a huge chunk of education, including cultural expectations concerning behavior and authority. I loved him. When he became too out of control or mouthed off or was simply distracting the other students, I would go on walks with him. Often, he needed to blow off steam. I tried to help him do so without damaging anything, gently guiding him away from trouble. Once he calmed, he would start to talk. He had an excited little soul, very innocent in some ways, although ragged for such a youngster. We would have push-up, pull up, and sit up contests, then race on the track. ESL? Mmmm, not so much. Worthwhile? I hope, for him, that it was. He was alone in his anger so often but when we left the classroom and he realized I cared, he opened. We both learned from each other; we were Friends In Disguise. Maybe there is something out there like that. Mentoring. I don’t know. That’d be sweet.

I could teach ESL abroad. Go on backpacking trips with inner-city kids. Start a Trader Joe’s in Grand Rapids. It would do well. Get a job at Mountain Roasting. Take it over for Steve. And totally revamp the sucker. It’s too expensive and the quality has gone ker-ploop.

Or start my own Coffee Shop and Bakery with Eric. More to come on that one :)

The blog returns--BANG!!

“One’s drinkin’, one’s smokin’, one’s takin’ pills” (“Takin’ Pills” Pistol Annies) . . . well, I think I fill those three roles for my apartment. I doubt, to be a professional stereotype-er, any of the three have smoked. Drank? Meh. With their parents or on abroad trips. Voted left? Hell no. One has a “NOBAMA” sticker on her car. Or had. Her uncle pulled off the N. She flipped when she saw it saying “OBAMA” and took it off entirely. The other two of the apartment, their eyes just about fell out of their head upon hearing the story, the horror! So I brought an Obama poster back from the “Calvin Democrats” table. It’s a pity there was no Green Party table. Last I checked, my overall views balanced closer to Jill Stein. I surprised myself. I thought I’d be uncannily more conservative than I'd like to think of myself. Anyway. All that to say, the boy-band-listening, loud, excitable juniors with whom I live and I are quite different. It’s somewhat entertaining. Lucky for all of us, I’m quiet, and keep my country to myself (“you can kiss my country ass”). The Spanish cigarettes are in their original packaging, in California; the alcohol, well, it’s a dry campus, and they’re not 21 and I’m cheap; but am I takin’ pills? They sure as hell hope so. They don’t know it. But they hope so. Or there will be an Annie shaped carcass slothing about stupidly.