Lyra Says

Lyra's talking into her "microphone," a giant pink plastic gadget with springwork on the inside that does, indeed, amplify her tiny three-year-old voice.

Lyra: "Yah, yaaah! You can't do this because you don't have no energiiiiiiiiie!!!"

Chris: "You have no energy."

Me: "Why don't I have any energy?"

Lyra: "Cause you need to eat lots of fooooood!"

Me: "That's how you get energy? From food?"

Chris: "How else do you get energy?"

Lyra: "Oh no, I peeled this off..." fiddles with her microphone... "From the sun! The sun helps us GROW!"

Me: "You get energy from the sun?"

Lyra: "And from sleeeeeeping!"

Me: "Maybe you should be the PhD candidate." turning to Chris "How does she know these things? Didn't she just turn three?"

Chris: "She watched a show."

Me: "Oh."

Moral of the story: you don't need an education! Watch more television.

There's No Line Between You and Me

Blogging is bad for the soul.

I'm sinking into deep meditation, a shiny-warm feeling of peacefulness beginning to pervade my core, spreading outwards toward my hands, my fingertips, and my toes. My chest rises and falls, rises and falls, rises and falls.

"I feel my mind merging with the mind of..."

Shh.

I shake my head involuntarily, as if the thought will jar itself free and float away, off into nothingness. Silence.

I feel the weight of my body, a weight made up of trillions of cells, each on their own mission, unthinking but knowing, fueling and refueling and reproducing and expiring, all in perfect harmony. None them aware of their intricate organization, not in the least aware of their own importance. All in perfect faith.

"Sorites paradox: How many cells before I am no longer a body? One less? Two less?"

Shh.

"... a million less?"

Shh!

I giggle at my mind's playful rebellion. I wonder what I must look like on the outside; if yogis ever giggle in the middle of their meditations. I decide that they must.

*******

I often marvel and how we're always talking about the same thing. Last summer I read The God Delusion, Richard Dawkins's infamous plea to contemplate the beauty and the mystery of life. Look at the cell. Just try to comprehend the complexity of this universe - think you can do it? Try. Please.

At least, that's how I read it. I remember thinking that Deepak Chopra must be thrilled with the book; that it was one more piece of evidence for unity, that science is yet again demystifying what we intuit to be true, that spirituality and science will culminate in the same description of the same world. Pantheist - that's what Dawkins called the person who saw God in every particle, in every breeze, in the elegance of the galaxies.

Despite the book's title and intent, very little of it had to do with God; his attempt was rather to inspire within the individual an almost religious respect for the brilliance of the world around us, rather than needing a belief in a "master plan" to satisfy our desire for wonder, excitement, or meaning.

I feel this way, too, but still I feel the need to "know," to "intervene," to "prepare." It's instinct, perhaps, more than a residual effect of faith: faith doesn't teach us to know; it doesn't pretend to give you an answer. Faith only teaches you to listen, to trust.

Imagine a skin cell, for instance, trying to comprehend its place in the organism. I assume it can't attempt such things, but if for the sake of argument it could: would a skin cell ever gain enough perspective to see the entire organism? Could it understand the magnitude of such a being, or fathom its finite but vital role in this being's life? Could it ever be in a position to understand the being's complex web of social relationships, of the intensity of its emotions, of the love it can feel, or the pain? Could it even begin to wonder about the being's own curiosity and awe regarding its own place in the universe?

Of course not. Even if a single cell had the apparatus necessary to think such thoughts, it could never step back far enough to ask the right questions.

Do we think that we can? Can we ask the right questions, and go about finding the answers? I don't know. Intuitively, I want to say no, but I think it's unwise to doubt the curiosity, ingenuity and audacity of the human spirit.

Deepak Chopra didn't like the book. In fact, he wrote quite the missive damning the book to all sorts of hell. I was unhappy, feeling like I was forced to choose between the awe of quiet and the awe of mind, but still knowing that all roads lead to Rome, as they say.

All Roads Lead to Rome

Let's assume we have two choices, or perspectives. Choice One: the universe, or at least what we know of it, is part of an intentional system. Choice Two: the universe is intentionally inert, and the only organisms that make up meta-organisms (or intentional systems) are the individual cells of that organism as well as some meta-organisms that are also perceivably part of a greater structure, such as mushrooms, Aspen trees, and coral. Considering that each meta-organism is composed of trillions of individual cells (and I won't do the math on this one), the odds of you - you right there - laying claim to the pinnacle of the organism is, crudely put, trillions of trillions of trillions to one. Nearly impossible, really. Completely impossible if you consider humanity and our social structure as a whole.

But probability is not why we're having this discussion, we're wondering if the universe had a Creator, which in my terminology means that there is some force - a higher intelligence or what have you - that intended on the universe's existence, AND is in some way invested (possibly a poor choice of words) in the cumulation of the universe's activity. If the Creator merely created and lost interest, in other words, that would go in Choice Two. And if the universe itself is Creator, that goes in Choice One.

I say it doesn't matter which you choose, and here's why:

1) If the universe is an intentional system, its intention is necessarily greater than ours. Laws of physics and human behavior will all fall under this intentionality, and unfold accordingly. Ultimately, events are out of your control.

2) If the universe is intentionally inert, the laws of physics and the laws of human behavior will play out according to their deterministic beginnings, an inevitable free-fall of circumstance which, while not steered by intention, is still outlined according to the physically possible. That is, things won't frequently "just happen." At any rate, events are out of your control.

This still gives us room to adopt a philosophy: attribution theory of meaning, nihilism, whatever you feel like. There's wiggle room because we see that either way we're unable to see what's going on; knowing the intentional stance of our world frankly doesn't help us much. Rationality doesn't provide the answer.

The only answer, then, is to live a life of your own purpose. You can know, for instance, that if there is a greater force governing your life, you are at every single moment fulfilling its deepest desires, your interactions and your purpose entwining with every other soul, bringing each other closer to the goal. You can also know, then, that if there is no inherent purpose and no inherent meaning, that you are your own Creator, here to play and experience and generate a life worth living.

And that's how that works.

Symbology

That's right, I said symbology.

Today I put up blinds, all by my very own self. It only took an hour, what with the lifting and then oh-crapping and forgetting the pen and wondering how I'm supposed to hold all this stuff at the very same time... it was a work-out. But it looks NICE.

Then I put up curtains.

And rearranged my bedroom. Hung "sconces" (worst word ever. Best word ever: WINGNUT.).

I'm tired. Still have to go back to Ikea and exchange the futon mattress for a new one... must resist temptation to buy a new rug, at least for now.

Pretty, pretty things... they will all be mine.

Does This Make Me Mrs. Coulter?

Watched The Golden Compass last night with C. Lyra's badass, almost as good as the book, and Lord Asriel (who looks strangely, strangely like C with a beard) is also, you know, badass, and Mrs. Coulter is gorgeous but a manipulative evil bitch.

Guess who I get to be!

Barfity Barf Barf

Ok, so I'm sitting on the couch mulling over the idea of whether C and I can co-exist peacefully, and whether he's over the relationship or at least getting there, and thank goodness he's so emotionally mature, when I realize what I'm watching (TV, I mean). It's called... hang on... Must Love Dogs.

Agh. I feel like I'm confessing to fondling my sister or something, I'm so embarrassed to admit this. But I have to admit it so I can tell you what I just saw - namely, our single but scrappy heroine goes grocery shopping (wee!) and when she scrappily saunters to the deli counter to purchase a single scrappy chicken breast she's confronted with, "Oh? Just the ONE chicken breast? Are you aloooone? Have you tried... the internet? Hmm?"

And I just want to scream.

I'm usually a very anti-relationship person, at least until, uh, Houston and... Yule (sorry guys, I really suck at pseudonyms) came along. I mean, I was the biggest fan of Against Love: A Polemic before I was even single because I felt like I could have written the damn thing: Relationships are limiting and doomed to failure. You often have to give up your goals for the greater good. You can't laugh at a stupid joke because your partner's watching. Being single and partaking in desirable amounts of casual sex is the only way to maintain freedom, happiness and sanity.

But then after C and I broke up I started spending more time with Houston and Yule and all of a sudden I was struck by a kind of weird... feeling that maybe, just maybe, relationships aren't inherently distasteful, and maybe, sometimes, at least with the right person, they can be fun and exciting and also meaningful and you can even possibly grow as a person without having to give up your identity and fit yourself into a preformed relationship mold. What I mean to say is that Houston and Yule aren't sitting around going if it weren't for THEM I would so be laughing at that JOKE right now.

Anyway.

The point is that I'm tentatively coming around to the idea of relationships. Disclaimerly but! I still firmly stand by my belief that being single is good, and that no relationship is far superior than a bad or mediocre relationship. (Blah dee blah, I could have read that out of a book. See, that's the other thing: we SAY these things but then we watch movies and read books that completely and utterly destroy these feeble ideas of ours.) Which brings me back to my ultimate point, which is that, no surprise, this movie is destined to end not in the scrappy heroine's discovery of single-life happiness, but in love. No, not love. Sweet sweet luuuurve.

And yeah, it's cool, and sweet, and whatever, and right now she's jumping into the river with all of her clothes (and shoes!) on to profess her undying I'm-so-stupid-to-have-not-noticed-you-before let's-get-married-right-now lurve. Oh wait! Now they're grocery shopping! And buying lots of chicken breasts! And kissing! And now the movie's over! What a success.

Anywho, just wanted to share.

Impressed

I'm impressed by so many things. By how three-year-olds can make friends in five seconds, just by virtue of sharing a table with someone. By how when I ask Lyra what she wants for dinner, she says "Mayonnaise." By how Ginger starts following me around the moment I get home, and I think it's awfully sweet until I open my bedroom door, sniff sniff... oh Ginger! and she looks at me so apologetically that I can't help but pat her on the head and trot off for paper towels and carpet cleaner.

By how I can drive a stick-shift and eat ice cream at the same time.

By how C and I are at Ikea buying him a bed, and after we load it into the car a million miles from the entrance he looks at me, looks at the empty cart and says wanna ride? (Hell yeah I do!) And we go veering off into the distance.

By how after all this time of looking for an apartment or a roommate I realize that I already have one.

I... guess this makes us a non-traditional parenting household. I'm impressed by this, too, but maybe a little uncertain because it's still early; we haven't had to deal with boyfriends or girlfriends or even just a drunk friend on the couch. We haven't had any problems.

Then again, maybe we're just evolving; maybe the dust finally settled on the first and hardest stage of our breakup. It's been almost two months now, not long but not brand-new. We have our own bedrooms. We've figured out the bank accounts, the schedules, the chores; we've delineated appropriate post-breakup behavior and how we'll deal with one of us inevitably dating someone else. Best of all, we're both right down the hall from our daughter at all times.

Maybe all of the precautions in the world wouldn't be enough... but what if they are? What if they could be? What if we can pull this off and parent our daughter together but not together?

There's one obvious problem with this situation.

We were mulling around the dining wares section of Ikea, killing time after we begged, pleaded, and failed to coax Lyra out of the playroom. I'm squinting at the place settings when it occurs to me that if we were both seeing someone we'd always have an instant dinner party and ooh, we could make that one Mexican soup I liked so much, the one with all the toppings... which would look so great in those blue bowls right there... and then I realize that this is madness, no I'm sure it is, but at the same time it seems like the pinnacle of emotional maturity, like a situation we should actually strive for. Dinner parties. With dates. Or something like that.

Or I'm, you know, delusional. But living together isn't a cop-out; there's no room for miscommunication and anything that would demand only greater maturity from myself and from C... well, it just can't be all that bad. Neither one of us is particularly jealous to begin with, and what's a little jealousy when the benefits - both of us getting to live full-time with our kid AND having a permanent movie-watching partner - so obviously outweigh the drawbacks?

Again, maybe I'm dreaming. I think we'll tread lightly into this vague and uncertain future.

Writing About Dreams

This is a new thing for me, and I think it’s brave of me to share such personal details with you (what was I thinking?).

The first part of the dream that I can remember, I was waking up. I sat up, in the dream, on a lawn surrounded by thousands of people just milling around, like it was a massive summer vacation and we had all congregated in this particular location for the sole purpose of being lazy and talking to each other. The grass was unusually green and the sky, well, the sky was very blue, with some lovely fluffy clouds in aesthetically-optimal locations.

I got up and ran. I knew that a lot had happened up to that point but it was a dream and it didn’t really matter. What did matter was that I was late for something.

I stopped running when I saw a large, grubby man with unkempt hair standing by a mop bucket and a broom. He had the janitor jumpsuit on, but there was grease on his face. I think I was confusing a janitor for a mechanic. He hands me a key, and we talk. I remember thinking that I was so small and breakable-looking next to this man, but that that was only because I was still very young. I got my own jumpsuit.

My job, as well as I can remember, was to take care of this key. There was only one for all of the jumpsuit people, and I couldn’t lose it. It unlocked every window at the university, and also all of the sheds and any utility closet I could find. I started smoking in the hallways at school. I liked impressing my friends by whipping out the key and unlocking things, and also the way I could push the windows up with just a flick of my wrist.

I started finding things in the closets. Pieces of things, puzzle pieces. I would collect them and take them all back to the same closet (my favorite closet) and throw them in there on top of a bucket.

There were lots of jumpsuit men, but my favorite was the one that hired me. One day all of us jumpsuiters had to go on this retreat, to a farm on the outskirts of the university. There were fireworks, and someone was talking to us from above. We were all listening, but I couldn’t understand the language so I started spying on what the people around me were doing in the dark. Later a dozen or so of us went back to jumpsuit man’s house. His lover, another jumpsuit man, was there in bed with a woman. Her name was Lisa. I know this because every time the lover spoke, the words spelled themselves out in the sky in black cursive font, even his moans and sighs. But mostly he just said “Lisa”.

I remember that the jumpsuit man saw this coming, or rather, that he knew somehow that it was eventually going to happen. That was the way it was with jumpsuit man; everyone had their job and they couldn’t escape it. It would all play itself out one way or another. He was still sad, though, but he didn’t want to talk about it.

He told me he misplaced something. I showed him the collection of puzzle pieces in my closet. I remember his eyes were glowing, and again I didn’t understand anything except that it was big, and even though I didn’t know what was going on I had done something well. He was happy. He let me keep the key.

There were people everywhere. Sometimes I felt like we – the jumpsuiters – were the only ones that knew we had jobs. Every time I stepped outside, I had to wade through masses of people. It took a long time to get anywhere.

I was really happy to be wearing a jumpsuit, even though I had to clean up after everyone and make sure the mowers were running properly and that there were the right number of mops in each closet. I had to do this so other people could do their jobs. I was the janitor’s janitor.

At one point we all went to steakhouse, like the ones you find in Texas where the word “Texas” is written all over it because in Texas they’re really proud that they live in Texas. It was big and long and one big room and they served baked potatoes and steak and we watched a show in the center of the room. I was always watching things. I don’t remember talking much in the dream, except to tell people where they could find things.

The end of the dream was fuzzy. There was no drama and no resolution; life just went spinning on as it always does. The jumpsuit man found another lover. I found more puzzle pieces, and kept putting them in the closet. At one point, I saw a gigantic mower that stood several stories tall. It was an apt shrine, I remember thinking.

Then I woke up, and I had a headache from last night’s wine.

The Dangers of Blogger Love (Plagiarism Watch-out)

Whoa.

Ok, so I just read two columns - one from a blogger girl, one from a blogger boy - chronicling their romance and break-up and the publicity of it all, given the girl's popular bloggerificness. The boy didn't like it; the girl couldn't help it... the blog inevitably ended their relationship, let us say.

Boy wasn't happy at how her emotions were aired online. Girl felt like she was being herself: her blog was a natural extension of her emotional and at bare minimum personal self. Boy felt like Girl was exposing her vulnerability. Boy felt violated. Girl didn't realize... I suppose... that Boy felt this way. The blogging seemed, at any rate, to destroy the secret newness of it all, especially since they were not only co-workers, but both newly out of long-term relationships.

Okay. Got it. Lucky this got to me in time, because I was totally just going to write about the incredibly new, hot romance I've got going on and all the HOT HOT SEX we've been having. I was even going to include details about the new guy's beautiful... yeah right. Whatever. Had ya going.

I'm totally not getting any. But that is not ANY of your business, ok? So what if I write about it on my "blog" that gets, like, a mere fraction of Miss Emily Gould's readers (just google her and get it over with already, wouldja)? But if I WAS, and I COULD BE LYING, I would totally write about it all the time, every day, every single last detail. Yep. Every bit.

I guess the moral of this story is: blog and get dumped. Or, blog and get lots of sex (depending on whether your dear old bf wants to be blogged about or not, I suppose). Or, keep mum and just be a normal human being who hides their life away and never tells a single soul anything about themselves without their having earned it, or something. Which, let me tell you, blogging is NOT about.

Glad THAT'S over! If only our great-grandparents could have known what their future generational offspring were in for, romantically-speaking. Blogging isn't just gossip; it's straight-from-the-source direct: my heart, it's brooooken! He or she suuuucks! But I luuuurve them! It's pathetic, is what it is, but it's real and like it or not, some people actually enjoy putting their hearts on their sleeve.

Not what you're in for? Don't date a blogger.

Nothing to Say, Part Two

Prognosis: lazy.

Today was picture day at Lyra's preschool. Remember picture day? Did you mom get you all cuted-up and adorable so you looked basically nothing like your normal self, and this make-believe you would be captured on film to spend all eternity perched on a wall in your grandma's hallway?

Yeah, I thought so. This happened to me AT LEAST once, but I only know this because of the hallway thing. I think as I got older I grew either less cute or less cooperative.

I'm not cooperative now, either, but this is usually because I forget. Last picture day at Lyra's school, she didn't attend for some forgotten reason or another, so they nabbed her the next day in very much her normal attire (read: mismatched socks and wild hair). Luckily, I have trained Lyra to love the camera, and the series of photos that were returned to us were a perfect embodiment of her personality and patience. The first: wide smile, classic pose. The second: possibly genuine smile; body language lacking enthusiasm. The third: teeth stretched obligingly over gums. Possibly irritated.

Today, though, Picture Day! I was as excited as any mother of a young child could be. I expressed this by dutifully picking lint off the cutest possible sweater and crossed my fingers in an attempt to supernaturally prevent the morning's inevitable spills and stains. Then: I brushed her hair, opting not for the boring ponytail but for two "dinosaur ears" (two earlike buns, for those of you who do not parent the dinosaur-obsessed). Afterwards I made sure she was wearing matching socks and we experienced only a minor crisis when I thwarted her attempts to wear her pajama pants to school.

Of course this was all too much excitement for me, so I drove her to school and promptly returned home for a nap.

All of this is to preface me saying that the analytic portions of my mind are... shrinking. I had a beer with Chris later in the afternoon (and a busy beer it was, what with everyone having the same idea to take off work early and get a head start on the, erm, beautiful Memorial Day weekend), and I cannot BELIEVE how much that man can remember. While birthdays are not his shtick, quantum fragments of information regarding chemistry, the general theory of relativity, calculus, etc. - all gleaned either from his education or the distant reading of books - these all ride the eternal waves of his mind, never to be forgotten. And, unlike when we discuss politics, ethics, or psychology, I actually believe he's gotten the facts right.

What does this have to do with me? I dunno, nothing. What does it have to do with you? I dunno... nothing. Why are you even reading this post?

Jeez. Some people.

I Am Anger, Hear Me Riiiip Your Heart Out

I know this guy who is just RIDICULOUSLY happy, all of the live-long day. He's smart and not obnoxious and has that easy comfort where he'll just talk all through class and smile and generally act like he's never had a care in the world, ISN'T THAT SO COOL. I don't know him very well but I limbo between wanting to be this guy's best friend and wanting to give him a stinging wallop upside his blue-bandanaed-head. How dare he be so optimistic.

I am not so perky-perky-how's-your-day. Today was great: I was all excited about the primaries and the future of our country and about the fact that a seventh of Portland showed up to see Obama yesterday, isn't that neat, but then I couldn't find a parking spot for half and hour and got burnt hashbrowns with my eggs and oh my goodness, I feel like I'm metaphorically strapped to this guy's back, except he's facing up and I'm facing down so he sees blue skies and fluffy white clouds and I'm like THIS IS JUST A BUNCH OF DIRT.

Burnt hashbrowns? Ruin a whole day? Really?

It's been a short day.

Not even that, really, this is just me. It's been a weird couple of months, and I'm excited and scared and looking forward to the future but also kind of looking back on the past. It's like I can't quite turn around all the way and look ahead, and my plans are shifting and my goals are changing which isn't even all of my own making, what with Chris not wanting to move for me to go to graduate school and now I'm going into a program that sounds great and lucrative and interesting but it wasn't what I saw myself doing, I had it all figured out and now NOTHING is the same. All that's scrapped. And that's life, right? Change. I guess it is, I just thought that I'd have more control about the outcome or at least the direction, but then I made decisions and those decisions helped other decisions fall into place while closing the door on others and I don't like this. I'm pissed, and I'm afraid, and I wanted to keep a foot in all of the doors so they can't slam shut but they did anyway and there wasn't a damn thing I could have done about it.

And my writing always reflects my physical state of mind; all breathless and winded like I want to stop running and just hold still and get my bearings back. Which I do. And frankly, I don't have a choice.

NOOOOO!!!

The library won't renew my books! WON'T RENEW MY BOOKS!

Now I can't pretend I own them; I have to give them BACK! THIS IS CRAP.

Blargh Attack

For an Atheist, I Have a Lot of Spiritual Crises

I'm not a very good atheist. Ha.

No, actually, I'm a great atheist. A lot of people assume that atheism excludes any belief in the possibility of god, but that's not atheism, that irrationalism. We don't really know such things, not even you believers out there who "know" there's a god - now, I'm not trying to offend you, I'm only stating the obvious: you don't know there's a god, you feel there's a god, and that is perfectly legitimate and even, I would say, vital. Denying such things when you feel they're real and just and true would also be irrational. You would not make a very good atheist.

Atheism is about accepting the unknown for the remarkable reality that it is. Even if I can't define it.

In my kitchen I have a ceiling fan with two long, dangly pulls, one for the fan and one for the light. I have a habit, every time I walk by them, to flick one and send it spinning around the other, wrapping it tighter and tighter until the ends meet and the whole process reverses. This morning I watched them spin and unspin and spin again, twirling around and untwirling, ever slower and ever less violent, until they were finally still.

I knew as I watched that this whole process could be defined mathematically; defined by virtue of physics and taking in to consideration weight and length and shape and air pressure and so on. Such a simple, normally unremarkable thing. Completely complicated.

Nothing in this world happens without a reason. Situations unfold according to the natural laws they've been given, and I don't just mean twirling dangly-bobs, I mean you and me, our meeting and our interactions and what we say and why we say it. Why we feel what we do; why we do what we do: it all unfolds naturally and gracefully. It really couldn't have happened otherwise.

There is a rhyme and reason to this universe, I mean. I know this. I don't have to guess; I don't have to pretend; I don't have to have faith or even just hope.

I know.

Lyra Eats

Sitting on the table: a bowl of cheerios, a half-eaten apple, scrambled eggs, one glass of juice, one glass of milk, and one glass of water.

This is Lyra's breakfast.

I saunter off to the bathroom, where I spend approximately five minutes brushing my teeth and washing my face. When I get back, the eggs are dark brown and gooey.

"Lyra... what is that?" She points to a small heap of brown powder next to her bowl. Chocolate jello mix. Gross. Where does she keep finding these things? I can't even remember buying jello.

"Gorgeous - chocolate eggs? Is that good?"

"I like chocolate eggs." She spoons another fudgy bite into her mouth.

"Ok. Alright. I'm getting dressed now."

This is the girl who, on Saturday, refused to eat her eggs until they were daintily anointed with candy sprinkles, the kind most people never witness except on ice cream cones. Rather than locking away the liquor, we have to hide even the most innocent-looking of decorative toppings: the icing I used once when I made her first-birthday cake, the green sprinkles from Christmas, the food dye. Once I found her on our kitchen counter, making "muffin-cakes" for her friend Selma. Twenty cupcake liners arranged neatly into rows on the counter, each with a few drops of food coloring and a generous shake of green sprinkles.

Other times I have found her raiding the freezer, her mouth stuffed full of bon-bons or any other tasty frozen treat that was doomed to live a brief but meaningful existence. The thrill seems to be in the verboten; if I were to actually hand her an ice cream cone she would but take a few quick licks, decorate it with marshmallows, and declare it unsound. This is a dangerous enterprise, usually resulting in me locating the cone, abandoned, melted, and mushy, possibly in a closet or deep within the cushions of the couch. Sometimes she just feeds it to the dog.

When it comes to "real food," at least she gives us a few options: macaroni and cheese is popular, as is white rice and occasionally spaghetti. Most of the time she flatly states she's not interested in "real dinner," and can she please have a bowl of cereal, no milk this time. Whatever. I'm happy to feed her anything that isn't composed ONLY of sugar.

I'm certain some of you might be quite upset that I've taken this blase attitude toward my daughter's eating habits, but I like to think that I'm fostering independence and teaching Lyra about consequences. The consequence, for instance, of my no longer stocking bon-bons in the house. Or Oreos. Or candy sprinkles. And especially the one where she has to brush her teeth... for the fifth time... in one day.

But like I said, whatever. She's a kid, she likes sweets, and most of what she steals goes straight into the dog anyway. They're a team.

Besides, I know that one of these days she'll be like me and care not so much for sprinkles as she does for paying bills and getting work in on time, and the highlight of her day might be to come home to a quiet house and crack open a beer before she takes one last stab at that project and heads off to bed.

She'll have a satisfying life, I know, but the love of the adult world can just never compare to the love of a child for candy sprinkles.

Heat

There's something about the heat that gets to you, the feel of damp on your skin, the weight of the sun pressing you deeper inside your own body. It's magnificent, this heat, like I woke up on a new planet, one where I burn and people pour out of their houses to sweat and drink and congratulate each other on the newness of it all. You'd think we've never known sun before. In three days, my dish soap has bleached clear, my toes are pink and my daughter hides inside, no longer having any memory of days spent in sand on the sea, or wearing her swimsuit as cold waves washed over her, warmed only by the glowing radiance above. She's never known otherwise, she's a rain-child.

Today was spent on a front-porch swing, dirty feet brushing the ground and pushing me off again, back up into the air, down, hair stuck to my forehead with sweat. Tall glasses of water. A cigarette. Lyra on her microphone, dancing, wanting me to clap my hands to the music and me just pushing myself off again with my feet, swinging back hard while she dances and the dog pants under a tree. Our tree, the one where the pink petals have been bleached white and curled by the sun. Everything roasting.

Today, life begins again.

My Boyfriend's Dog Hates Me!

Heh. I have looong been a fan of advice columns, but lately I'm feeling the need for something with a little more edge. For one, the topics are getting repetitious and boring. It seems America is obsessed with wedding etiquette, and this just has to be the most boring advice topic EVER. It's one day, people, get over it. Who cares if they don't want your kids at the wedding? Who cares if she picked out the most butt-ugly bridesmaid dress in the entire universe? Who cares if she didn't invite your distant great-uncle's boyfriend's grandson's cousin? ONE DAY. You'll survive.

Or, the advice is so ridiculously specific as to be completely useless. Like the woman who wrote into Dear Abby: hey, my boyfriend's dog hates me. He's always growling and trying to bite me, but my boyfriend just sits back and giggles. Does this sort of problem really require a letter to Dear Abby? Really? Because if my boyfriend had a dog that was trying to BITE ME and the boyfriend didn't care, we would be having what I call A Conversation.

It's hard to find any good sex-advice columns, either, and dear old Dan Savage only puts out once a week because he can totally get away with being lame like that. For all I care, Dan could just exist as a vague figment of my imagination, and I would still be in awe of his awesomeness. (Is that redundant?) But most sex columns will only publish "safe questions" like, why does it burn when I pee? which are far better answered by a doctor or even a quick google search. Who cares? I want real questions with real answers - no, I take that back - I want GOOD questions, INTERESTING questions with equally good and interesting answers. And I especially want to hear no more about cranky brides that won't have sex with the lights on.

I guess what I'm saying is that advice columns should be more like television, filled with riveting drama and glorious smack-downs. That would be fun! I would like that.

Five AM

What does AM stand for again? Anno Morningus?

It's freaking early, that's certain. I'm awake, and I'm churning with anxiety and excitement because today, unlike most days, I'm not certain what the morning will bring.

I'll post a picture:




You wouldn't believe those little birds can make so much noise, and you'd be right; those birds are just listening.

There's this song that reminds me of someone, but only because it's beautiful and I wasn't getting the words right. Now that I know the words, I'm not so certain, but I think it still captures the essence of his energy.

Birds Must Be Glad They Get Up So Early

Five o'clock in the morning is bird cocktail hour. They're twittering, and chirping, and flirting (and they're probably all Hey! It's finally spring! Can we get a move-on with this nest?) and having such a luscious-good time.

It is beautiful outside. With all the tweeting, the blooming, and the damp pre-summer heat, I almost remembered I live in a rainforest.

It's gorgeous, this place.

Why Yes! I Am This Much of a Tard

I have been trying to get this one French-Existentialist pose down FOREVER, and you would THINK it would be really easy because it's just a silhouette and a cigarette, and I've got the lighting and I've got the tripod and it should ALL JUST WORK OUT, RIGHT?!

No. The damn auto-focus is a BIG FAT BITCH, and if I ever have to hear "whiiiir-eeer, whiiir-eeer" one more time I swear to God I will SHOOT THAT THING.

After about five minutes of me puff puff puffing away at a cigarette because I never know if or when the damn thing's going to go off, I realize that it - the camera - it likes my hand! My hand, ok, I guess my facial features aren't just good enough to latch onto, I can go with the hand, let's do the hand! But pretty soon the cigarette's gone and I haven't got any good shots and I'm just messing around with the thing, feeling kind of like a reject because it's all, "no... no... (whiiir-eeer, whiiir-eeer)... not that one... nope... (whiiir-eeer, whiiir-eeer)... wait for it... CLICK!" And I'm wondering what sort of face I'm making. Except I forget, see, that I've set it up so it's just a silhouette, and when I get the pictures I just get a bunch of this:



See the hand there, next to my face? Yeah, that's me holding my nifty little remote, the thing that's supposed to make my life easier. It doesn't. But then I realize, hey, this is kind of like a treasure-hunt, let's add some fill-light and see what we've got here. REVEAL!



DO I LOOK HAPPY TO YOU, CAMERA?! DO I?! DOOOO I?! THIS IS WHY I HAVEN'T NAMED YOU YET, CAMERA! YOU'RE NOT GONNA STAY.

"I teach English to genius pandas."

So I am a huge fan of Dooce, who makes everything goddamn thing sound hilarious, and for long before her reign I was a huge fan of Catherine Newman, who is such an excellent writer and conveys such poignancy and depth that I cannot help but cry every time I read anything that she has written.

These are the Mommy-Bloggers. Some people are for it and some people are against it and personally, I love it. I love looking into the window that it their lives and knowing that other people are thinking and feeling and doing all of those very same things with their own children.

Yet I do not write about my child. I do, but I never publish it. Not because I’m afraid, and not because I don’t think the whole world shouldn’t know about the enormity of my love for this small, very passionate little person, but because… I take that back. I am afraid.

It’s just… have you ever loved someone so hard that it hurts every fiber of your being? Not just your soul, but your body, every cell of it being wrenched so hard in this one direction and you know, not just think, but KNOW that your life is intricately and irrevocably woven into this one small person? It’s a raw, open wound of a love, and you cannot stop it or shut it down even long enough to close your eyes, much less breathe. It’s joy, yes, but it’s agony and frustration, complete vulnerability in the knowledge that this person’s happiness is now your own, and their life and safety determines your life, and your safety. A piece of you has been torn out to be reincarnated into another being, and you can’t get it back. You can’t be whole again.

Yeah. I know that was so abrupt but that’s just the way it is. Abrupt. Sudden. Permanent.

And very, very scary.

Mmm... Fuzzy

Are you ever ridiculously happy about something that is your Personal Little Secret, and you don't tell a soul but everyone notices and says things like, "Well, you seem mighty chipper today," and you're like, "Who... me?"

Yeah, I bet you do. Not me, though...

Moving on: my poor Jasper. Jasper is my car, and I named him the day that I decided to keep him (not the day I met him... or the day I decided to buy him; I'm too non-committal for that sort of thing). I have loved and cherished Jasper in the "I am definitely willing to get your oil changed, more or less on time" sort of way. Jasper is my friend. He usually (ahem) prevents me from getting pulled over with his jolly-good-natured sedan self, and he has never, ever, caused me any trouble.

But... I'm getting the feeling that Jasper is feeling like the red-headed stepchild here, and I'm realizing that maybe I have been the Bad Girlfriend (Evil Stepmother?) in this situation. I mean, maybe I have done too little and expected far too much out of the poor little guy.

I have a grabby clutch. Heh. Ok, anyway, so this grabby clutch has grown noticeably... grabbier... lately, and I have decided To Fix It. Yes, this is my mission, I am going to teach this grabby clutch to keep its little hands to itself, and in researching what I need to know in order to do this thing I have noticed... other things. As in, a mysterious leak. But no need to panic! According to my handy research manual I have learned that a leak is NOT necessarily a life-threatening ordeal. In fact, its repair could be quite simple, with only minimal wear-and-tear on the bodily system and necessitating mere minutes of one's time. This is good!

This is good. But now I wonder, what else? What greater evidence of my mistreatment is lurking for me under this mysterious blue hood? Can I still rebuild this relationship? Or have I officially Pissed Jasper Off? Will he ever love me again? Am I perhaps taking this metaphor too far?

One can only wonder.

What, it's a Clutch. It Can't be THAT Hard to Fix.

Well. Maybe for people who have any experience actually repairing cars, as opposed to just driving them into the ground.

So I'm sitting in front of my car with this Chilton's manual, and I'm learning a few things, two in particular: one, I am learning to be glad that none of my vehicle's problems have an asterisk next to their entry in the book. This apparently means that only a licensed professional is fit for the job, which I am not. Second, I get excited because apparently I have to get UNDER the car in this particular situation, until I realize that "under the car" is a place that I will not fit, at least not without fancy-pants additional apparatus. Damn.

Maybe it was something that Vespa Boy said about the ease of accessibility when it comes to fixing motorcycles, but I suddenly realize that this is probably why my dad has built exponentially more motorcycles than he has cars or airplanes. Because cars and airplanes are a pain in the ass. So then I'm kind of grumbling to myself about the fact that my dad isn't here to teeeach me these things (and what else are dads supposed to do, really), when I remember that he was pretty much self-taught when it came to mechanics, and hell. If he can do it, so can I. Are a few extra pounds of muscle really going to give him an edge when it comes to replacing a... cable? Probably not.

Besides, what's the worst that can happen? The fateful answer to that question, after the break.

Accepting the Self

My entire life, I've been fighting who I am.

I exist in a world of contradictions: too smart to slack off, too much of a slacker to succeed, too passionate to bother but too blessed to not try. And try and try.

I feel like I live in a world without gravity; nothing is strong enough to pull me back home and yet I still go, day after day. Not because I want to, but because I don’t know any other way.

Do you ever just drive, willing yourself to turn at the next exit and book it out of here… anywhere, somewhere, anywhere new? I just want to be somewhere without people, without expectations that I don’t have to dash, without awareness, even, just dirt and sweat and real.

The Brilliance of Break-Ups

Something interesting happens when two people undergo an amicable break-up, yet continue to live in the same house. Here's our list o' week:

1. Your secret stash of CD-Rs? VIOLATED. You won't say anything because it's possible you used them all and just forgot, but you still have your suspicions.
2. Cleaning is done by no one. Who? No one.
3. The Person Who Always Did Laundry is now allowed to pointedly ignore the growing pile of clothes belonging to The Person Who Has Not Done Laundry In Five Years.
4. Not only is honesty regarding your whereabouts after-hours no longer required, it's actually discouraged.
5. You remember your ex-partner has a first name, which you now enjoy using as frequently as possible (What was I calling you all those years? Silly, ridiculous things, no doubt. I had a boyfriend that used to call me shaefchen, or "little sheep." Or was he shaefchen? Maybe I was maeuschen. I can't remember.)
6. The dog gets fed twice as often and no one notices except the dog, who has grown only happier with each passing day.
7. Asking your ex to do something for you is still effective, except now there's a tiny, barely audible *sigh* thrown into the mix. This sigh may be a warning that you should Not Ask For Things So Much.
8. The sigh in #7 is met with shrugged shoulders, and does not in any way trigger a "is there something you need to... say? Out loud?" discussion. Don't tell me you don't KNOW what I'm talking about. You do. You know you do.
9. Hoo... kay. Feeding the dog double may not be good for her tiny digestive system. Must... take note. And move to a different room.
10. No number ten. This is just filler while I recuperate from the noxious fumes.

The Blog That Reveals My Deepest Penchant

Have you ever stood in line at a public university printer, except instead of actually standing in line you just scootch up to the front and hover over the tray even though you know whatever you’re waiting for won’t be out for another twenty minutes? Yeah, I do that. Do you ever read whatever paper is being printed and mentally make fun of it? Yeah, I do that, too, even though I probably shouldn’t since at least those people, the ones with the bad, bad papers, are actually WRITING them and turning them in and whatnot.

The reason that I’m in the public lab? What is it, you ask? Oh, because I forgot I had an assignment due today. I made it to class, I even made it to my chair and everything, when dude next to me pulls out a little piece of paper, and I’m all, “Hey, is there something due today?” And he’s all, “Yeah,” and I’m like, “Hmm.” And he says, “You can do it in, like, thirty seconds” but I’m all, “No, that looks really, REALLY difficult, I should go work on that… for an hour… somewhere else.” And I leave.

But the good news is that I printed out the assignment and everything, although I haven’t actually looked at it because I know that guy and if he can do it in thirty seconds then I can do it in TEN.

Take THAT.

Evolutionary Psychology at Its Worst

Today I read that the reason my saucer-like eyes are appealing to the opposite gender is because they're reminiscent of an INFANT. AN INFANT, PEOPLE, OH MY GOD. Someone please inform the psychologists that they are making certain - very interesting - assumptions about male sexual preferences, please tell them this right now.

My Heart is Hurting for Yoooouuu

You know you’ve fully subscribed to literary realism for far too long when you read sentences such as

Intelligence may reside in the brain, but inspiration comes from the heart. (paraphrase from a quote, author forgotten)

And you do not understand them. Sentences such as these confuse you, and your first response is to wonder just how this author got by in his or her biology classes… until you realize that it is you, not them, that may be missing something.

Oh riiight, the HEART! Locus of all things passionate! I get it! And then you feel very proud of yourself for momentarily emerging from your little non-fiction reality just long enough to drink in the sunlight before you make a mad dash back inside.

It’s better in here, really. In my reality, you just don’t say things like that and expect to get away with them; blatant, useless metaphors are discarded as quickly and painlessly as the first draft of last night’s Bentham paper. Try again, please! But this time, let’s put motivation and inspiration back in the brain, where they rightfully belong, and please stop stealing emotional outputs – it’s really not nice (and someone may believe you).

So we end up with this

Intelligence may reside in the brain, but inspiration also comes from the brain.

Not as interesting, no. So what is it that was captured by the first sentence that this sentence fails to obtain? Well, let’s see. In the first sentence, we’ve removed inspiration as having any structural (i.e. brain) origination. This is important, because by doing so we’ve removed any genetic influences that may have been imposed, as well as any structural developments that may have occurred over the course of one’s lifetime, whether through learning or environmental influences and so on. Effectively, we’ve eradicated the past.

Ooh! Now we’re getting somewhere really interesting. So the first sentence is saying that no matter how inspired your parents may have been, and no matter how inspired or passionate YOU may have been up until this very moment, and whatever your intelligence or background or anything else, there could always be residing within you either a) a latent potential of inspiration or b) an ability to GENERATE inspiration. Point being, you are not confined to any pre-ordained, or what we call deterministic, ability potentials (and the author may even be saying that inspiration isn’t an ability so much as it is a gift, or a blessing, but since I can’t think of any words that don’t imply a someone who is giving this gift or blessing, I think I’ll stick with the heart-as-generative-source idea as spelled out in the sentence in question).

The idea of generation, I think, is the most important one. It implies that we have an ability independent of our input-output models of emotional reaction, one that stands alone, dignified, as a pure “energy” source unfettered by mundane issues such as desire and instinct. Inspiration cannot be dampened by previous failure; it is not modified from person to person by way of brain-structural differences. It is pure and boundless.

So it turns out that this first sentence has a very deep message: you are not the product of your genetic heritage, nor are you the product of your environment, your up-bringing, or anything else. You are only of your own making.

Ok. From what we’ve seen, this deconstruction has led us into The Really Hard Problem (or as some people like to call it, The Really Really Hard Problem), which basically (and crudely) states this: if all of our mental activity is just a result of neural activity, aren’t we necessarily led into a deterministic universe? Where do we put free will? Do we toss it out the window? Are all of our choices merely illusions, where they just feel like choices, even though we really “couldn’t have done otherwise”?

Shit. This entry is turning out much longer than planned. I’m going to preface the rest of this by reminding all of you that there have been innumerable books written on this topic and if you want a pretty good introduction then read Dennett’s “Freedom Evolves,” and that even though he doesn’t satisfactorily answer the question at the end it’s still a pretty good read ok here we go:

Since scientific exploration, specifically the origination of physicalist explanations that slowly pushed the need for a supernatural god out of the picture, we’ve grown more and more uncomfortable with our identity as a free and special agent in this world. The idea that our brain is not just the source of our “more special” abilities, such as the ability to decide and particularly to love, now makes us question even our role as autonomous agents: how much of what we’re doing is something that we decide? Where is meaning if every action that we take can be traced back to the involuntary firing of neurons, the firing of which is completely and utterly pre-determined? Are we really just fancy vehicles for our genes, whose only goal is to reproduce?

There are so many questions, and I have to go sort snails now. I just want to throw in a very simple idea: we have a tendency to automatically assume that science has told us a definite story. That by understanding that our entire personalities are based “in our brain,” so to speak, we have understood something finite. Just, everybody, please remember that we’re working on it – there is so much more to be known, and it’s really very much more complicated than it all sounds. I know, this isn’t an answer to anything, really, but it’s a good thing to keep in mind. Rest assured that you are much more mysterious than scientific articles will have you believe (it’s because they’re so dry, really; they refuse to use those metaphors that make you so happy), and also much more complicated and interesting than religious fundamentalists would also have you believe.

Got it? Have a good Monday.

Strangely Alert. Pass the Coffee.

Huh. I was going through my library of old posts, trying to find something worthy of publication, when I stumbled upon this one. Except I click on it and there's nothing here, just a title. This is weird to me. I mean, how "strangely alert" was I, and what was I doing? Why didn't I write anything down? It's like a weird little enigma all of my own, like I captured the barest essential of a moment and now can't remember the sentiment behind it. Apparently, at least, I was... awake... when I wrote this. GOOD TO KNOW.

I should re-title this "Most Boring Post Ever."

Weren't You Going To, You Know... With the Thing?

This is a very brief story about how I made a friend.

My sophomore year I signed up for a psychology class with the promising name of "Human Sexuality." I remember that the disappointment I felt every day when I came to class, as we discussed menstrual cycles, divorce rates, and the frequency of what I like to call "old-people sex." The professor seemed to have high expectations for her students that included frank classroom discussions and probably something akin to feelings of closeness and goodwill, but yeah... she was probably just as disappointed as the rest of us.

Point being: there was one guy in particular who was clearly no novice to human sexuality, and seemed to view it as a field in which one could never have too much information. He was there to LEARN, and he would not be persuaded into a critical dissection of American family values, at least, not without a fight. He raised his hand more than anyone else in the class combined, and prefaced each question with, "This one book that I read...? It said...?" To which the professor usually replied, "Well, that's interesting, but I've never heard of that." End of discussion.

So one day dude brings a small library of his books, in the effort, apparently, to enlighten this particular professor and convince her to join him on his quest for More Information. She was mortified, I thought, but did her best to smile as she told him she couldn't possibly have time to peruse all of these books, and did he maybe want to pass them around? (Why yes! He did.) And my, those books were so highlighted, complete with notes and totally relevant doodles, that I could NOT HELP but be completely impressed with this person who took sex so seriously. I had the sudden urge to interview, not him, but his conquests, just to see if sex with him was either complete ecstasy or just plain weird, what with all the inexplicable rearrangements and tweaking of body parts.

But he was a happy and persistent camper in the human sexuality class until one dark day the professor made some passing comment about the impossibility of multiple male orgasms. I wasn't particularly caring or paying attention at this point, but boy was sitting in the desk next to mine and I could feel the force of his immediate and intense attention. He scooted closer to the edge of his seat. Hand shoots into the air.

"Im... impossible? There was this book I read? And it said that it's totally possible and if you just... breathe - "

Professor, flustered, interrupts with something about how the trying in itself could prevent the erection and blah-blah people just generally shouldn't try so hard at sex, it's distracting and detracts from the entire experience, and doesn't he know this? And at this point I realize boy is beet-red and silent, and I fear for one brief moment that he may have actually been discouraged. That would be bad, and could possibly deprive hundreds of clueless women of multi-orgasmic bliss. I raise my hand.

"There's a difference between driving yourself to distraction and just trying to create a more pleasurable experience."

Silence.

"That's... all."

And that was all. We moved on, I'm sure, to some more pertinent topic. I wasn't really paying attention. But after class, boy scootches over to me and delivers the most heartfelt thank-you I have ever personally received, and you know what? I was really touched. I felt like my curiosity was somewhat alleviated, because surely anyone who had that much passion for a simple thank-you couldn't possibly be a mechanical, albeit enthusiastic, monster in bed. And I was happy.

The end.

Lyra Says

Lyra: Why are you making all those WORDS?

Me: I'm sending a note to my friend who's totally awesome.

Lyra: I'm totally awesome, too.

Me: Yes... yes, you are totally awesome.

Lyra: pointing to ad of a woman wearing a shirt that says "I piss excellence": He's totally awesome, too!

Me: SHE'S totally awesome. She's a woman.

Lyra: Womans are ALL totally awesome.

Blog: Pt II

I've been writing all these "blogs" lately that I haven't posted. The review of a book called "Boundaries" that my friend Tim gave me, for instance, where I start off critiquing the author's portrait of women as insecure, confused, identity-less individuals before I go off on some tangent and things get a bit strange. Then there was the response to another blogger's masturbatory obsession with bathtub faucets - again, not appropriate (but funny, you really should have read that one). Today, there was a riveting tale of missing keys, strangers-in-the-night and even a Vespa: but that's not happening (but maybe more to come, we'll see).

So what's with all the non-blogging, Jen? Got anything clean enough to read? To that I say, "Nope." But maybe one day I'll surprise you.

Blog!

I guess the wonton mistress of procrastination got the better of me again. Why write mindless blogs when I can read not-so-mindless books? But I decided to take the time and make a list.

Things I have learned in the past few weeks:

1. If your advisor giggles when you tell him your eight-month plan, you just may be taking on too much. Especially when, after your protests, the giggles turn into a stare of disbelief, or perhaps it was confusion.
2. Stress can only last so long. You learn to work faster, or you just don’t get it done. The stress amplifies until you realize that you just don’t care quite as much as you used to. Alternately, you may start muttering to yourself in the hallways. This is also fun.
3. People exist. Some of them are interesting. (Okay, I already knew this one, I just never paid attention.)
4. Drinking does not necessarily enhance mental processing-speed, or make you cleverer. Do not email professors, authors, or potential lovers whilst drinking - no matter how right/wrong/beautiful/etc. they may be.
5. Sometimes people do strange things. This is normal, and can generally be ignored. The trick is to recognize when you’re the one doing strange things.
6. Procrastination happens. Do not try to prevent yourself from procrastinating by denying yourself access to essential reading pleasures – you will only find yourself reading strange feminist manifestos on the internet instead. Life is short. Procrastinate large.
7. If you exclude porn, the internet is really quite small. And boring.
8. If you ask the knowledgeable Hollywood Video staff for a movie in a particular language, check the back of the box and make sure that it really is in that language. Or at least one you can understand. Because some people really don’t know the difference between German and Dutch.
9. Rain can seem like it lasts forever. And ever. But then there are flowers, and blooming trees, and sometimes even a little sun. And it’s beautiful.
10. But my most important lesson: you really never know what’s going to happen, or how you’re going to feel in a day, a week, or a month. Don’t frantically prevent all construction of a bridge before you realize that that bridge would have been a really, really nice thing to have.