Sometimes you take one in the teeth.
Yesterday was a bad day for me before anything went wrong at work. I'll be up front about that. There are certain kinds of wounds that don't heal right, that leave just big empty spaces inside until even compassion hurts too much. My life has this disfiguring scar from years ago that changed so much about who I am and where I ended up and how I got here. Most days I don't think about it. Some days I can't help but stare. It is small and spiteful and beneath me to still think this, but I resent the hell out of every normal moment he gets to have. I suppose I could avoid knowing it, but news of him is like a tumor surrounded by too many healthy cells to cut out completely. I have cut out enough of my life and I would rather spend a resentful few days than cut out any more. Since I'm on a bit of a Col. Brandon kick lately I will think May He Endeavor To Deserve It until I forget, again.
So, anyway, when a chance at catching a big shoplifter yesterday was missed because of my mistake, I took it pretty hard. Every one messes up, and in a high-stakes game the heightened thrill is a direct result of the possibility that something like this can happen. That you can mess up in the smallest way imaginable and the consequences are huge. So I fucked up just about as badly as I ever have in an employment situation. But the moment you really mess up is the moment you learn the kind of stuff your friendships are made of. Mine amaze me. Literal and figurative shoulders to cry on. Kind words of support when I needed them. The misguided but still appreciated instinct to grab car keys and come rescue me. Stories of mistakes on the same level. My writers group boys not minding that I was both drunk and miserable. and then, this morning, my boss being so amazingly decent about it all. Everything is OK. I still simmer with regret and self-reproach but I will make up for it.
You pick yourself up, you take a deep breath and you get through. Then you stop crowing about small victories till you find one that rivals this mistake.
That is how.
So what now? New lady gaga, a shower, the end of a new Jason Vanhee novel and an early bedtime. Life is going to kick my ass sometimes, I'm going to make mistakes sometimes, and I'm glad I have people in my life to be there for me.
Thanks, all.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Morocco Blog!
Hey all,
I've started a travel blog for my upcoming trip. It will be very advice-oriented and apolitical, as it is for school, and my department has enough problems with me. I will still blog here (though probably less often once I am in Morocco and cut off from regular internet access) and I will even post links to updates over at that blog from time to time if I have any really exciting adventures.
While I'm updating about random things, I thought I should mention Dear Mr President- the book. Yes, it is finally ready for the printers, thanks to the combined efforts of Kitri, the wonder-woman of graphic design, and Anna, the Jedi copyeditor. Soon it will be handed over to Homer, the Espresso Book Machine at UBS and then it will be available to purchase. More details (price, ordering, etc.) to come on this, I know I've been dragging my feet but it will be a much, much better book thanks to the efforts of my talented friends. Thanks for your patience, and, I promise, you won't be disappointed :)
I've started a travel blog for my upcoming trip. It will be very advice-oriented and apolitical, as it is for school, and my department has enough problems with me. I will still blog here (though probably less often once I am in Morocco and cut off from regular internet access) and I will even post links to updates over at that blog from time to time if I have any really exciting adventures.
While I'm updating about random things, I thought I should mention Dear Mr President- the book. Yes, it is finally ready for the printers, thanks to the combined efforts of Kitri, the wonder-woman of graphic design, and Anna, the Jedi copyeditor. Soon it will be handed over to Homer, the Espresso Book Machine at UBS and then it will be available to purchase. More details (price, ordering, etc.) to come on this, I know I've been dragging my feet but it will be a much, much better book thanks to the efforts of my talented friends. Thanks for your patience, and, I promise, you won't be disappointed :)
Saturday, May 21, 2011
The End was Near. Or something.
So, the rapture clearly didn't happen. I know that the rapture and The End of the World As We Know It aren't exactly interchangeable, but still, just in case those nutjobs were actually right and the rapture was happening today, I went to Yogurt Land and had pizza last night. Also I thought about the word "rapture" and how it sounds so unpleasant- like a celebrity couple name for "rape" and "capture". Or a scary super-smart dinosaur that hunts in packs and only eats nonbelievers. (Look out! it's a veloci-rapture!)
If I am honest, I have to say this day never seemed like more than an opportunity for bad jokes (as opposed to an actual confrontation with my mortality.) After it became clear that I'd given myself permission to consume excess calories for really no good reason (I'm actually rather OK with it, to be honest) I got to thinking about the End (impending or otherwise). The world will end for each of us, in our own time. And, when we are faced with what Elizabeth Cady Stanton called "that solemn solitude of self", that final hour when it is only us and death and no one to stand between us, I suspect we won't know or care if the world is ending just for us or for every one else as well. We probably won't have much warning- particularly not in the form of helpful bilboards and pamphlets from sidewalk preachers- but I hope that before each of us finds that day we have time to go to whatever our personal Yogurt Land might be.
So tonight I raise a glass to the end of days, whenever that may be, and the hope that we face it with humor, grace, and frozen yogurt. And to you, my friends. Good night.
If I am honest, I have to say this day never seemed like more than an opportunity for bad jokes (as opposed to an actual confrontation with my mortality.) After it became clear that I'd given myself permission to consume excess calories for really no good reason (I'm actually rather OK with it, to be honest) I got to thinking about the End (impending or otherwise). The world will end for each of us, in our own time. And, when we are faced with what Elizabeth Cady Stanton called "that solemn solitude of self", that final hour when it is only us and death and no one to stand between us, I suspect we won't know or care if the world is ending just for us or for every one else as well. We probably won't have much warning- particularly not in the form of helpful bilboards and pamphlets from sidewalk preachers- but I hope that before each of us finds that day we have time to go to whatever our personal Yogurt Land might be.
So tonight I raise a glass to the end of days, whenever that may be, and the hope that we face it with humor, grace, and frozen yogurt. And to you, my friends. Good night.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Common and "controversy "
The level of acceptable (and increasingly blatant) racism in this country, particularly in this country's media, is really making me queasy today.
Common was invited to a poetry reading at the White House. You can read or watch coverage of the ensuing and COMPLETELY RACIST "controversy" from FOX, Palin and other cartoons. I encourage you to watch the whole Daily Show coverage (I think I linked only to the first half.) My favorite part is when Karl Rove says (sarcastically) "Yeah, let's invite a misogynist to the White House." As though the legislative agenda he (and President Bush) and his party have been advancing for decades isn't both more misogynist and more likely to negatively affect people's lives than Common's lyrics.
The level of mental acrobatics required for this kind of cognitive dissonance is olympic-medal-worthy.
Side note: I met Common once, in DC. He came to my Borders for an event I helped organize. People had camped out for hours before the store opened, the line was amazing for a weekday afternoon. I remember more about the running of the event itself (this was probably the largest event that I had any kind of significant role in, outside of the HP7 release) than I do about Common, but what I recollect about him was a genuine kindness toward the staff and toward his fans. He's one of those people you can't help but feel a little intimidated by- he could run intellectual circles around me at my most intelligent- but he's approachable and friendly and not at all demanding like some of the other authors/artists I organized events for.
Truth be told I'm a fan of Common's music, (though I probably wouldn't line up overnight to get his autograph) and I enjoyed meeting him. But while I was proud of the event, I basically didn't give it much thought after that. So, yes, I am defending him and the First Lady's decision to invite such an important creative mind to the White House but I don't think it's because of my personally positive experience.
I think the Daily Show's comparison to Johnny Cash is an apt one. Violent, anti-establishment or "controversial" lyrics from a white man never elicited an objection (tweeted or otherwise) from Rove, FOX or Palin. This is racism, pure and simple. This is why, while I do not believe all Republicans are racist, I do have a difficult time understanding how any one not wishing to be painted with the same brush can stand so close to party leaders/figureheads/mouthpieces when they spout this kind of bullshit.
(Particularly when so many Republicans believe every American Muslim or Arab ought to denounce terror with every other word or be called a terrorist supporter/sympathizer.)
And, yes, the White House's choice of guests is really not that significant of an issue. However, I think that any one willing to be so brashly racist about trivial stuff is probably not keeping their racist views out of news they report (or comment on) or the policies they promote. No one should need to have heard this to know that Rove, Palin and FOX are completely racist, but I don't see how any one could possibly continue denying it after this.
Common was invited to a poetry reading at the White House. You can read or watch coverage of the ensuing and COMPLETELY RACIST "controversy" from FOX, Palin and other cartoons. I encourage you to watch the whole Daily Show coverage (I think I linked only to the first half.) My favorite part is when Karl Rove says (sarcastically) "Yeah, let's invite a misogynist to the White House." As though the legislative agenda he (and President Bush) and his party have been advancing for decades isn't both more misogynist and more likely to negatively affect people's lives than Common's lyrics.
The level of mental acrobatics required for this kind of cognitive dissonance is olympic-medal-worthy.
Side note: I met Common once, in DC. He came to my Borders for an event I helped organize. People had camped out for hours before the store opened, the line was amazing for a weekday afternoon. I remember more about the running of the event itself (this was probably the largest event that I had any kind of significant role in, outside of the HP7 release) than I do about Common, but what I recollect about him was a genuine kindness toward the staff and toward his fans. He's one of those people you can't help but feel a little intimidated by- he could run intellectual circles around me at my most intelligent- but he's approachable and friendly and not at all demanding like some of the other authors/artists I organized events for.
Truth be told I'm a fan of Common's music, (though I probably wouldn't line up overnight to get his autograph) and I enjoyed meeting him. But while I was proud of the event, I basically didn't give it much thought after that. So, yes, I am defending him and the First Lady's decision to invite such an important creative mind to the White House but I don't think it's because of my personally positive experience.
I think the Daily Show's comparison to Johnny Cash is an apt one. Violent, anti-establishment or "controversial" lyrics from a white man never elicited an objection (tweeted or otherwise) from Rove, FOX or Palin. This is racism, pure and simple. This is why, while I do not believe all Republicans are racist, I do have a difficult time understanding how any one not wishing to be painted with the same brush can stand so close to party leaders/figureheads/mouthpieces when they spout this kind of bullshit.
(Particularly when so many Republicans believe every American Muslim or Arab ought to denounce terror with every other word or be called a terrorist supporter/sympathizer.)
And, yes, the White House's choice of guests is really not that significant of an issue. However, I think that any one willing to be so brashly racist about trivial stuff is probably not keeping their racist views out of news they report (or comment on) or the policies they promote. No one should need to have heard this to know that Rove, Palin and FOX are completely racist, but I don't see how any one could possibly continue denying it after this.
Monday, May 9, 2011
The sexiest thing is trust
So, clearly I've been listening to a lot of Tori Amos lately. (The title of this blog post comes from the song "Jamaica Inn") but I have to say the soundtrack to my most recent crush is for sure Tegan & Sara (no, he's not a woman, it's just that their music tends to be more about the slightly-creepy-can't-actually-talk-to-you-how-is-this-SO-awkward kind of love.) Anyway. I keep telling myself I Do Not Have A Crush On Him Anymore. At All. Seriously.
Oh but I do. This morning we were talking in the hallway before class and he looked at me for what was probably a couple of seconds but felt like a moderate-length geological age and I could hear my little rational self pounding her fists on the inside of my love-struck face screaming "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! YOU HAVE A TEST IN 15 MINUTES!" to, of course, no avail. None whatsoever.
And so now, instead of writing about important things like world events or even funny cat videos on the internet (or the raccoon I saw in a tree on capitol hill last night!) or, I don't know, maybe MY FUCKING THESIS, I'm writing about how I for sure do not have a crush on this guy I'm absolutely head over heels for because I know I could never trust myself with emotion this irrational. Hence, the lyrics. Trust is the sexiest thing and I just don't feel capable of it lately.
So I'm asking myself WWBS? (What Would Ballard Say?) Matt Ballard was, for those of you not fortunate enough to work with him at Borders in DC, my wise, wonderful friend and probably the individual deserving the most credit for me returning to college at all (not to mention my impending graduation.) Ballard had all kinds of wisdom for moments like these, moments so awkward as to approach unbearable, moments when my priorities were thrown so completely out of wack by my emotions, moments where I feel, as ever, like the awkward girl in 7th grade still longing for Billy Ruiz to turn his lovely eyes in my direction just once before the bell rings and homeroom is over.
Ballard would say, Kelsey, (imagine this in a British accent, it helps) you've got to grow up. Or something like that. It might involve a self-deprecating and amusing anecdote from his own days as a young awkward kid, it might involve sage advice about how he managed to end up with his wonderful wife, or it might involve a vaguely exasperated sigh and the unsubtle suggestion that this is a lesson I ought to have learned a long time ago.
Ok, boss, I'm trying.
I met Ballard at a time when I'd lost any kind of trust in other people, particularly in men, in myself, and even in my perceptions of reality. He let me follow him around like a lost puppy, learning his merchandising preferences and the way he took his tea (just a splash of whole milk or cream) and gave me a few months to not worry about who or what to trust and just to put one foot in front of the other, one book on table beside the next. Height and color and shape and symmetry. The world that become far too complicated for me to handle was reduced to the simple order of making the bookstore look as nice as possible for as long as possible.
And then, maybe because I'd had enough time in the safe world inside the walls of Borders, maybe because he was moving and didn't want to leave me behind, or maybe because he recognized the red flags of another impending meltdown, Ballard sent me home to Seattle. Go back to school, he said. Figure out what makes you happy and do that. Just do that. Don't worry so much about everything else.
Life didn't magically become easy, I didn't magically become sane or calm or whole, it's still taken me far too long to get even this close to graduation, but I survived. Most days I grew up a little.
Most days I still do.
Today, I guess, is just not one of those days. I guess we'll see about tomorrow.
Oh but I do. This morning we were talking in the hallway before class and he looked at me for what was probably a couple of seconds but felt like a moderate-length geological age and I could hear my little rational self pounding her fists on the inside of my love-struck face screaming "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! YOU HAVE A TEST IN 15 MINUTES!" to, of course, no avail. None whatsoever.
And so now, instead of writing about important things like world events or even funny cat videos on the internet (or the raccoon I saw in a tree on capitol hill last night!) or, I don't know, maybe MY FUCKING THESIS, I'm writing about how I for sure do not have a crush on this guy I'm absolutely head over heels for because I know I could never trust myself with emotion this irrational. Hence, the lyrics. Trust is the sexiest thing and I just don't feel capable of it lately.
So I'm asking myself WWBS? (What Would Ballard Say?) Matt Ballard was, for those of you not fortunate enough to work with him at Borders in DC, my wise, wonderful friend and probably the individual deserving the most credit for me returning to college at all (not to mention my impending graduation.) Ballard had all kinds of wisdom for moments like these, moments so awkward as to approach unbearable, moments when my priorities were thrown so completely out of wack by my emotions, moments where I feel, as ever, like the awkward girl in 7th grade still longing for Billy Ruiz to turn his lovely eyes in my direction just once before the bell rings and homeroom is over.
Ballard would say, Kelsey, (imagine this in a British accent, it helps) you've got to grow up. Or something like that. It might involve a self-deprecating and amusing anecdote from his own days as a young awkward kid, it might involve sage advice about how he managed to end up with his wonderful wife, or it might involve a vaguely exasperated sigh and the unsubtle suggestion that this is a lesson I ought to have learned a long time ago.
Ok, boss, I'm trying.
I met Ballard at a time when I'd lost any kind of trust in other people, particularly in men, in myself, and even in my perceptions of reality. He let me follow him around like a lost puppy, learning his merchandising preferences and the way he took his tea (just a splash of whole milk or cream) and gave me a few months to not worry about who or what to trust and just to put one foot in front of the other, one book on table beside the next. Height and color and shape and symmetry. The world that become far too complicated for me to handle was reduced to the simple order of making the bookstore look as nice as possible for as long as possible.
And then, maybe because I'd had enough time in the safe world inside the walls of Borders, maybe because he was moving and didn't want to leave me behind, or maybe because he recognized the red flags of another impending meltdown, Ballard sent me home to Seattle. Go back to school, he said. Figure out what makes you happy and do that. Just do that. Don't worry so much about everything else.
Life didn't magically become easy, I didn't magically become sane or calm or whole, it's still taken me far too long to get even this close to graduation, but I survived. Most days I grew up a little.
Most days I still do.
Today, I guess, is just not one of those days. I guess we'll see about tomorrow.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Shy girl haiku #6 & 7
She tells me, "Jameel"
is not used to describe men.
But I am certain,
if the grammar lords
of the Arabic language
met you, this would change.
is not used to describe men.
But I am certain,
if the grammar lords
of the Arabic language
met you, this would change.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
Bible-thumping
Do I take any pleasure in the death of the wicked? declares the Sovereign LORD. Rather, am I not pleased when they turn from their ways and live? Ez 18:23
I want to thank all of my friends who posted this on facebook today. I'm not religious, I don't particularly feel anything that strongly about the bible, but it was nice to see so many pausing for a moment in the heat of the
The truth is I'm not nearly as sorry that Bin Laden is dead as I am about the
And I don't need the Bible to tell me that killing is wrong, but it cheers me up to see so many compassionate people condemning this in the language of the same God President Bush believes told him to go to war in the first place. The master's tools, or something.
So thank you, friends, I am glad to know you.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
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