I am still in food coma from the delicious dinner party recently attended, like, an hour ago, at my friend Mary's place, in honor of my departure to California. See, we hogged out on cheese and crackers, fruits and wine, and the best part of all was the tasty announcement that I am staying in the city and thus available for more dinner parties. Woohoo!!
Last time I hung out with Miss Mair we concluded our bar evening with a cheese spread, crackers, fruit and water. The idea of having a dinner party consisting entirely of "schmeary" stuff was born.
My contribution to tonight's event was an Apricot and Jalapeno baked brie, served with apples and animal crackers.
Originally, I wanted to do a Chokecherry Ancho chili cheese spread with crackers or tortillas, but it didn't come together for me the way I wanted to this afternoon. Necessity is the mother of invention, and since I had the jalapenos, I whipped up this ooeygooey dish instead.
Here's what you need:
1/4 c. jalapenos, cored seeded and diced
1/2 c. stewed apricots
1/4 c. pecans, coarsely chopped
Mix up wet ingredients in a food processor, and you've got your spread.
At first, I thought this might stand alone quite well, paired with the animal crackers, as a dessert "schmear." It tasted good, but then I decided that since cheese makes everything better, I'd add brie.
Get one 8 oz. round of brie, and one can of crescent rolls (or use puff pastry), and spread this dough out on a piece of oiled tinfoil, making a shape as close to a circle as you can get. I used generic crescent roll dough, so it was a little thin, but held up in the oven just fine.
Cut your brie in half, then, rind side down, put it on the tinfoil. Poke holes in it and spread a layer of the jalapeno mixture over this, letting it sink in. Add more goo if necessary. Once you've added enough, spread a layer of pecans on the goo. Put the other piece of brie on it, rind side up, then poke holes in that too. Spread jalapeno goo one more time, add a few more pecans, cover the cheese up with the dough, crimping any edges to prevent jalapeno spread from oozing out. If you used too much jalapeno spread, it will "melt" out the sides of the dough, but shouldn't be too much of a problem.
To seal the dough, whisk one egg until frothy, then baste dough. Sprinkle remaining pecans on top, and pop the thing into an oven set at 450'. Ten minutes gives you a nice golden crust.
Core and cut a large Granny Smith apple (or two), dig out the animal crackers, and dig in.
I had a room mate who once did something like this with brown sugar and butter instead of the apricot and jalapeno, but I must say, the spicy kick and the fruity sweetness are such a great combination.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Universal (health) care
Without a second thought, I decide to stay in Chicago. Over the invisible buzz of cellular connections, Jay's instability and true nature become deafeningly clear, and I know in that one nanosecond that going to California would be the biggest mistake of my present life.
When I make this decision, it feels better and more right immediately than any of the considerations I had given to Cali over the past couple of weeks. Back and forth, back and forth I've gone over this dumb decision, knowing and yet not wanting to know, that Chicago is where I belong. I need to trust myself, my intuition, my own sense of crazy self-knowledge and just listen when the universe tells me something.
And last Saturday, it told me in a big way that I needed to stay in Chicago and work on the spirit/soul part of my life, the heat's desire that I guess has been present in some latent stage for a while.
So I'm staying. I feel crazy sometimes, like my logical and impulsive selves are raging inside me and consistently threatening to tear me apart and split my very consciousness in half.
Which is why there are a stack of yoga studio brochures on my desk and a clear spot for meditation on my floor.
Since I left for Thailand I've known that I really need to get in touch with whatever is out there that is keeping me (barely) sane and protecting me from the injurious shit I put myself through. And since I got back from Thailand, the few times I've made it into Mountain pose or Warrior Pose or even just Child's pose I've felt so much better about myself and what my "purpose" is. So why would I not just focus on that instead of these external distractions like Cali or anything else?
Yep, I feel crazy sometimes, and I feel like each blog is just a public display of that insanity, but somehow, in writing it here, for all the world (whomever may find it, that is) to see, I'm absolving myself of it instead of keeping it close to my, tucked away in a private journal somewhere. Is that crazy too? *sigh* Oh, probably.
When I make this decision, it feels better and more right immediately than any of the considerations I had given to Cali over the past couple of weeks. Back and forth, back and forth I've gone over this dumb decision, knowing and yet not wanting to know, that Chicago is where I belong. I need to trust myself, my intuition, my own sense of crazy self-knowledge and just listen when the universe tells me something.
And last Saturday, it told me in a big way that I needed to stay in Chicago and work on the spirit/soul part of my life, the heat's desire that I guess has been present in some latent stage for a while.
So I'm staying. I feel crazy sometimes, like my logical and impulsive selves are raging inside me and consistently threatening to tear me apart and split my very consciousness in half.
Which is why there are a stack of yoga studio brochures on my desk and a clear spot for meditation on my floor.
Since I left for Thailand I've known that I really need to get in touch with whatever is out there that is keeping me (barely) sane and protecting me from the injurious shit I put myself through. And since I got back from Thailand, the few times I've made it into Mountain pose or Warrior Pose or even just Child's pose I've felt so much better about myself and what my "purpose" is. So why would I not just focus on that instead of these external distractions like Cali or anything else?
Yep, I feel crazy sometimes, and I feel like each blog is just a public display of that insanity, but somehow, in writing it here, for all the world (whomever may find it, that is) to see, I'm absolving myself of it instead of keeping it close to my, tucked away in a private journal somewhere. Is that crazy too? *sigh* Oh, probably.
The hoboes
The kids talk to me before I talk to them.
"Her name is Jazz," says the one in a faded purple shirt, right after the white puppy trots after me. She's got a bandana around her neck and a brown spot over her left eye, and when she hears her name, her forehead wrinkles into a story of puppy love and recognition of the boy's voice.
He is slouched against an old building in Uptown, the one right around the corner from the Lawrence stop, and without shoes, his feet are cut and dirty, blackened like tar on the bottom. I saw them as I came around the corner onto Broadway, noticing the sign before the sprawl of legs and cardboard cushions.
"Hungry, Hungry Hobos," drawls the back of a notebook, black sharpie on creased yellow paper.
I pause, look at it, but without cash or snacks, I walk on. What can I do?
"She just loves people," the boy adds as I walk away, and that's all it takes.
Matt tells me his story as I sit, folding my legs underneath me. He's a carpenter, he and his woman split a while back, and he misses his tools, god how he misses coming home from work and working the rough grain of knotty wood into the curved lines of chairs and other art.
At 25, Matt is the oldest of the group, but he has the boyish good looks of Huck Finn, a real-life story in front of me. Hair curled and messy from a week on the road, he is cute, but looks so young, especially when pairing the curls with the rolled up jean bottoms and bare feet.
I talk with Matt about his travels, warming the sidewalk opposite the Green Mill, and for a couple of hours, I watch the world pass by with these dirty children of the road.
They are going to California, going to work in the "fields," take part in the grand harvest that approaches.
"We're going to make 20 bucks an hour, make some money, man," says the other boy around a mouthful of bottle.
At 22, Chris has already been out to Cali for the harvest once before, and this adventure isn't the first one taking him cross-country on the free ticket found in the back of a freight train.
"I don't have any work lined up, not yet," he tells me, pulling thoughtfully on the cigarette his girlfriend rolled moments before. "But I've been out there in the past, and I hope to get some carpentry work too, get in with the locals, you know."
Jillian nods her head at this idea, nubby brown pigtails bouncing in agreement. She has been silent, plucking absently at a small guitar, but once she joins the conversation, her quick chirp clips along with youthful enthusiasm.
"Have you been out there before?" she asks me, eager to hear my take on it. "I hear it's supposed to be really great."
I tell her that I haven't, but yes, have heard good things. At 20, Jill is the youngest member on this adventure, and I can see why she's drawn to Chris.
He wears his scruff in a way that becomes him: a shadow of the road spreading across his face whether he intends it to or not. He's tall and lanky, and as she leans into him, his arms wrap around her, white and bare against the gray fabric of her sweater. I know exactly how it is that she feels, a short little girl taken care of by her tall hippie boy, but I can't say that I really miss that feeling. Not tonight, not anymore.
But it's more than this outward physical thing that draws her to him. This too, I know. It's his life.
Chris has lived. He's hopped trains before, he's harvested crops and stories with others in Cali, and because he is all the things that a career in dental hygiene is not, she is enamored and brought to life by this.
I can see it in her face as she calls a friend on her phone and squeals out the story of the day in Chicago. She is young and in love, and I remember what that's like at 20, how my own tall lanky boy made me feel back then, and earlier. I like Jill because her sense of adventure runs deep, and I imagine that's what Chris likes about her too. He's teaching her about the world, his world, and she's eager to hear it all. When I tell her about my recent trip to Thailand, her eyes open as wide as her mouth, perfect circles of awe and excitement, and I hope that she is as eager to embrace calamity as she sounds, should it befall her on this trip. She has considered this possibility, and is afraid of what will happen if the cops take Chris away. They almost did that at Union Station today, but when I ask her if they've discussed a strategy for that, I see disbelief and fear color her face more than the streetlight illumination from above.
"God, what would I do? We haven't even talked about it, no."
She stares down at Jazz for a minute, and then snuggles into Chris' side, feeling the emptiness of a life on the road without her man. What would she do? I would like to think she'd figure it out, maybe late, but better then than never. That's what I did.
Up until Monday, I had planned on going to California, too. Not so much to take part in the harvest, exactly, but to be part of that culture of people who pass the seasons waiting for it like my family waits for the first spring-time sprout of life to color the fields.
A mess since my return to the states from Thailand, I was unhappy in Chicago, ill-at-ease among the skyscrapers and dull sheen of life in the US. Thailand had been too much, too much fun, too much happiness, too much… everything, and life in Chicago had been boring and flat, a watercolor wash of grey day after grey day.
So when I started fucking a friend in California and he suggested I move out there, first I thought "no, what a terrible idea." And then as the weeks passed each other with the slow monotony of spring in the Midwest, it sounded better and better, almost perfect. Not because I anticipated any sort of real life out there, but because it wasn't Chicago, which wasn't Thailand.
I looked at apartments here, evaded the real world and sought refuge from it in my books and my writing, and the night before I signed a lease on the most boho apartment I could find, my friend said that yes, if I went to California, everything would work out. For a few days I even believed it, and then, after posting my few possessions on craigslist and ending my lease, the reality of the situation came to pass, taking with it the charm and illusion of sandy shores and a life of stoned simplicity in the sun.
What is it about going West that reaches for the American spirit like stalks to the sky? How was this story started, and who perpetuates it to this day? These kids grew up together, friends in Baltimore, east coast elites gone organic, escaping the hum of existence by hopping trains and sleeping on sidewalks. I wanted to do that once, around the same time I thought living like a broke writer would be so bohemian and 1950s.
"How very 'beat' I'd be" I cleverly thought to myself, imagining all of the scenes from a Ginsberg or Kerouac epic in my own bedroom. "How very perfect for the storyteller in me, all of those bodies and lives and sorrows crashing against the stable shoreline of my being. It would be the life to end all lives, the adventure and chaos of a life lived to its fullest that I've always sought.
And then as quickly and randomly as the idea of attempting a life in California was proposed, the allure of it rubbed off like some dollar-store trinket gone brassy in the western sun. The dream, or the illusion of the dream imagined by someone else, someone I'm not, fell from the sky. And like a candle holder chipped and shattered against the cold tile of my floor, I swept it up and threw it away.
By 1 am Jill was needing sleep, and I could see a fight in her shoulders, if they didn't get to going where ever it was that they could sleep tonight soon.
"If my doorman isn't around, you can stay at my place," I offered, sparking a flame in her eyes and a glance upward from Matt, who was buried in his journal, Sharpie in hand. Chris smiled, busy chatting with the homeless and probably schizophrenic man laughing crazily at our feet.
"But with Jazz, the lobby has to be empty or else it won't work," I continued, hoping the man would go away before we headed to my place. The idea of showers and food had garnered their attention, and I felt bad for bringing it up, knowing that the doorman was probably around.
"I'll go home and check, then call you if it'll work."
My block came up quickly, lit up and alive, even at 1 am. The neighborhood has gentrified, and instead of my own neighborhood schizophrenic, it is my maintenance man and his wife, out with their baby, I run into at this late hour. We wave, cross paths, and I enter the lobby. How different our lives are, all of them.
This small family of three, neat and tidy at 1 am; me, sweaty and dirty in running gear and puppy tracks offering my home to another family of sorts. Am I crazier than the man laughing outside?
I think of the kids I've just met as I pack crackers and fruit and granola bars into a plastic bag. I can't get them in, not tonight, but if I make it back there before they seek shelter, maybe I can feed them. Maybe I can take care of them in the only way in have at this hour.
My train rattles along up the track, past Argyle, past Berwyn, back into Bryn Mawr. I get off slowly, letting the drunks stagger warm, boozy circles around me. The night has cooled down, and I wonder where the hobos will sleep tonight, how far their train will take them tomorrow; if Chris will get caught and separated from his mamma," and what Jill will do if he does.
"I didn't get much sleep last night," Jill said as we parted ways. "So I've got to get some tonight. Sleeping on the train is hard, and with Jazz, if I have to hold her… my arms…oh, it's just hard."
I nod my head in agreement, imagining that it is indeed, a challenge. But what do I know of hopping trains and holding sleeping puppies and chasing someone across the country because "that's what you do?" That's not what I do.
What do I know of trains and harvests and feet as black as the midnight tar on the street outside?
What I know is Chicago, and my own sense of adventure, my own heart and the things that I love: words and stories, not people. I know the way the right ones seem to find me, the stories that make whole my life in a way that the living of it never does.
What I know is that in another lifetime, I might have hopped a train and rattled off to Cali to chase some dream and some adventure. But not now. Not tonight. Not anymore. Instead, I will return to my apartment, sit on my couch, legs once again folded and firm beneath me, and capture the essence of this life lived in a night in my own words. And for me, for now, in this lifetime, that is good enough
"Her name is Jazz," says the one in a faded purple shirt, right after the white puppy trots after me. She's got a bandana around her neck and a brown spot over her left eye, and when she hears her name, her forehead wrinkles into a story of puppy love and recognition of the boy's voice.
He is slouched against an old building in Uptown, the one right around the corner from the Lawrence stop, and without shoes, his feet are cut and dirty, blackened like tar on the bottom. I saw them as I came around the corner onto Broadway, noticing the sign before the sprawl of legs and cardboard cushions.
"Hungry, Hungry Hobos," drawls the back of a notebook, black sharpie on creased yellow paper.
I pause, look at it, but without cash or snacks, I walk on. What can I do?
"She just loves people," the boy adds as I walk away, and that's all it takes.
Matt tells me his story as I sit, folding my legs underneath me. He's a carpenter, he and his woman split a while back, and he misses his tools, god how he misses coming home from work and working the rough grain of knotty wood into the curved lines of chairs and other art.
At 25, Matt is the oldest of the group, but he has the boyish good looks of Huck Finn, a real-life story in front of me. Hair curled and messy from a week on the road, he is cute, but looks so young, especially when pairing the curls with the rolled up jean bottoms and bare feet.
I talk with Matt about his travels, warming the sidewalk opposite the Green Mill, and for a couple of hours, I watch the world pass by with these dirty children of the road.
They are going to California, going to work in the "fields," take part in the grand harvest that approaches.
"We're going to make 20 bucks an hour, make some money, man," says the other boy around a mouthful of bottle.
At 22, Chris has already been out to Cali for the harvest once before, and this adventure isn't the first one taking him cross-country on the free ticket found in the back of a freight train.
"I don't have any work lined up, not yet," he tells me, pulling thoughtfully on the cigarette his girlfriend rolled moments before. "But I've been out there in the past, and I hope to get some carpentry work too, get in with the locals, you know."
Jillian nods her head at this idea, nubby brown pigtails bouncing in agreement. She has been silent, plucking absently at a small guitar, but once she joins the conversation, her quick chirp clips along with youthful enthusiasm.
"Have you been out there before?" she asks me, eager to hear my take on it. "I hear it's supposed to be really great."
I tell her that I haven't, but yes, have heard good things. At 20, Jill is the youngest member on this adventure, and I can see why she's drawn to Chris.
He wears his scruff in a way that becomes him: a shadow of the road spreading across his face whether he intends it to or not. He's tall and lanky, and as she leans into him, his arms wrap around her, white and bare against the gray fabric of her sweater. I know exactly how it is that she feels, a short little girl taken care of by her tall hippie boy, but I can't say that I really miss that feeling. Not tonight, not anymore.
But it's more than this outward physical thing that draws her to him. This too, I know. It's his life.
Chris has lived. He's hopped trains before, he's harvested crops and stories with others in Cali, and because he is all the things that a career in dental hygiene is not, she is enamored and brought to life by this.
I can see it in her face as she calls a friend on her phone and squeals out the story of the day in Chicago. She is young and in love, and I remember what that's like at 20, how my own tall lanky boy made me feel back then, and earlier. I like Jill because her sense of adventure runs deep, and I imagine that's what Chris likes about her too. He's teaching her about the world, his world, and she's eager to hear it all. When I tell her about my recent trip to Thailand, her eyes open as wide as her mouth, perfect circles of awe and excitement, and I hope that she is as eager to embrace calamity as she sounds, should it befall her on this trip. She has considered this possibility, and is afraid of what will happen if the cops take Chris away. They almost did that at Union Station today, but when I ask her if they've discussed a strategy for that, I see disbelief and fear color her face more than the streetlight illumination from above.
"God, what would I do? We haven't even talked about it, no."
She stares down at Jazz for a minute, and then snuggles into Chris' side, feeling the emptiness of a life on the road without her man. What would she do? I would like to think she'd figure it out, maybe late, but better then than never. That's what I did.
Up until Monday, I had planned on going to California, too. Not so much to take part in the harvest, exactly, but to be part of that culture of people who pass the seasons waiting for it like my family waits for the first spring-time sprout of life to color the fields.
A mess since my return to the states from Thailand, I was unhappy in Chicago, ill-at-ease among the skyscrapers and dull sheen of life in the US. Thailand had been too much, too much fun, too much happiness, too much… everything, and life in Chicago had been boring and flat, a watercolor wash of grey day after grey day.
So when I started fucking a friend in California and he suggested I move out there, first I thought "no, what a terrible idea." And then as the weeks passed each other with the slow monotony of spring in the Midwest, it sounded better and better, almost perfect. Not because I anticipated any sort of real life out there, but because it wasn't Chicago, which wasn't Thailand.
I looked at apartments here, evaded the real world and sought refuge from it in my books and my writing, and the night before I signed a lease on the most boho apartment I could find, my friend said that yes, if I went to California, everything would work out. For a few days I even believed it, and then, after posting my few possessions on craigslist and ending my lease, the reality of the situation came to pass, taking with it the charm and illusion of sandy shores and a life of stoned simplicity in the sun.
What is it about going West that reaches for the American spirit like stalks to the sky? How was this story started, and who perpetuates it to this day? These kids grew up together, friends in Baltimore, east coast elites gone organic, escaping the hum of existence by hopping trains and sleeping on sidewalks. I wanted to do that once, around the same time I thought living like a broke writer would be so bohemian and 1950s.
"How very 'beat' I'd be" I cleverly thought to myself, imagining all of the scenes from a Ginsberg or Kerouac epic in my own bedroom. "How very perfect for the storyteller in me, all of those bodies and lives and sorrows crashing against the stable shoreline of my being. It would be the life to end all lives, the adventure and chaos of a life lived to its fullest that I've always sought.
And then as quickly and randomly as the idea of attempting a life in California was proposed, the allure of it rubbed off like some dollar-store trinket gone brassy in the western sun. The dream, or the illusion of the dream imagined by someone else, someone I'm not, fell from the sky. And like a candle holder chipped and shattered against the cold tile of my floor, I swept it up and threw it away.
By 1 am Jill was needing sleep, and I could see a fight in her shoulders, if they didn't get to going where ever it was that they could sleep tonight soon.
"If my doorman isn't around, you can stay at my place," I offered, sparking a flame in her eyes and a glance upward from Matt, who was buried in his journal, Sharpie in hand. Chris smiled, busy chatting with the homeless and probably schizophrenic man laughing crazily at our feet.
"But with Jazz, the lobby has to be empty or else it won't work," I continued, hoping the man would go away before we headed to my place. The idea of showers and food had garnered their attention, and I felt bad for bringing it up, knowing that the doorman was probably around.
"I'll go home and check, then call you if it'll work."
My block came up quickly, lit up and alive, even at 1 am. The neighborhood has gentrified, and instead of my own neighborhood schizophrenic, it is my maintenance man and his wife, out with their baby, I run into at this late hour. We wave, cross paths, and I enter the lobby. How different our lives are, all of them.
This small family of three, neat and tidy at 1 am; me, sweaty and dirty in running gear and puppy tracks offering my home to another family of sorts. Am I crazier than the man laughing outside?
I think of the kids I've just met as I pack crackers and fruit and granola bars into a plastic bag. I can't get them in, not tonight, but if I make it back there before they seek shelter, maybe I can feed them. Maybe I can take care of them in the only way in have at this hour.
My train rattles along up the track, past Argyle, past Berwyn, back into Bryn Mawr. I get off slowly, letting the drunks stagger warm, boozy circles around me. The night has cooled down, and I wonder where the hobos will sleep tonight, how far their train will take them tomorrow; if Chris will get caught and separated from his mamma," and what Jill will do if he does.
"I didn't get much sleep last night," Jill said as we parted ways. "So I've got to get some tonight. Sleeping on the train is hard, and with Jazz, if I have to hold her… my arms…oh, it's just hard."
I nod my head in agreement, imagining that it is indeed, a challenge. But what do I know of hopping trains and holding sleeping puppies and chasing someone across the country because "that's what you do?" That's not what I do.
What do I know of trains and harvests and feet as black as the midnight tar on the street outside?
What I know is Chicago, and my own sense of adventure, my own heart and the things that I love: words and stories, not people. I know the way the right ones seem to find me, the stories that make whole my life in a way that the living of it never does.
What I know is that in another lifetime, I might have hopped a train and rattled off to Cali to chase some dream and some adventure. But not now. Not tonight. Not anymore. Instead, I will return to my apartment, sit on my couch, legs once again folded and firm beneath me, and capture the essence of this life lived in a night in my own words. And for me, for now, in this lifetime, that is good enough
Saturday, July 12, 2008
spechless
Ijust found the most incredible blogger over at wordpress. Please, please do youself a favor and check her out.
Her knowledge of what it is to be in this world and of another is obvious, and the way she captures the ethereal in her writing has made me a new fan.
Capricorn lady, an ode to herself, is incredible. And ode to herself. I love it, of course: another woman with as much moxie and voice as I'd like to think I have.Go. NOW!!
Her knowledge of what it is to be in this world and of another is obvious, and the way she captures the ethereal in her writing has made me a new fan.
Capricorn lady, an ode to herself, is incredible. And ode to herself. I love it, of course: another woman with as much moxie and voice as I'd like to think I have.Go. NOW!!
Friday, July 11, 2008
I'm with Stupid
People are so funny.
I was at the Rehabilitation Institute this afternoon for a Peer Volunteer in-service meeting, and after we got done viewing the videos and worksheets Carrie, our volunteer coordinator, put together for us, she opened up the meeting to see what we'd been up to over the past months, in terms of how our visits were going, what was bugging us, etc.
I was at the Rehabilitation Institute this afternoon for a Peer Volunteer in-service meeting, and after we got done viewing the videos and worksheets Carrie, our volunteer coordinator, put together for us, she opened up the meeting to see what we'd been up to over the past months, in terms of how our visits were going, what was bugging us, etc.
I was going to bring up a new experience with hidden disabilities, and then, a fellow volunteer, "Mr. G," I'll call him, said that he thought there should be handicapped parking spots only for people in wheelchairs, because he "never sees anyone with a disability at Target."
Gasp. This from my own "community!"
Now maybe the meaning behind his statement is legitimate. Maybe he feels as if he can't find a spot and doesn't see many other people using wheelchairs to get around. I can understand that. But that does NOT mean that every "upright" citizen is a non-disabled individual. Just because some of us in the disabled community don't look it doesn't mean there aren't issues there.
I was so pissed. I don't ever park in those spots, realizing that someone else with a far greater disability than my vision problems or seizure-tasticness might need the spot, but the fact of the matter is that he was being just as discriminatory and ignorant as any of the people who prevented the ADA from becoming a reality decades ago. In that moment, he was one of the people who he had just berated moments ago.
I'm putting together a presentation to orient people to the idea of hidden disabilities and educate them on avoiding situations exactly like this one, so this whole discussion totally surprised me. We had been talking about the 18th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act being signed into law on July 26, 1990, and how shocking it is that only for 18 years have the disabled been "given" their right to equality. And then there he sat, generalizing, in saying that my ability to get around without obvious distress meant I couldn't park in that spot, should I need to. I would never assume what a day in his chair is like, so how could he even make that sort of statement, about what a day inside another's eyes or ears or mental cognition could be?
I'm having a hard time putting this presentation together, mostly because I don't know where to begin in terms of disability education, I don't want to be redundant, and I also don't know who to target as an audience.
I'm having a hard time putting this presentation together, mostly because I don't know where to begin in terms of disability education, I don't want to be redundant, and I also don't know who to target as an audience.
I was thinking it would be those people who are completely ignorant to the idea of any disability, but now I see that I'm going to have to include those who already know what discrimination is like. Having spent some time mulling it over this afternoon, now instead of still being entirely fired up over it (although a little peevey still, yes), I've come to the conclusion that no matter how far anyone struggling for equal rights has come, there are always more people to reach. Even within the front lines, as it turns out.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
You sayin' my pussy's not sexy?
love Jezebel. It's sex and celebrity and stupid shit like that, but with a purpose. Sometimes.
The article catching my eye today, however, is entitled "Get a Sexier Vagina" and I'll just let you take a peek by looking here.
At the site, not me, silly.
You'll see that this is about a "vaginal rejuvenation" clinic in, where else, L.A. Vaj rejuv is plastic surgery for, well duh, your vagina.
The article catching my eye today, however, is entitled "Get a Sexier Vagina" and I'll just let you take a peek by looking here.
At the site, not me, silly.
You'll see that this is about a "vaginal rejuvenation" clinic in, where else, L.A. Vaj rejuv is plastic surgery for, well duh, your vagina.
Now, upon my first examination of this site, I was incredulous.
The fact that something like this exists is ridiculous. I don't even like spending money on my toenails, making them look pretty (so I don't) with a pedi, let alone droppin' 18 Gs on some slicing and dicing. But what does this say about our culture? No wonder people in other countries look at use like we're materialistic, shallow zombies. I know that those who get the vagiplasty are in the minority, but this is the sort of crack pot stuff that gets disseminated and then speaks poorly about all of us.
I've never been one to think the vj looks too pretty, but I certainly wouldn't go as far as having mine sliced up and reworked. I don't hae to look at it, so what do I care?!
Well, upon further examination (of the site), I clicked on the photo gallery, my purient interestes winning. And let me tell you, I have bitten my tongue. There is a reason something like this exists.
I'm still a little horrified that our culture is so insistent upon bodily "perfection" that we have these alternatives now, but if I can honestly say I'd consider a breast lift (not an increase in size, just a lift), then perhaps I'm being a bit hippocritical here.
To learn more, go to the site here.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Gift from the Lake
And suddenly, she felt old, aged like the day as it burns through the sky toward nightfall. Gone were the vibrant, showy hues of intense red and molten orange one feels as the sun reaches for the horizon; here, instead, were the soft pinks, a wash of watery violet, a hint of solid cerulean where the sky becomes earth.
It wasn’t this gradual though, this feeling of… finality. It wasn’t as if she had seen it coming out her window, as she had seen the sun dip down below the concrete skyline and color the night. No, this feeling was sudden, and once upon her, complete. There was no time to panic and rush about, ripping off the drapes to catch the last hint of golden color glinting off distant glass. Once the consciousness of this was upon her, it was complete, a blanket of acceptance as deep and calm as the night’s approach.
She paused, feeling the sand around her and the boom of jets above, and settled into the feeling. It was neither surprising nor disappointing, as she had imagined it might be. The acceptance of this place in her life, was just that, acceptance. Like acceptance of the sunset, and sunrise, and the promise of a new day, she had, after all, that known all along it would happen eventually. That it would feel like this.
Perhaps that’s why she had put off the actions and relationships that had brought it on all these years. Some part of her psyche, the part that in youth, lies dormant and still, that part had always known this day was coming, had remained silent, allowing her to spend sunrise after sunrise in the company of others, or herself, so that she could better understand the certainty of it when it came.
There is no way to prevent the setting of the sun, nor the rising of it, though the foolish, or the daring—and it is possible to be both at the same time—m may try. It wasn’t that she learned this only for the first time in the twilight of her walk along the beach, just that she knew the time had come to remember it for herself.
And now, that that time had arrived, spread itself quietly and softly across the expanse of her being, this too, she settled into, waiting. She hadn’t changed, no more in that minute than any other before, and yet with the combination of all past minutes and moments, she had changed dramatically. She was a progression of life experiences; truths and mistakes and ideas comprised her being. This too, she recognized and accepted, with what she believed was the wisdom of someone who has lived enough life to reflect upon.
And more than anything, more than “age” or finality, it was wisdom that she felt, indescribably so.
Wisdom, because she felt that she had learned how to pair that daring with this new life, and she felt like she had been blessed with a summation of parts, her parts, and a unique understanding of their relation to the parts of others. Her sense of daring, that which she imagined would fade, or be taken entirely from her, with the choice now made, was replaced now by a sense of stepping into the unknown, in an entirely new and different way.
For her years of presence and solitude, she had received the ability to see herself for what she was, on her own, which held the excitement and chase of life she craved. In its place now, was a foreign and welcome change of pace, a new opportunity to trust the person she had become with an adventure not entirely her own.
And finally, when the sun set and she ended her day, quietly, alone, waiting, she accepted that this too, was what she wanted, all along. The solitude of self occasionally interrupted to make room for and a life with another equally composed and daring being.
I've been reading "Gift from the Sea," by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, and I think it's easy to see here the influence her writing had on me as I wandered by Lake Michigan and then as I sat down to write. In her collection of essays and thoughts on what it is to be a "modern" woman, Lindbergh uses her experience as a woman, wife, mother and artist to craft a collection of well-written lines based on the gifts of time and clarity and sea life she received during her beach-front vacationing.
The writing spans 1955-75, and yet her book is as timeless as the beach itself, a well thought-out analysis of self and literary construction. I've always admired her stance, even if the idea of putting kids and a husband before myself has been pretty much non-existent in my life (It's uncanny how close this parallels the life of Charles Lindbergh, famed pilot and yes, husband to Anne Morrow).
But this evening, while easing my achy joints (go strep throat) into action, I was suddenly hit with the realization that I am going off to live with a man not as a room mate but as, well... a partner? This paradigm shift hasn't left me frazzled or anything, but I think it may be some combination of antibiotics and sleepiness that are numbing me to it.
And then again, with all seriousness, I know that not only do I want a sun to awake to new light each day, I'm ready for someone to be there with me as it happens.
It wasn’t this gradual though, this feeling of… finality. It wasn’t as if she had seen it coming out her window, as she had seen the sun dip down below the concrete skyline and color the night. No, this feeling was sudden, and once upon her, complete. There was no time to panic and rush about, ripping off the drapes to catch the last hint of golden color glinting off distant glass. Once the consciousness of this was upon her, it was complete, a blanket of acceptance as deep and calm as the night’s approach.
She paused, feeling the sand around her and the boom of jets above, and settled into the feeling. It was neither surprising nor disappointing, as she had imagined it might be. The acceptance of this place in her life, was just that, acceptance. Like acceptance of the sunset, and sunrise, and the promise of a new day, she had, after all, that known all along it would happen eventually. That it would feel like this.
Perhaps that’s why she had put off the actions and relationships that had brought it on all these years. Some part of her psyche, the part that in youth, lies dormant and still, that part had always known this day was coming, had remained silent, allowing her to spend sunrise after sunrise in the company of others, or herself, so that she could better understand the certainty of it when it came.
There is no way to prevent the setting of the sun, nor the rising of it, though the foolish, or the daring—and it is possible to be both at the same time—m may try. It wasn’t that she learned this only for the first time in the twilight of her walk along the beach, just that she knew the time had come to remember it for herself.
And now, that that time had arrived, spread itself quietly and softly across the expanse of her being, this too, she settled into, waiting. She hadn’t changed, no more in that minute than any other before, and yet with the combination of all past minutes and moments, she had changed dramatically. She was a progression of life experiences; truths and mistakes and ideas comprised her being. This too, she recognized and accepted, with what she believed was the wisdom of someone who has lived enough life to reflect upon.
And more than anything, more than “age” or finality, it was wisdom that she felt, indescribably so.
Wisdom, because she felt that she had learned how to pair that daring with this new life, and she felt like she had been blessed with a summation of parts, her parts, and a unique understanding of their relation to the parts of others. Her sense of daring, that which she imagined would fade, or be taken entirely from her, with the choice now made, was replaced now by a sense of stepping into the unknown, in an entirely new and different way.
For her years of presence and solitude, she had received the ability to see herself for what she was, on her own, which held the excitement and chase of life she craved. In its place now, was a foreign and welcome change of pace, a new opportunity to trust the person she had become with an adventure not entirely her own.
And finally, when the sun set and she ended her day, quietly, alone, waiting, she accepted that this too, was what she wanted, all along. The solitude of self occasionally interrupted to make room for and a life with another equally composed and daring being.
I've been reading "Gift from the Sea," by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, and I think it's easy to see here the influence her writing had on me as I wandered by Lake Michigan and then as I sat down to write. In her collection of essays and thoughts on what it is to be a "modern" woman, Lindbergh uses her experience as a woman, wife, mother and artist to craft a collection of well-written lines based on the gifts of time and clarity and sea life she received during her beach-front vacationing.
The writing spans 1955-75, and yet her book is as timeless as the beach itself, a well thought-out analysis of self and literary construction. I've always admired her stance, even if the idea of putting kids and a husband before myself has been pretty much non-existent in my life (It's uncanny how close this parallels the life of Charles Lindbergh, famed pilot and yes, husband to Anne Morrow).
But this evening, while easing my achy joints (go strep throat) into action, I was suddenly hit with the realization that I am going off to live with a man not as a room mate but as, well... a partner? This paradigm shift hasn't left me frazzled or anything, but I think it may be some combination of antibiotics and sleepiness that are numbing me to it.
And then again, with all seriousness, I know that not only do I want a sun to awake to new light each day, I'm ready for someone to be there with me as it happens.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Reverse psychology
"So what do you want?" is a question I found myself asking a friend the other night when she told me she couldn't find the right job, partner, etc., etc.
I have no judgement, because it's a question I'm often asking myself these days too, one that I seem to come closer and closer to answering with each interrogation of self. But the thing is, I've been brutally honest with myself in trying to answer it, brutally picky about it, and way too interested in all of the wrong things in making my choice.
Tonight, when I asked Jay what he thought about me staying here, and I told him about the house I was going to be in, a complete bohemian crashpad, he reminded me to focus on the book. He reminded me that I don't like living with other people, let alone three or more. And he reminded me why it is that I considered moving out to California to be with him almost immediately after he asked me the first time.
This hasn't come without hassle, however, and I've actually been really in tune to what my body has been telling me with each guy I meet and hang out with lately. God, I'm going to say it... For all of the stuff that worries me about Jay or makes me think twice, these other guys can't even compete with everything that is right about him.
In this choice, as in other important ones, only by making mistakes and taking chances have I found what it is I don't want, and I believe that it is this knowledge that is perhaps easier to understand and hold onto when making choices and understanding what I do want and what is important.
Having determined that traveling and writing and writing about traveling, or "triting" as a friend mistakenly called it, is what I am going to do with myself, I no longer feel like I have to find "the" career right now. If that means I have to teach to do it, so be it. Eventually I will.
January, the MFA, that's all fallen into place. It was just this one last piece I was trying to fit in somehow. And I was worried about it not fitting to my specifications, but when I brought up the whole thing with Jay tonight, he sorted it out and pressed the last part in place with the assurance I needed.
All of this decision making feels good, and if has come at the price of a lot of uncertainty and bored friends and mindless repetition of the same worrisome problem, well, at least it is finally over. And even if I've gone about it the wrong way, I have also finally decided on where I'll be living in a month.
I'm going home to Nebraska for two weeks. Fishing, catching up with friends, maybe even some canning if the garden delights are ready for it. Jay will be out there too, and he's down to hang out with my dad... holy shit. I can't wait. Honestly. And after that, after the two weeks of down time at home, I'm... gulp... off to California.
Making a decision feels almost as good as the certainty that comes with knowing it's the right one.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Chocolate Peanut butter Yellow Cake
I might have been getting my Q on in Cali as far back as April, but BBQ season is finally underway here in the Chi, and for the first Q of the season, I whipped up this scrumptious two-layer peanut butter cake and frosted it with, you guessed it, chocolate peanut butter frosting. It was the perfect nightcap to the apps, Q'd pork tenderloin and halibut. But a bit much to combine with the beer. You should pick one and then wait a while to dive into the other. Be prepared to overindulge if you're one of those people who likes cake and peanut butter and chocolate. Because all three are combined in epic proportions here. Yummers. Mix 1/2 C. peanut butter into the batter for one yellow cake. I cheated here and used a store-bought mix, and the pb made it real moist, so I had no complaints with that.
Pour this into your cake pan; I used two 9" round pans. Bake for about 3o min. at 350, or until cake is done. Your oven temps may vary, so just be mindful of that.
Once your cakes are done, let cool, then frost with the pb frosting below.
Make a regular cream cheese frosting:
Mix 6 oz. of cream cheese
8 oz. of sweet chocolate
2 Tbsp. milk
2 C. powdered sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
then add
1 C. pb
1/2 C. semi-sweet chocolate chips, melted
Dish'er up and bust out the milk!
Chaos theory
Being organized, for myself, is not one of my strong suits. I get easily distracted and off topic and sort of meander my way back to my task at my own pace. If organization is required for another person, I'm able to stick to it and get stuff done with relevance, because I have to. But for me, ha. That's mostly not possible.
So being in the middle of a massive chapter switch and revision is taxing me. Last week's project was outlining the chapters with enough certitude of their final place that i could complete the chapter outline part for the book proposal.
As I sat down with index cards and a green highlighter, I began to feel like there wasn't enough flow between some of the chapters, so I just redid the whole thing, the whole outline. I even threw out some chapters, finding once again, that they didn't belong in this book. Another one, at another time.
After a week of reading and researching, it was nice to take a day off, and in that day, I promised myself that I would work in three hour chunks, to avoid further burnout. This whole plan working. I'm now 60 pages into the new layout, loving the flow, feeling like things are moving forward. It's amazing how much a simple bit of reorganization is all that it took.
This got me thinking. "Organization," to me, has always been a bit of regulated, uptight planning. I'm finding that it is really a re-ordering of my life, or if not life, at least right now, the chapters of my book. I can't seem to get organized anywhere else, try as I might. What does that mean for me? What is organization, by definition?
"The act or process of organizing." Thank you dictionary.com. I need more though. What's organizing?
So being in the middle of a massive chapter switch and revision is taxing me. Last week's project was outlining the chapters with enough certitude of their final place that i could complete the chapter outline part for the book proposal.
As I sat down with index cards and a green highlighter, I began to feel like there wasn't enough flow between some of the chapters, so I just redid the whole thing, the whole outline. I even threw out some chapters, finding once again, that they didn't belong in this book. Another one, at another time.
After a week of reading and researching, it was nice to take a day off, and in that day, I promised myself that I would work in three hour chunks, to avoid further burnout. This whole plan working. I'm now 60 pages into the new layout, loving the flow, feeling like things are moving forward. It's amazing how much a simple bit of reorganization is all that it took.
This got me thinking. "Organization," to me, has always been a bit of regulated, uptight planning. I'm finding that it is really a re-ordering of my life, or if not life, at least right now, the chapters of my book. I can't seem to get organized anywhere else, try as I might. What does that mean for me? What is organization, by definition?
"The act or process of organizing." Thank you dictionary.com. I need more though. What's organizing?
"To form as or into a whole consisting of interdependent or coordinated parts, esp. for united action" OK, that makes sense. Key here is the "coordinated parts."
My favorite description here, deals, of course, with the brain: "Informal. to put (oneself) in a state of mental competence to perform a task." And no wonder it's my fave! It's the "informal" definition. But that's the best, isn't it? That's how it all comes full circle.
My favorite description here, deals, of course, with the brain: "Informal. to put (oneself) in a state of mental competence to perform a task." And no wonder it's my fave! It's the "informal" definition. But that's the best, isn't it? That's how it all comes full circle.
Informal. That's how I usually think of my planning. I'm such a take-it-as-it-comes person, and with the book, my refusal to do any formal outline at first is what has bitten me in the ass over the last few weeks. Well, no more biting. I'm still going to be the mess of thoughts I always am, but this whole plan of action thing has proven itself to me. Now where else can it be applied?
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Fourth of July
Day began at 9, hopping a train to the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago, where I volunteer. Spent the morning with various patients/ families talking about stroke, brain trauma and seizures. Made some new friends, shared some advice, hopefully left people feeling as positive as I felt about my day when I left.
Headed back to the hood for some Q, gotta love shrimps off the barbie and finger lickin' chicken!
Back downtown to hang our in Grant Park, where some random dude slapped my ass and made out with me. Oy. Not so hot, although had he been hot, the spontaneity might have made it fun. Sat on a blanket with friends and listened to Gomez; got mashed in the crowd and ended the night with pizza, more good conversation and a chat with an old friend.
I constantly think about how lucky I am to be here, as in, this physical plane, this level of awareness on this earth, but never about how happy I am to be HERE, experiencing that in Chicago, in the UNITED STATES.
As much as I sometimes hate our policies and practices and politicians, our country is amazing and all of the liberties we do have, those which have costs lives and the liberty of others to achieve, those are pretty damn amazing.
This was my most low-key Fourth in a while, but one of the most meaningful.
Happy Independence day indeed!
Headed back to the hood for some Q, gotta love shrimps off the barbie and finger lickin' chicken!
Back downtown to hang our in Grant Park, where some random dude slapped my ass and made out with me. Oy. Not so hot, although had he been hot, the spontaneity might have made it fun. Sat on a blanket with friends and listened to Gomez; got mashed in the crowd and ended the night with pizza, more good conversation and a chat with an old friend.
I constantly think about how lucky I am to be here, as in, this physical plane, this level of awareness on this earth, but never about how happy I am to be HERE, experiencing that in Chicago, in the UNITED STATES.
As much as I sometimes hate our policies and practices and politicians, our country is amazing and all of the liberties we do have, those which have costs lives and the liberty of others to achieve, those are pretty damn amazing.
This was my most low-key Fourth in a while, but one of the most meaningful.
Happy Independence day indeed!
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Dosed, or Which self is it that Shows Up?
We were laying on sheets red like the rising sun
burning up like it too
in each other's arms spread like the sky.
you held me close and said
i don't let people in i'm afraid
i guess
of getting hurt.
we talked about music
the floyd and the peppers but just briefly
heads full not of ideas but
nothing
mouths full not of words but
each other.
i left you that morning at six
awkward and with an audience
parting words and lips
for a kiss quick
on the mouth.
does anyone ever really know
anyone
i asked
without knowing
the answer
to even that
burning up like it too
in each other's arms spread like the sky.
you held me close and said
i don't let people in i'm afraid
i guess
of getting hurt.
we talked about music
the floyd and the peppers but just briefly
heads full not of ideas but
nothing
mouths full not of words but
each other.
i left you that morning at six
awkward and with an audience
parting words and lips
for a kiss quick
on the mouth.
does anyone ever really know
anyone
i asked
without knowing
the answer
to even that
Is it still brain science if it's fun?
The mid-sized hardcover slipped easily under my fingertips, but stood out despite this quick passage. So when I picked up Defending the Cavewoman a week ago, running my fingers along the rippled edge of books found in Chicago’s Harold Washington Library, little did I know that the simple, mindless act of feeling out certain stories by touch would be explained in laymen’s terms, much less creatively so.
But in Defending the Cavewoman and Other Tales of Evolutionary Neurology, Dr. Harold Klawans, M.D. does just that.
Broken down into thirteen anecdotal stories of science, exploration and hypothesis, Klawans takes a serious look at what makes us tick upstairs, but does it in a way that a cavewoman herself could understand. That’s a fair statement too, according to Klawans; she was smarter than you think. It is she we can thank for the relatively few Neanderthal-like men alive today (I said relatively few), she and her selectivity in mating.
Beginning in the preface, Klawans defines several terms used throughout the book with experiential stories, giving the reader the opportunity to associate a vague mouthful of obscure language with something concrete, like the acquisition of Braille reading or why it is chickens run with their heads cut off.
My ten-digit discovery of the book, based on touch, has to do with a sensory understanding of the world, of course, but Klawans gets into the how and why and where of our brains' ability to process such things.
Neuropathy, as he explains much easier than the Wikipedia page you’ll find if you click here, is the loss of our body’s basic senses. Regarding touch, this includes the ability to distinguish between one needle prick and another, millimeters apart on the tip of one’s finger. Klawans, who began his medical career in Minnesota and worked and lived in Chicago until his death in 1999, writes engagingly about the neurology of human development, how it is that we are the way we are today, and what has happened over the years, biologically, physiologically, mentally, that has allowed things to be just so. But he does more than that.
In “I never Read a Movie I liked,” his chapter on reading and the brain, where all this neuropathy stuff becomes applicable, he takes the basic premise of a scripted movie—you know, a silent film with text, or a foreign film, subtitled in English, and using his own personal distaste of the genre, gets into the nuts- and-bolts of why, both biologically, physically, no one should like such films.
Because reading is an evolutionary accident, one associated with “socioeconomic success, which correlates with a decreased birthrate,” we humans have evolved to help ourselves, yet are meanwhile incredibly limited in what our other senses are able to still do. “Reading then, is a biological disadvantage,” he writes. Basically, if we couldn't read, we’d be fucking like crazy, and having babies out of control (like nature intended), not evolving so much so that we destroy the environment. (which nature didn't intend). I won’t go into it here (buy the book!), but the point he makes is that anyone should be able to “feel” their way through a story because the ancient Sumerians used a more pictoral, etched written language; the fact that our brains have evolved to understand words is a neurological miracle. And that’s why we can’t read and watch at the same time.
Or, more specifically, this is why.
You’ll recall that our brains are split in two, left hemisphere, right hemisphere. Because our vision is such that what we see is also split in two, goes into each eye, then crosses over to the opposite side of the brain and then rearranges itself somewhere in the visual cortex in the occipital lobe, the part of our brain that understands vision is busy trying to do that, while the part of our brain that understands language, which is located in the speech cortex, in the left hemisphere, is trying to do that. It’s a lot like WonkaVision, with better results. Or maybe not even that "easy," depending on how much you like to read and watch these sorts of films.
Interspersing his own clinical data and evidence with anecdotal stories of miracle patients, such as Terrence Henessey, of this chapter, and other remarkable characters, Klawans builds a rich file of cases and clients, complete with the humor and flow of a seasoned storyteller. And it’s no wonder; with more than ten titles to his name (over half of those non-fiction) the man has had some serious experience with writing. This too, slightly off- topic, plays a part in his storytelling as he includes tangential stories of other authors (Oliver Wendell Holmes, for instance) who might also be interested in the ways in which the brain works.
For me, of course, the highlight of the book is his way with words and the storytelling capabilities he has woven into the educational lessons shared. If anything, I can only say I wish there were more stories in this volume, but he is a doctor, after all, and the book is dedicated to the craft of healing, not writing. And that, perhaps, is another one of his subtle jokes, perhaps found in chapter 10, “Anticipation,” but certainly peppered throughout. The man knows how to conduct a page-turner.
But in Defending the Cavewoman and Other Tales of Evolutionary Neurology, Dr. Harold Klawans, M.D. does just that.
Broken down into thirteen anecdotal stories of science, exploration and hypothesis, Klawans takes a serious look at what makes us tick upstairs, but does it in a way that a cavewoman herself could understand. That’s a fair statement too, according to Klawans; she was smarter than you think. It is she we can thank for the relatively few Neanderthal-like men alive today (I said relatively few), she and her selectivity in mating.
Beginning in the preface, Klawans defines several terms used throughout the book with experiential stories, giving the reader the opportunity to associate a vague mouthful of obscure language with something concrete, like the acquisition of Braille reading or why it is chickens run with their heads cut off.
My ten-digit discovery of the book, based on touch, has to do with a sensory understanding of the world, of course, but Klawans gets into the how and why and where of our brains' ability to process such things.
Neuropathy, as he explains much easier than the Wikipedia page you’ll find if you click here, is the loss of our body’s basic senses. Regarding touch, this includes the ability to distinguish between one needle prick and another, millimeters apart on the tip of one’s finger. Klawans, who began his medical career in Minnesota and worked and lived in Chicago until his death in 1999, writes engagingly about the neurology of human development, how it is that we are the way we are today, and what has happened over the years, biologically, physiologically, mentally, that has allowed things to be just so. But he does more than that.
In “I never Read a Movie I liked,” his chapter on reading and the brain, where all this neuropathy stuff becomes applicable, he takes the basic premise of a scripted movie—you know, a silent film with text, or a foreign film, subtitled in English, and using his own personal distaste of the genre, gets into the nuts- and-bolts of why, both biologically, physically, no one should like such films.
Because reading is an evolutionary accident, one associated with “socioeconomic success, which correlates with a decreased birthrate,” we humans have evolved to help ourselves, yet are meanwhile incredibly limited in what our other senses are able to still do. “Reading then, is a biological disadvantage,” he writes. Basically, if we couldn't read, we’d be fucking like crazy, and having babies out of control (like nature intended), not evolving so much so that we destroy the environment. (which nature didn't intend). I won’t go into it here (buy the book!), but the point he makes is that anyone should be able to “feel” their way through a story because the ancient Sumerians used a more pictoral, etched written language; the fact that our brains have evolved to understand words is a neurological miracle. And that’s why we can’t read and watch at the same time.
Or, more specifically, this is why.
You’ll recall that our brains are split in two, left hemisphere, right hemisphere. Because our vision is such that what we see is also split in two, goes into each eye, then crosses over to the opposite side of the brain and then rearranges itself somewhere in the visual cortex in the occipital lobe, the part of our brain that understands vision is busy trying to do that, while the part of our brain that understands language, which is located in the speech cortex, in the left hemisphere, is trying to do that. It’s a lot like WonkaVision, with better results. Or maybe not even that "easy," depending on how much you like to read and watch these sorts of films.
Interspersing his own clinical data and evidence with anecdotal stories of miracle patients, such as Terrence Henessey, of this chapter, and other remarkable characters, Klawans builds a rich file of cases and clients, complete with the humor and flow of a seasoned storyteller. And it’s no wonder; with more than ten titles to his name (over half of those non-fiction) the man has had some serious experience with writing. This too, slightly off- topic, plays a part in his storytelling as he includes tangential stories of other authors (Oliver Wendell Holmes, for instance) who might also be interested in the ways in which the brain works.
For me, of course, the highlight of the book is his way with words and the storytelling capabilities he has woven into the educational lessons shared. If anything, I can only say I wish there were more stories in this volume, but he is a doctor, after all, and the book is dedicated to the craft of healing, not writing. And that, perhaps, is another one of his subtle jokes, perhaps found in chapter 10, “Anticipation,” but certainly peppered throughout. The man knows how to conduct a page-turner.
Joke's on you
look boys
oh yes
take a good look
wont you
you who sit across from me and laugh
like i don’t know
at what
at
the blush of life that hangs heavy
heaving
at my chest
take it in imagine
it
bare
bared tan against the white of your youth
look and taste it
life
i don’t care because
to you
it blooms full and hard at my neckline
but inside
i’m dead already
And you’re just fucking with a corpse
oh yes
take a good look
wont you
you who sit across from me and laugh
like i don’t know
at what
at
the blush of life that hangs heavy
heaving
at my chest
take it in imagine
it
bare
bared tan against the white of your youth
look and taste it
life
i don’t care because
to you
it blooms full and hard at my neckline
but inside
i’m dead already
And you’re just fucking with a corpse
Mortality calling
You could set your clock to my seizures. If you needed a clock that went off with a buzz and a bang of misfiring electricity once or twice every six months, that is. I don't know what kind of clock that would be, or what use one would have for such an instrument, but with that sort of accuracy, you could, at least, be reminded of your own mortality. In the form of your half-birthday, I mean.
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