Holy Moly! It's Alive!

Howdy-do, fellow planeteers!

Thought I'd give the 'ol writing blog a pinprick in the side to wake it up. Did a bit of re-design a while back and figured that perhaps I should actually post something as well.

This is a short response paper that I wrote (rather hastily) after scratching the surface of Emmanuel Levinas's work in this semester's philosophy class. Given my druthers I could probably flesh this out into something akin to a master's thesis project, but for now, I just need to get to the end of this semester.

So, enjoy. Or not. In any case, at least ya'll know you didn't miss my funeral or anything....

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Invisibility: Materialism and Sexuality

Understanding what Emmanuel Levinas had to say about our responsibility to the “Other” – that is, to those who share our existence – leads to a whole new level of what it really means to “love our neighbors as ourselves.” In fact, on this particular Biblical point, which is found in the book of Matthew, Levinas appears to raise the bar by placing the welfare of our neighbors above that of ourselves. This is a fairly broadstroke approach to Levinas’s idea, because his central concept surrounding this concern for others is to hold sacred that essence which makes humankind God’s unique creation – namely, His own likeness that is part of our being.

Simply framed, it is holding the “Other” as infinitely valuable - which is also to be “visible” - that drives Levinas’ concept. To be what he terms as less visible, or even invisible, is essentially to subtract value from the Other. Levinas’ directive is that we must hold the value of the Other above our own sense of personal value. It is not difficult to imagine the kind of ripple effect this would have if everyone were to begin following this directive!

This brand of selflessness just begs the question: in modern American society, where does Levinas’ philosophy of visibility, or “sacredness” of the Other, fit in? How has the culture and what has been determined as “societal norms” warped this idea into something that makes one less visible, or totally invisible, to the Other?

It is important to point out the distinctions between the individual and of society as a whole. Levinas’s “wisdom of love” can be understood, I think, on two different levels: a personal, individual level and a collective, societal level. From what we have studied so far, we have only really seen how Levinas employs his idea on the personal level, but I think it is also necessary to view it from the social level – since society reflects, to a large extent, the influences of the individual. The responsibilities are the same on both levels, but societal influence is what regulates the cultural norm, which in turn shapes the worldview of the individual.

For example, consider the fashion industry. Certain individual trends “catch on” and then expand until they become a cultural phenomenon that determines the taste of the individual – at least of those who pay attention to the whims of popular fashion. And then, just as quickly as it caught on, it goes straight out the back door to make way for the next “hot trend.” What is harmful about this idea is that it encourages people to judge others based on what they wear, especially if one does not adhere to what is considered to be “in fashion.” The whole idea of placing a higher value on someone who wears a certain type or style of clothing (which stems from placing the higher value on one piece of clothing over another) only perpetuates the idea that one cannot “fit in” and is therefore less visible unless that certain style of clothing is worn. The value that is understood is shallow and superficial at best.

This “superficial norm” is apparent almost everywhere one turns. The health and beauty industry, the diet industry, the automobile industry, the sports industry – almost every cultural institution having anything to do with material things, entertainment or “better” ways of being is infected with this superficial virus. It forces us, if we are not vigilant, into competition with each other to always have the best, to always be the best, to always – no matter what – “keep up with the Joneses.” This leads only to one thing – judgment of the Other, which inevitably leads to some degree of invisibility.

A big part of the vicious cycle that promotes materialism as something desirable is the huge gap between those who have and those who do not. The “salary gap” between the lowest-paid, least desirable professions and those of the multi-billionaire CEO’s of many major global conglomerates is staggering. Those “who have”, especially those at or near the top of the earnings hierarchy can almost literally become invisible behind mountains of cash. Many of these people will find it impossible to spend the wealth that they have accumulated, and nearly all eventually discover that money equals power in a capitalist society.

Enmeshed with the relentless search for perfection through materialism is the methodology that is most often used to sell material goods – sex. Human sexuality as portrayed by advertisers and the entertainment industry (who could be construed as among the worst offenders of invisibility in society!) is saturated in superficiality, promoting the idea that one cannot be sexually attractive unless certain physical ideals are obtained and maintained. These ideals are bought and sold by the millions – both in quantity and dollars – on the open market.

On the other hand, this warped ideal of human sexuality is so dominant in the modern culture that it often becomes difficult to ignore the false sexual veneer and see clearly the individual against the backdrop of their infinite nature, as Levinas insists we must do. The Other is effectively reduced to little more than a “beautiful” object whose sole purpose is to satisfy sexually – and in the process, perhaps sell a car or a bottle of perfume or two.

I believe the only thing that will turn the tide of this materialistic and sexual invisibility is a mass rejection of a consumer-centric worldview, an across-the-board denial of advertising access (especially to children) and a grass-roots (i.e. in the home and from a very young age) effort aimed towards healthier sexual values. Perhaps it would require something as radical as the complete dismantling and careful reconstruction of social, public and private economies. How this could possibly all come about is something yet to be discovered.

Mr. Sandman is AWOL

Welcome to my first can't-sleep-to-save-my-life piece!

It's roughly quarter to four in the morning, and I have already been awake for about an hour and a half. This does not make me very happy, but as most people probably know, it is very difficult to fall asleep when you just can't without the aid of chemical or alcoholic concoctions. These aren't things I'm anxious to engage and even if I was, they're not available right now. TV is also out - strangely enough, I lack the desire to learn about the lastest weight loss pills or the newest kitchen gadgets that one can acquire in only three easy payments. So what's a body to do? Well, if a body is me, and I am, then there is always pen and paper (or keyboards and monitors), which I am supposed to use regularly anyway as a Master of Disciplined Writing. Or something like that.

It didn't start out as a sleepless night - my master plan was get to bed much earlier than what has of late become the standard of staying up until roughly midnight, so actually managed to turn in around 9:30 and promptly fell asleep. I woke about 2:30, most likely the result of my poor abused "body clock" refusing to buy into my wondrous plan. Curiously enough, my husband is currently trying to straighten out his own body clock to adjust to his newly-embarked-upon work sabbatical, where he has been doing graveyard shifts 3-4 times a week for the last 7 years. It is actually become a period of adjustment for everyone, since the family dynamic has shifted so that all members of the household are all on the same waking and sleeping schedules - or at least, supposed to be. He is having his own challenges with sleep, as most recently demonstrated by the fact that he didn't come to bed until about quarter to three this morning, which had unfortunate and currently obvious results on my own ability to fall back asleep.

In my perfect world, everyone has schedules and body clocks that allow them to get to bed no later than 9 (since you can always TiVO all those 10 o'clock shows that the kids aren't supposed to watch but you're secretly addicted to.) No one has spouses that suffer from bouts of insomnia, or who snore, or hog the bed and/or blankets. The temperature is always a balmy 68 degrees in quiet, dark bedrooms - never warmer, never colder. The phone never rings after 9, no one ever knocks on your door, and all of the neighborhood cats keep their big kitty yaps shut and their sharp kitty claws to themselves. Everyone sleeps deeply and has good dreams, and when the alarms go off in the morning, the blood gets going straight away and everyone smiles and stretches and the feet hit the floor in happy anticipation of orange juice, errands, business meetings and friends.

Instead, there is reality - we all know it. We deal with swing and graveyard shifts and television that sucks you in and demands your attention. There's never enough time in the day to do what needs to be done, and insomnia frequently holds us in its bleary-eyed grip. It's too hot, or too cold, and you're almost desperate enough to slap a big piece of duct tape over the mouth of your slumbering spouse in hopes of making the noise stop just long enough to drift off. Caffiene becomes your very best friend.

But hey - at the end of the day, or in the middle of the night, or at the crack of bloody dawn, it's ok. At least I can write about it.


Next post: hopefully after getting some sleep.

Life, Inc.

You know the old saying...time flies when you're having fun! One day you start a blog all full of ideas and ideals, thoughts and commentaries, opinions and plans with the self-directive of "I'll write every single day!" ...and you do, for a while, cranking out the sentences like Shakespeare on speed (no offense, Bill!) And then one day you suddenly realize it's actually been weeks since you've written down a single thought; months since you put enough coherent thoughts all together on the same page to form some semblance of something readable. See what I mean here?

So what happens? Mostly, everyday stuff: kids. Mortgages. Spouses. Workdays. Dinners. Baths. Bill collectors. Holidays. Brain-cell suicide in front of the tube. Proms and High School Graduations. School. Crisis-inspired intervention with all of the above (although I must say that staring slack-jawed at the TV requires only the kind of intervention that involves the word "off.") Some days those things are only snowflakes, and on others they conspire together to form an ice-packed snowball of colossal proportions.

Suffice to say there's been a lot of snowballs, a few snowflake-y days, and then a smattering of your old-fashioned "but I don't WANNA!"-type days. Be that as it may, I still have little excuse and clearly need a swift kick in the posterior region. Just like exercise or homework or making time to work on the scrapbooks, carving out the time to write is a matter of priority, and if those priorities are properly ordered, there is always time to write. With me, it's a work in progress, which is better than not being worked at all.

That being said, I personally think the best discipline a writer can develop is a sense of commitment. Whether you can only manage to drabble on for a few sentences about how scrumptious the meatloaf for dinner was or you skillfully compose a beautiful symphony of words that cause the angels to weep, commitment is the key - and sometimes, practicing the craft requires you to argue yourself right into the corner where the writing desk sits, plant your protesting behind in the chair, and get cracking - no matter how many birds are singing in the bright blue sky or how many leaning towers of dirty dishes are sitting in the sink.

Or in this case - tonight - no matter how late it is and how early I need to be to work tomorrow morning.

Sigh.

Watch for another update shortly...or at least just as soon as I get those dishes done!

Spinning The Planet

People have been saying for a very long time that the sky is falling.

Widespread panic used to be the result of solar eclipses, long before they were understood to be merely an occasional natural phenomenon rather than the Hand of God come to strike humanity from the earth. I’ve never done research on it, but I would be willing to bet that earthquakes, hurricanes and tornadoes had the same effect.

I would imagine that the Black Plague that swept through Europe in the mid 1300’s caused a bit of a stir as well. Millions died – quickly – and it’s not hard to imagine why the people would have thought it was indeed the end of the world, especially when the world as they knew it literally collapsed around them within the span of a couple years. During this terrible time in history, there were actually groups of people that would wander the European countryside, flagellating themselves bloody with tipped leather whips as they walked, sure that they were all now paying the price for disobedience to God.

The approach of the “millenial” years have struck a chord of apprehension and anxiety in those who are certain of the second coming of Christ, and of course most recently the world took a collective gasp of air and held its breath when the clock ticked to 12:00:01 am on 01/01/00, sure that the much-ballyhooed meltdown of civilization as we knew it was imminent as every computer system on earth committed digital suicide and took the world economy with it. Well, those hardy souls who built bunkers and stocked up on corn flakes and soap figured out pretty quickly that their efforts were all for naught when the world just sort of kept on humming along as we welcomed the new year. Imagine my own personal relief when, on January 1st, I noted my ATM card still functioned enough to tell me that I indeed had no money in my account, but not because of the Y2K bug.

Fast-forward six or so years to the present, to where I sit now as I bang out this essay on the laptop.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about where we’re headed as a planet. Now, granted, I am not an expert on everything that’s going on, not even vaguely. I know about the things that my local newsfeed tells me, through network and cable TV and the Internet, and occasionally, the radio. I read a lot of books and see what others have to say via weblogs and editorials. I also know that not all of this information is completely factual, either intentionally or not. Any human with half a brain can put a spin on just about any situation that will cause other humans to believe their interpretation of that situation, no matter how ludicrous. If some so-called “expert” was to announce one day that cows could indeed produce chocolate milk simply by ingesting copious amounts of cocoa leaves along with their standard ration of alfalfa, and that he/she had scientific proof to back it up, some of us are simply so amazingly gullible that this would actually seem plausible. Yes, Mabel, the National Enquirer said so!

The same is true for the fact-spinners of the Iraq war – conservatives drone on and on about how it’s all for winning the war on terror and preserving our cherished American-Western lifestyle of baseball, apple pie, shopping malls and the flag, while the not-so-conservative crowd bleats endlessly that it’s all been for the oil and the lining of the pockets of the corporate CEO’s who are profiting from blood. Republican or Democrat, it really makes no difference. They all spin, spin, spin until we’re dizzy and choking on half-baked truth and well-done lies that have completely saturated every aspect of politics, government and American-global relations. Unfortunately, there are countless numbers on both sides that buy straight and fast into the lies, from both sides. Then again, ever stop to think about what is truth and what isn’t? It’s really hard to tell these days.

So, let’s think about the sky, whether or not it’s falling, and the planet on which we live. Yes, the environment. Dirt, trees, water, mountains, flowers, deserts, oceans, ice caps, tundra, meadowlands and thick, steamy jungles. It’s a dynamic, beautiful, awe-inspiring and sometimes terrifying little ball of life that we inhabit, being part of the ecosystem that was placed here by our Creator. And yes, I do believe that it was Created, and not exploded into being by chance, although it could very well be that was how the Creator decided to “bake the cake”. Who the heck knows? I wasn’t there so I won’t presume to tell anyone that I know exactly how we got here. Besides, that is almost (just almost) besides the point.

It’s obviously warming up these days. Anyone who steps outside with a thermometer or has access to the Weather Channel can tell you that. Is it part of a natural warming cycle that our planet home is undergoing, as it has done over and over for a gazillion years, or is it primarily due to greenhouse gasses that are dissolving the ozone and causing climatic changes that will very soon be disastrous? Mother Nature’s earth-clock, or billions of cars, factories and aerosol cans that are finally beginning to add up? I don’t rightly know the answer – I am not an environmental scientist, a visionary sociological prophet, or God. I do know, however, what I suspect to be true – that humankind is even now stepping over that delicate line between sustainability and non-sustainability. We are taking much, much more than we are giving. In our nearly insatiable drive to improve our standards of living, our technology, and our economy, I feel that we just may be on the outer edge of a chemically-induced meltdown of our natural surroundings that will be nearly cosmic in scale…but then again, anything outside our own little world of picket fences, careers and family vacations tends to be cosmic and more or less unknowable.

Is it too much to think about the notion of being able to drink directly from the rivers, lakes and streams of the land without fear of being poisoned? Is it too much to hope that they will stop obliterating the rain forests and the wetlands just so they can build more housing developments and take more natural resources? How about air that is clean and breathable, in a world where knowing the air quality indices are not part of one’s daily routine? What about all of the other animals that live on this planet with us – can they have a home, too…?

So - am I simply buying blindly into the seemingly trendy and freaked-out culture that those whacky environmental scientists are creating, wringing my hands in dismay as I wait for it all to come crashing down – waiting endlessly, of course, since it will never happen? Or am I on to something with the notion that life as we know it is going to change relatively soon, radically and horribly, and that we had better start looking up before the sky comes down?

To the former, I say “I don’t really know.” And the latter: the only thing that comes to mind is, “I hope not.”

Next essay due September 17

What if.......? (with nods to my colleague Mr. Headley)

Warren Buffet's recent act of extraordinary philanthropy is amazing. The notion that someone with the kind of incredible wealth that he has would just up and give away a staggering majority of it to charity is at best a shining example of compassion and conscience and at worst, merely commendable. There's not much to say about it that could be construed as negative.

While what he did was generous and worthy of admiration, the fact still remains that he gave piles and piles of money to somebody who already has piles and piles of money - Bill Gates. Or rather, to Bill Gates' foundation, which I understand is also quite noteworthy for important and substantial charity work.

But what if he had done it differently?

What if, instead of giving all of this money to a "top-down" organization, he went straight to the bottom - and gave funds directly into the hands of the "on-the-streets" organizations that need them the most? I have little doubt that Mr. Gates will use the money he has been given in a responsible manner, but in essence he is a middle man standing between the source of the charity and those who are charity's most desperate targets.

Recently I finished reading a very eye-opening book by educator and social activist Jonathan Kozol called Amazing Grace. In this extremely moving book, he talks about his (intentional) experiences and interactions with families - primarily single mothers and children of color - who live in what is quite possibly one of the worst communities in the nation: the Bronx.

In spite of the fact that this book is over 10 years old, the information it contained was a serious revelation for me. I know that never before have I had a true sense of what it is like to be savagely poor, to live in a community with almost no tangible social support other than what the local churches try to provide, to be forced to live with the very real and daily fear of possibly getting shot while doing nothing more than walking to the corner market to buy a gallon of milk. Drug use and gang activity in this community is the norm. Children go to bed hungry, they wait for days to receive adequate care in the local hospitals, they go to schools that would be completely and entirely unacceptable in any other class of neighborhood in the country. And because of the nature of poverty, and the nature of these types of communities, and the nature of drug use, and the nature of the welfare system in this country, the majority of the people that live in these places are essentially trapped.

Imagine what might happen if, instead of handing Bill Gates a 30 billion dollar check, Warren Buffett took this money to the streets. The Bronx would be one of the best places to start.

Imagine Warren Buffet giving money directly to the hospitals that serve this neighborhood - money to repair or remodel old, failing buildings, update and buy medical equipment, purchase adequate supplies and medicines, and hire adequate staff to use them.

Imagine him giving money directly to the schools that serve this neighborhood - money to refurbish cramped, broken classrooms, to install safe and inviting playgrounds, to purchase books, to hire teachers.

Imagine money being spent specifically to remodel, fix and update public housing - replacing unsafe wiring and structures, installing adequate heating, cooling and plumbing systems, painting walls and covering floors with carpet.

Imagine money being put into a publicly held fund that would pay for workers to help clean and patrol the neighborhood streets, and money going directly for the hiring of additional law enforcement to keep the streets safe.

Think of Mr. Buffett's money being given directly to an individual or a company that would use it to build job training centers for the unemployed and treatment facilities for drug addicts - locally accessible in the neighborhood.

Imagine repaved streets, working street lamps, and cleaned vacant lots actively awaiting new construction - community centers, small businesses and parks. Imagine the citizens of the neighborhood having the courage to emerge and take charge, forming the kinds of volunteer groups that are common to middle and upper class neighborhoods to help monitor the streets and eventually extinguish the majority of the drug and sex trades that are so rampant.

All this is not without the realization that what I have described above would be years in the making, and is quite idealistic. It almost smacks of utopia, which is as we all know virtually unattainable. But even if just half of these things were to happen, think of the positive consequences that would result. The Bronx might eventually become a neighborhood that its inhabitants could be proud of, as something that would give them hope and a desire to create and maintain a better environment and life – and knowledge that there is opportunity just waiting to be grabbed. Once truly set in motion, these consequences would be hard to extinguish - with just a few sparks of genuine and tangible hope could come a tidal wave of positive community-based action that would permeate every aspect of the environment - not unlike falling dominoes.

Warren Buffet, with his billions, would probably not be able to do all this on his own steam, but he could be a serious catalyst by doing nothing more than taking a straight and direct path right to the doorsteps of the people that would benefit most from his fortune. Maybe then other American million and billionaires would see fit to join him, by using the wealth that is essentially impossible to spend in one lifetime to uplift other decaying and hopeless communities in other cities around the country – not on a “let’s serve meals once a year to the homeless” scale, but rather a “let’s hire someone today to rebuild that hospital and then tomorrow hire someone to construct a new school” sort of scale. Right now, directly, plainly and straight to the heart of the matter.

It would be the finest stroke ever accomplished by philanthropy – the rescue and eventual self-sufficiency of a population of people in this country that seems to have been all but completely forgotten by those blessed with extraordinary means.

Mr. Warren, Mr. Gates: my hat is off to you both, but maybe you could think about this alternative, just for a bit. Lord knows you can afford the time.

Next essay due: July 13

A Matter of Perspective

Yeah, don't say it - I know I'm late. It happens.

I thought I'd try my hand at a short story this time.

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The Monday after New Year’s was ordinary, grey and cold, and the city hummed with the usual weekday activity. Whether it was work, service or consumption, the personal missions of the people on the streets and in the buildings rarely intersected with anyone else’s around them, and when they did, interactions were perfunctory and matter-of-fact.

With the arrival and passage of the new year holiday, the feeling of the season seemed to have abruptly drained from the streets and storefronts, the euphoria of giving and glorious color and music packed away into dusty boxes that wouldn’t see daylight again until the following November.

Lunchtime found the sidewalks thick with people, wanderers and hurriers, some with apparent goals – meals, meetings, errands, and beating the clock back to work.

At the intersection of Morrow Blvd. and 14th Ave., the light turned and two lines of cars came to a stop.

Third car back from the red light.

The sleek Mercedes was polished to immaculate gleaming, all midnight blue and soft kid leather. Agnes had owned the car for barely three weeks; it had been a Christmas morning surprise from Philip; it had replaced the champagne BMW convertible that she had been driving for the previous year. He probably spent a bit too much, but a little extra money went a long way when it came to keeping his wife content.

Agnes’ nose wrinkled in mild disgust as she ran a neatly manicured fingertip along the dash. Dusty, she thought irritably. $150 and $10 tip and it’s still dirty…

The reflection in the mirror was not unpleasant, but it was obvious Agnes had undergone considerable plastic surgery in an attempt to keep the damage wrought by 57 years of living under control. Bright red color accented thin lips on a slightly overly-made face that was framed with unnaturally dark hair, finely coiffed. Her jewelry sparkled and her clothes radiated money, as did her handbag and the colorful, glossy paper shopping bags that lined the leather covered back seats.

She began to mentally run through the list of things she needed to do.

Call the caterers for next Thursdays’ ladies dinner. I need to make sure they get the hors d’ouvres right this time – those tuna things from last month were absolutely dreadful. I wonder if it’s too late to switch the ham with roast duck?

Call Phillip at the office and make sure he’s been in touch with the agent about the cruise. He had better make sure those dates don’t conflict with Aspen over Valentine’s. I wonder if it’s too late to upgrade to a balcony cabin?

Call La Touche and reschedule my spa for next Friday. I’m going to need it after dealing with Mimi and her martini-induced drama at the dinner. I wonder if it’s too late to get the hot rock massage instead of the Swedish?

Second car back from the light.

Marion glanced down at the odometer as she idled waiting for green, absently fiddling with her watch. 53,000 miles, she thought. Probably time for a visit to the mechanic. They had bought the Honda two years ago from a local dealer, where Marion’s husband had haggled with the salesman for a better part of three hours to get the price they needed. She imagined that they’d probably return to that same dealer in another year or so to look for a replacement. We should get our use out of it, but no need to drive it into the ground.

The reflection in the mirror was not unkind, but there were lines in her face and a few grey hairs that clearly demonstrated her status as a mother. Care and concern shared her features with strength and a certain sense of dry wit that mothers of pre-teens often developed. Her clothes were clean, simple and neat; they were most certainly carefully purchased, but still represented the current fashion. The bags in the back seat were department-store plastic, full of shampoo, laundry detergent, pet food and a new linen set for the dining room table – an impulsive purchase, considering the closet shelf at home that was laden with other tablecloths, but it had been on sale.

She began to mentally run through the list of things she needed to do.

Call Sue and make sure she can give Maggie a ride to the school formal on Saturday. I sure hope the cleaners do a better job with Maggie’s dress than they did last time. I wonder if it’s too late to see if I can pick it up on Thursday instead of Friday?

Buy the groceries for dinner this Friday with the Andersons. I hope the butcher gets my order right this time. Maybe it isn’t too late to get some extra-lean ground beef added to my order?

Sit down tonight and pay the bills: mortgage, credit cards, cable, cell phones. I’d also better check to see if our agent credited the insurance payment on the camper. I think Jerry wants to take it on his fishing trip with Alan next weekend.

She glanced in her rear-view mirror at Agnes, who was still fretting over the detailing job of her Mercedes, a twinge of envious distaste crossing her mind. Nice car. I’ll bet she has it real rough, that one……

First car at the light.

Jackie sighed in deep frustration as she listened to the odd knocking noise coming from somewhere in the engine compartment. The faded green ’73 Datsun had nearly 200,000 miles on it and the dashboard and vinyl upholstery was split open in several places. Doesn’t sound good at all, she thought pensively. Looks like David is going to spend this weekend under the hood again, if we can afford the parts. This was their only car; and their tiny basement apartment was far off the transit line. Wonder what we’re going to do when it finally dies for good.

The reflection in the mirror was not haggard, but even so at the age of only 24 Jackie looked a good 10 years older than she was. She couldn’t afford a lot of cosmetics, but she did what she could with what she had. The polyester uniform she wore was comfortable to wear for her janitorial job at the Union Savings Bank building downtown, but was also starting to show wear and tear and had a few stains. Somehow she would need to replace this uniform soon before her boss got on her case. Not only that, but the children needed new jackets and hats. There always seemed to be something.

She began to mentally go through the list of things she needed to do.

Make sure to turn in my timecard tonight. I sure hope my paycheck isn’t late like last time, or we’ll be late on next month’s rent. I wonder if the landlord will let us have a few day’s grace again.

Can’t forget to go to the post office tonight to check the mailbox. I hope this month’s stamps have arrived – sure need to go grocery shopping soon. I wonder if we’re going to get cut off if David gets that raise his boss has been promising for the last six months.

Call the caseworker from the city and see if we’ve moved up the list for housing. They better not have lost our paperwork again. Maybe we can get a place where there’s not a lot of dealers hanging around all the time.

As she re-adjusted her rear view mirror, she caught a brief glimpse of Marion. Soccer mom, she thought dryly. I’ll bet she gets to stay home with her kids.

On the corner.

Jeannie shivered in the cold January breeze, her thin tattered coat only a marginal barrier against the weather. On each side of her, two young girls clutched at the pockets of her coat, standing still as they waited for their mother to lead them across the street. They were cold too, dressed in clothes that were dirty and ill-fitting. For being only 3 and 5 years in age, they were remarkably quiet and subdued. Jeannie knew they were hungry; they hadn’t had anything resembling an actual meal since the previous afternoon.

Heavy sadness and a sense of empty hopelessness showed plainly on the young mother’s face as she stood at the corner with her children. Three weeks ago she’d been evicted from her apartment that hadn’t had functioning utilities for several days, three months ago she’d been laid off from her part-time receptionist job. So far she’d been unable to find anything else. In a large backpack slung over her shoulder were the few things that she and the girls had left: some clothing, a hairbrush, some toothpaste, a couple small toys and a half-empty box of crackers.

She glanced over at the cars closest to her, three different worlds waiting in line at the light. She glanced only briefly at Jackie, and then Marion and Agnes, her eyes dull and listless. There was no envy in her, only a pervading sense of loss. The girls stirred, tugged at her coat as the walk signal flashed on across the street, and Jeannie took them by the hand and stepped off the curb.

I hope today that the shelter has room so we have a warm place to sleep tonight, and something to eat. I hope I can get another job soon and a place to live. I hope I can save enough money to get the girls a gift for Christmas next year. I hope….

Her thought trailed off and was gone, the temporary hope inspired by the thought of the shelter and the hot meal the only motivation she had as she led the children through the intersection and down the sidewalk.

Jackie stared sadly at her, pity – and fear – welling in her throat. That might be me, if things don’t change soon.

Marion watched her for a moment, thinking briefly about her own daughters. Thank God that’s not me. I don’t know how I could ever live like that.

Agnes didn’t look at her at all, watching the light impatiently as it finally turned green and the cars in front of her began to move. She was late for her hair appointment, which was probably going to make her late for afternoon bridge at the country club.

Agnes hated to be late for bridge.


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Next essay due: June 30th

Once a girl, always a girl

I have never been what you might call a "girly-girl". Some of the strongest memories I have of my childhood pastimes tend to include a lot of tire-swing and fort-building activities, and endless exploring. Yes, I had my dollies and my play cooking sets, but I suspect you would have been far more likely to see me out in the yard, tearing around on bare feet in dusty overalls, than you would have been to see me having a tea party with my wordless plastic friends. I don’t recall ever actually being in a dress as a little girl, but I do have some photographic evidence to the contrary. Even as an adult, I usually don't wear them except for job interviews, extremely expensive and special dinner occasions, and during the hottest summer days.

So a while back when I received in my email an invitation to attend "a tea luncheon" in celebration of the birthday of a colleague, the first thought that went through my head was, " will I have to dress up for this....?" The friend of mine who was orchestrating this whole adventure had done a beautiful job with the invites themselves: pastel flower borders and a lilting, cursive font, and it contained enough pink and purple to make Rambo faint dead away. I do believe it could have passed muster as a wedding invitation.

The meal of choice was something called a "Duchess Tea." I was having a tough time with this concept - tea was something you drank, not something you ate. I have never heard of anything like this and quite frankly, I was relieved to see in the description that yes, you did indeed receive actual solid food along with - you guessed it – tea. The menu beckoned with a prim description of finger sandwiches, fruit, petit-fours and something called a "savory". Despite the promise of actual food, I still couldn't help but wonder if I was going to walk away from the luncheon still in search of my real lunch. But the lure of being able to spend an hour with my friends away from work far outweighed my concerns of an unsatisfied appetite, so I RSVP’d with my intention to attend.

The lunch was scheduled at a place called Sleighbells Gift Shop. I had never been there before, but I had passed the road sign every day on my commute to and from work. It turns out that it’s one of those places that’s been around for about 20 years and has more or less established quite a reputation for itself; namely, the fact that a private business actually has a road sign on a public highway speaks testaments. The tea room, which is specifically where our fine dining event was to take place, is run separately from the gift shop, but is situated right smack dab in the middle of an enormous, sprawling expanse of knickknacks, candles, toys, windchimes, gardening adornments, candies, “bed and bath” items, calendars and cards that dominated nearly the entire first floor of the building. To put it bluntly, the “girly factor” of this place was off the charts.

And then, there were the Christmas ornaments.

I really had no idea what I was in for when one of my lunch companions, who had also arrived a bit early like me, indicated that I should “take a look upstairs.” Upon ascending a narrow wooden staircase, I beheld what is quite possibly the largest Christmas ornament display this side of the North Pole. Literally, from one end to the other, in every available square inch possible, the place was crammed with shiny, shimmering, sparkling and colorful holiday displays, beautifully decorated trees straight from the pages of Better Homes and Gardens, and naturally, rack upon rack of individual Christmas ornaments. Carols drifted softly from small speakers hidden strategically on huge tables that were set up with entire “cotton-fluff snow” covered villages, with teeny, smiling people-figures who were all displayed in the postures of folks who were busily preparing for gifts, food and family. Tiny houses and shops twinkled with warm holiday light and cheer. It was enough to make even the most hardened holiday veteran weep with amazement – truly, it was as if I had stepped into another dimension entirely, and I had never before seen such an amazing spectacle.

Now, personally I love Christmas. I love the decorations, the music, the food, the gifts, and the cold blustery weather – snow is quite welcome in my book – and mostly, I love the true meaning for which the holiday stands. But as far as my Christmas ornaments are concerned, I’m all and well with buying them in cheap, boxed bulk at my local K-Mart. A boxed dozen of glass bulbs for $1.79? You sold me! The ornaments at Sleighbells were the type that you might spend several years amassing enough to adequately decorate an entire Christmas tree, unless you were recently vested with lottery winnings.

I'd always thought that the whole concept of a "Christmas ornament store" was particularly silly when for the majority of my adult life, the acquisition of such items has historically been no more than an afterthought while tromping through the aisles of Target, settling them in alongside the cat litter and the dish soap. They had never been the sole reason for going shopping, unless you count the frequent trips made by my husband during every holiday season simply for the acquisition of more lights (think Clark Griswold from "Christmas Vacation", and you'll be pretty much right on the mark.) I realized, however, as I came back down the stairs (or more like back down to earth), that I could certainly learn to like, and eventually love, purchasing my Christmas decorations from this place. Maybe even in July.

But I digress. Back to the tea.

The table settings were lovely – little delicate hand-painted teapots, sugar-cube containers with pretty little lids, dainty creamer-holders that also looked like teapots, and thin china-like teacups that when held, would strike any tea-drinker with an almost genetically based urge to salute the sky with the pinky.

The food was served on clear glass plates with intricate paper doilies, set upon graduated-size silver racks that sat in the middle of the table and were intended to hold morsels for two people. All I can say about the food itself, other than the fact that it was positively superb, is that it was cute. I don’t think I have ever used the word “cute” when describing food. Teeny little finger sandwiches that were no bigger than perhaps a small half-bar of soap. Petit-fours that were…well, petit-fours – very delicate and proper and sweet, the kind that you nibble instead of inhaling due to the rich taste. Little bite-size pieces of fruit and a very sweet and rich cheese-cakey type of dessert. The “savory” – in my mind, the most questionable item on the menu - was a soft, chewy date that was imbedded with a whole almond and wrapped in a piece of bacon. Oh, my, but it was good – I had two. Contrary to my initial suspicions, by the time I had finished my cute little goodies and drank about a half-gallon of very tasty Earl Grey with cream and sugar, I was absolutely stuffed.

The real heart of the whole meal, though, was the girly talk. At times, it was non-stop and going on so quickly that I had to really tune in to hear what was being said. It was robust, genuine and full of laughter; we talked about men, chocolate, food, work, clothes, colors and just simply the things that were going on in our lives. It was a safe environment that I wanted to never end, that of being surrounded by women – by friends - that I knew cared for me, for my family and were honestly interested in the things I had to say.

This sort of thing is relatively new to me. After growing up a bit of a tomboy, during which nearly all of my friends were boys, and then 12 years of rootless military existence where I never had the chance to make close friends, I’ve come to realize since we left military life that the one thing in which I’d been sorely lacking for years was simply having girlfriends. This was a missing element in my life for so long that it is probably one of the key things that has put me somewhat out of touch with my feminine side. Even all three of my children are boys, which tends to tilt the horomonal balance of the family in ways that are just not conducive to a feminine operative standard. But now that I have been able to establish close friendships with a few warm, caring women, I have started to rethink my ideas of what it truly means to be a woman. For the first time since I was in high school, I can say without hesitation that I have a “best friend”, and I am starting to learn how to let go of the self-loathing that I used to do when it came to feminine things. In other words, having a uterus (and therefore getting a bit of a brunt end when it comes to conceiving children), dealing with mood swings and often being a slave to emotion is just part and parcel of the whole “woman” thing, and I realized if I didn’t learn to embrace it, I would never really have peace in my life.

Still, I am far away from really being at peace, for a number of different reasons, some of which have nothing to do with being a girl, but seeing my femininity in a new light is a good start. I am totally at ease with the fact that I will probably never wear makeup, or take up shopping as a hobby, or be able to get into sappy “chick flicks”, or read Cosmopolitan Magazine (which, for the record, has got to be the emptiest, most vapid collection of inane and ridiculously useless journalism ever created). I will probably always prefer pants over dresses, and keep my hair cut short – as long as it takes no more than 5 minutes to “do” in the morning and it’s likely not to frighten small children, it’s just fine.

But this I will do: I will never be afraid to go to another “tea luncheon.” I will probably buy a few ornaments, or maybe even a windchime from Sleighbells, and perhaps they will become family heirlooms 50 years from now. And I will treasure forever the friendships that I have made with beautiful women that have helped me figure out that maybe being a “girly-girl” isn’t quite so bad after all.

Next essay due date: June 16th

The Second Post

Well.

I suppose if you think about it, silence can be profound too. Given that more than a whole year has transpired since the creation and initial post on this blog, the profoundness could possibly be overwhelming. You might want to breathe into a paper bag for a few moments until it passes.

I have resurrected this tiny spot on the web with a purpose in mind - not to use this as a personal diary space, but rather to use it as a public airing of my writing.

You ask: why would anyone want to read what I write?

Good question. But, I would ask a question (or two) in return: why does anyone ever read anything that people write? What is it that makes an "average Jane" such as myself determine that their writing is fit for public comsumption? What makes it compelling? Drama? Comedy? Good grammar? Timing?

I believe the answer is all of the above. Also, it is my firm conviction that everyone has something to say that at least one other person on the planet can relate to. With the plethora of life experiences that are right now occurring in all parts of the earth, there is something for everyone - the good, the bad, the ugly, and the indifferent. And if an average Jane - such as myself, for instance - has a hankering for putting intelligent and interesting sentences on paper (or in cyberspace), and a long-simmering dream of becoming "A Writer", then there exists an almost limitless number of reasons for forging ahead.

In addition, not only do I fantasize about the definite possibility of being published someday, I am, at 38 years of age, re-embarking on a journey that in hindsight should have been finished nearly two decades ago: getting my bachelor's degree. My choice of majors? Writing and Literature. Two things that are, to me, something akin to peanut butter and jelly, Abbott and Costello, and nuts and bolts. It is, in so many ways, a perfect fit for me. I am absolutely electric with the excitement of finally being able to - on purpose, and for credit! -study, practice, meditate on and put on display for other human beings the two things that I love almost more than anything else. I most likely don't know what I'm in for, but I plan to give this all I've got.

To that end, I am assigning myself this task: pick a topic, any topic, and write about it here, no less than once every two weeks. More often, if I'm extra ambitious. As with any other person who works full-time, has children and a husband, and a (very) part-time schedule of college classes, I realize completely that this will be a challenge - a direct head-on with the "tyranny of the urgent", as a former colleague of mine was quite fond of saying. But I need to be stretched. I need to get into the habit of regular, scheduled writing, as this will be the most important thing I can do to become a disciplined writer.

So, I invite you to read what I write. I hope that it does not bore you. I welcome criticism, as long as it is framed in a constructive, and not destructive, manner. I imagine that I would welcome praise even more so!

Thanks for listening, and for reading. Blog On!

First essay due date: June 6, 2006.

The First Post

Hola Web-world!

Welcome to my corner.

I probably don't have anything terribly profound to say, other than I decided to start this blog with the intention of making a statement, even if it is but a split-second blip on the radar screen.... one of a billion blogs of a million bloggers also trying to make a statement.

That being said, I have no particular statement in mind - I'll make it up as I go along, kind of like how I function in life.

But today, I am thankful to be alive, thankful for my 3 beautiful sons, thankful that I have some money in my pocket and some food in our cupboards.

Profound indeed.