tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3086515978539396052024-02-07T05:25:41.425-05:00IsonomistIsonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.comBlogger280125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-69676567696928896202021-02-14T17:10:00.003-05:002021-02-14T17:10:59.876-05:00Upon further review.<p> <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px;"> It's been 14 years now. I'm still living it, especially in February. At times I find myself going back even further-- how did I end up with his father? Because at least some of Jesse's story is about that chaotic moment in my life. I don't like disclosing, it took me forever to tell Jesse's brother what I went through. Most people who know me don't know, in fact, that I was raped in the fall of 1981, and still traumatized by it when I met my ex. Now I look back and it makes sense, that I was alone and vulnerable and suddenly uncertain about all my independence and self-reliance. I didn't trust my own ability to judge people or choose friends anymore. So I rushed headlong into that disaster. It wasn't like people who knew him didn't warn me. One mutual friend told me I'd lost my mind. I think in a way he was right. PTSD works in insidious ways, and narcissistic abusers can sense weakness like that across a room with their eyes closed.</span></p><br style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px;">I was injured and didn't know it. I thought I was doing fine. Letting someone swoop in, so confident of himself and what to do, it seemed natural. I was being rescued, in my mind. So when the other side, the real side, the manipulative, abusive, selfish side appeared, I alternated between believing I deserved it and demanding he stick with his nice side. I had no idea it didn't exist. That it was just a predatory sideshow.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px;"> Two years of wasting my life fighting with him over whether I was worthy to be loved, rather than just walking away because I no longer believed I could. And then I was pregnant. I felt like I was drowning. All the time. It wasn't until years later, another friend took me aside and said, Look, he may not be hitting you but he's abusing you. You need to stop venting at us all and put that energy into leaving him.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px;">I went into therapy It took me 5 years and second child to fight my way back to the surface. Predictably he tried to take the kids from me. Predictably he tried to destroy Jesse's trust in me. Predictably he couldn't quite pull it off because narcissists don't really understand the other people they look down on. He had no idea how to begin to destroy my younger son's love for me. Thankfully. Eventually their father died. So we all began the long journey to healing.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px;">And just as Jesse and I were starting to get to know each other as adults, to process all the terrible things we'd both been through, he was taken from us.</span>Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-44102071957733425072020-08-19T11:33:00.001-04:002020-08-19T11:33:30.273-04:00<p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Imagine I am a sentient, emotional robot. I can learn anything you teach me, but I can't imagine what you know, which is a lot more than me, about social cues.</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1c1e21; content: ""; display: block; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">So we play a game where you teach me about feelings: I imitate you, and learn to associate a feeling with a tone of voice, an expression and/or body language, and then later, I can understand that you have that feeling when you make that expression, use that tone of voice, or hold your body that way. And when I have that feeling, I do the things I learned from you, so you can understand my emotional state. The more you teach me, the more I can pick up. You may start to think I'm "just like you."</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1c1e21; content: ""; display: block; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">But the subtle, complex cues are hard. If you later show me a set of behaviors I've never seen before, or that are too hard for me to follow, I won't know what's going on.</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1c1e21; content: ""; display: block; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Because you think of me as human now, you will think I'm ignoring you, or being mean. It can hurt your feelings a lot. Eventually you may show an expression obvious enough that I understand, but I won't know why you're feeling angry, upset or sad. I'll only know if you tell me. I may have to learn a subroutine called, "I can't read your mind, what are you upset about?"</span></span> <br /></p>Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-44466867740689295702020-04-25T13:42:00.001-04:002020-04-25T13:42:02.236-04:00No rejections.Many years ago, my therapist (after 10 years of seeing her), told me "If you care about someone you better not reject them." <br />
<br />
I
didn't really understand that some of the things I said to people were
pushing them away. These were things people I loved said to me all my
life. Criticisms, complaints, nagging. Being autistic makes
understanding this social stuff harder.<br />
<br />
I had to ask
her to spell it out to me, and I had to think about it for a long, long
time. Watch it happen over and over until it sunk in. And I still catch
myself doing it wrong. The coworker who asks me out to lunch when I
brought mine -- say yes, not no. My kids who wanted me to play with them
instead of reading. Say yes, not no. My mother, wanting me to pick up
the phone.<br />
<br />
There are nuances to this: people who invite
you to something but don't mean it, really. People who ask to come
along to some event but don't really intend to. Apparently you're
supposed to say yes here too, and then just deal with it. This is
complicated. <br />
<br />
There are keywords-- come by "sometime",
let's go for drinks "next month," "call me next time you're in town." I
imagine some people say this and mean it, and are disappointed when I
don't follow through. I assume what most of them mean is "I don't
dislike you and I don't want you to dislike me, but." <br />
<br />
But
they really don't know how to deal with my oddness, or my inability to
read them, or anyone. Cues are wasted on me. It's their way of
not-rejecting me. Sometimes I get it. Sometimes I've even used this
method of protecting my distance. I like being alone because I don't
have to ride the people roller coaster. <br />
<br />
Back then, I
was probably talking about my partner, back when I was the kind of
person who got upset about how the dishwasher was stacked or who dusted
the bookshelves last (it was always me, unless I nagged him). It took us
oh, a couple of decades to reach a stalemate on things like that.<br />
<br />
Truth
is, we both get angry when we're stressed. We both let things build up.
Because of my health, there's less i can do now, and he has had to take
up the slack. So I try not to be that person. Still, when the
frustration bubbles up from him, I feel indignant, rejected, alone. Only
now I tell myself, this is how it feels for them if I don't keep my own
house in order.Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-90446979857507036872020-04-13T15:55:00.002-04:002020-04-13T15:55:32.349-04:00Regarding bad options<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: block; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px 0px 6px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
Once I got lost on hike deep in the Sangre de Cristos mountains, on a stretch where the slopes were overgrown with brush and trees. The trail had disappeared under my feet, and it was getting late. I stumbled into an abandoned campsite that seemed haunted -- why just walk away and leave all your stuff? Did they make the mistakes I did, and never make it back?</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: block; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
The sun had begun to sink below the next ridge, but I could see the bright sky and the last sunlight still lit the eas<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">tern slope. Ahead of me was a river of boulders that had cascaded down from above. No water, just boulders bigger than me, piling up to the top of the ridge. I'd have to hop from one to the next, hundreds of feet up, to get high enough to hope to get a glimpse of my campsite, or the trail. If I slipped on the moss, I'd break my leg at the very least, and no one would ever find me. Worse was what might live there. It would take me hours to climb that.</span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 6px;">
The only other option was to hike down the overgrown slope through dense brush I knew hid rattlesnakes, bear and elk, toward the foot of the ridge, to try to follow the river back to camp. I knew both options could end with me dying alone in the middle of nowhere. But at least the river had water, and it knew where it came from.</div>
</div>
Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-24948923000701661562020-03-05T17:03:00.001-05:002020-03-05T17:03:22.437-05:00DiagnosisI'm outside all the labels I've had stuck to me over time. The ones I embraced, and the ones that drove me away from everyone I knew, and every other place I've lived.<br />
<br />
Weird, that's a good one. I didn't mind it. After all, I didn't want to be normal. Normal felt dishonest. It seemed to me then that everyone was "playing" normal out of fear. And I was not afraid.<br />
<br />
But "weird" is what your family and schoolmates and teachers, everyone uses to mark you as untrustworthy, flawed, maybe dangerous. Weird lumps you in with creeps and serial killers and pagan goat worshipers. You don't even realize how you feed into that perception.<br />
<br />
I was... possibly 50? When I realized that other people really meant and felt the things they said and did. They weren't afraid, mostly. The socialization was what they wanted. It was also when I realized they really meant and felt the things they said about me.Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-25661933921871100352020-03-02T14:08:00.004-05:002020-03-02T14:08:40.733-05:00Justice isn't enough.Justice would be for her killer to suffer exactly what she went through, while she gets her life back -- the clock winds back to August 2011, our collective memories erased of this last two years and all the horror and grief and fear, and the shattered, stupid wishes that she was still alive somehow. Maybe justice would be for people who attack her family and friends, and make our suffering worse; and for those who pretend they know more than they do, who exaggerate their role in our lives to get attention for themselves, to make themselves feel important-- that they should go through the same thing they've inflicted on others, and we get our lives reset to before any of this happened. Her with us and whole, us never knowing what we do now about human nature.<br />
<br />
Maybe real justice would be all of us getting our wish to be there that night and protect her. Because that's what haunts everyone who knew her, and don't mistake that, every real friend, everyone in both families, her father, her fiance--we all want to have been there to stop her from stepping out that door. Everyone but the person who actually showed up.Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-41859507556132933832020-03-02T14:08:00.002-05:002020-03-02T14:08:24.629-05:00With bright colors large against the blue<style>
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<div class="_38 direction_ltr">
It only works because there's nothing in it<br />
<br />
this hole in the sky that lifts you up<br />
past comfort<br />
forces you to see<br />
how small you are in the world<br />
but not quite high enough to<br />
understand<br />
how small the world is<br />
beyond the land <br />
<br />
A silken cup of air inverted<br />
above a fire<br />
A basket full of your life and<br />
bags of sand<br />
all held together in<br />
Twisted strands that cross the crest<br />
and somehow form the bones<br />
that shape the air and carry all the rest.<br />
<br />
You rise, and don't quite know<br />
where you will go<br />
float beyond the reach of trees<br />
and trust the wind <br />
<br />
Listen: trust the wind<br />
does that sound wise?<br />
But still you rise<br />
and hope for forward thrust.<br />
<br />
Someone below<br />
chases along, <br />
disturbs the road no more<br />
than a finger drawn along an arm<br />
<br />
She follows the fleeing ball of air<br />
She cannot see you<br />
but believes you are still there.<br />
You both know<br />
there really is no<br />
other way home.<br />
<br />
(still working on it)</div>
Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-54326764532000788842020-03-02T14:08:00.000-05:002020-03-02T14:08:07.210-05:00Thought for the dayI feel like I should keep track of these little ideas somehow. This one's relevant, something I've often seen in myself and others:<br />
<br />
Confusion is the first step in learning.<br />
<br />
When we're confronted with something we've never seen before,<a href="http://www.theinvisiblegorilla.com/gorilla_experiment.html" target="_blank"> we may not see it at all</a>. Or we may<a href="http://lemmingsblog.blogspot.com/search/label/Attention" target="_blank"> see it, but ignore it.</a> Or<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c7RA4UnEuQ0" target="_blank"> misinterpret it with our old set of beliefs</a>. <br />
<br />
When you <i>do</i> recognize a new phenomenon or fact as an unknown, you feel confused and try to make sense of it. Let's say someone speaks to you in a language you don't know. Are they babbling nonsense? Or is it your lack of knowledge?<br />
<br />
People don't like to feel confused. It signals a lack of control. But confusion is your friend.<br />
<br />
Confusion is your mind's way of telling you it's time to learn something.<br />
<br />
The question is, how do you deal with it? Do you try to explore this new thing? Work hard to make sense of it? Or do you dismiss it, because it doesn't match what you already believe or understand? Or do you work hard to force it, to make it appear to match your previous beliefs? Do you argue it out of existence? <br />
<br />
It's easy to imagine someone with a rigid need to feel control, dismissing the foreign language as nonsense.<br />
<br />
But what if it's important, just in a form you don't understand? By demanding the world conform to you, you miss that information, even if it's a loud, shouted warning that your house is on fire.<br />
<br />
The more you ignore those confusing facts the further you move from reality. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6xMaR8au-YU" target="_blank"><i>Confirmation bias</i></a> is the psychological term for being unable to see clearly when a fact doesn't fit your belief or theory. Here's an example. Let's say you're looking at a friend's Facebook page, and you notice she stopped posting in public at a given time. Your belief might be: no public posting means she's not at her computer any more.<br />
<br />
As every teenager knows, there's more to a computer than Facebook. Unless you have her computer, you can't really know whether she went offline. <br />
<br />
You can't see whether she was on a different Web site, or using other software on her computer after that last post. But the longer you go on convincing yourself she wasn't, the deeper that belief becomes, until you can't be objective any more. You've built a whole theory of her evening based on that one moment in time. But it's wrong.<br />
<br />
It's not logical or helpful to assume she stopped using the computer just because she didn't post again. And even less logical to draw larger conclusions, but you have. And you've announced them to the world. Your own conclusion, based on the only fact you have at hand, becomes a stumbling block to finding the truth. The more you crave the appearance of control/mastery, the harder you
will work to believe your presumption. It blinds you to a degree.<br />
<br />
And now you've put your name behind that theory, so you can't easily admit you're wrong. Say you've accused an innocent person of something horrible, based on that tiny, tiny fact. And everything that happens, and everything you hear seems to further prove you are right. You've veered off reality because you can't admit you're wrong, you don't know enough, you can't think clearly. You're not objective. You want to be right. And that in itself has caused you to jump to the wrong conclusion. And now you're trapped by it.<br />
<br />
And even worse if you don't sort facts from gossip. We all know that the more often something is repeated, the more it seems to be a fact. So the more people you have offering biased information the harder it is to wade through it to reality. Soon, an imagined event becomes very real in your mind. You think you remember someone saying something that seems to fit in your theory. So that becomes a fact too. If it doesn't fit, then it's just someone making things up. Your theory becomes more real to you than reality. You know with all your heart and soul that you are right. And everything in the world seems to tilt toward your being right. <br />
<br />
But there are tests, even if you can't see her computer. You can still examine the actions and comments of sources who do have access. A friend of hers, who chatted with her on AIM or Google Plus later that night; an IT professional who can see her activity log and what programs she was using. Other friends who texted with her, talked on the phone, or on Skype. There can be any number of sources and activities that inform or contradict your first assumption.<br />
<br />
Let's say you distrust some first-hand sources, but others are reliable. You can use all their reactions, statements, behaviors, and decisions as a way of determining reality, much the same way you can tell whether another person is behind a tree when all you see is their shadow. The more first-hand sources you have, the more likely you are to get a close approximation of what happened after that last FB post.<br />
<br />
Or you can choose to stick with your previous belief, and ignore any facts to the contrary.<br />
<br />
Let say some sources say, "she was working on a project on her computer" or "she was doing something but it wasn't homework" or "we have verified his statements are true" -- you might dismiss it as not matching your lone Facebook fact, as unreliable information. But when a reliable source with full professional access to her computer, and good reason to examine her activity closely, takes the trouble to say your "unreliable" sources are being truthful based on conclusive evidence, what are your choices?<br />
<br />
Your choices are: A. stick to your belief and pursue unreality or B. try to figure out why the reliable source doesn't agree with your belief.<br />
<br />
Is the reliable source now unreliable if they don't confirm your beliefs?<br />
Do you tear apart their statements trying to find an interpretation that makes it seem they're speaking in code, in secret agreement with you?<br />
Do you assume they're agents of the unreliable source now? Is there some vast conspiracy now, some coverup that encompasses every first-hand source?<br />
<br />
As the balance of statements and behaviors from various first-hand sources continue to pile up against you, do you dismiss it all, ignore their actions and statements? Do you look for loopholes or more complicated scenarios your theory might fit into, or accept the simple fact: if there were evidence that confirmed your belief, it would have been acted on. <br />
<br />
The more you fight that possibility, the further you go in the wrong direction. Next thing you know, you've wasted days, months, years, trying to support an untrue belief.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-8796074997989851602020-03-02T14:05:00.001-05:002020-03-02T14:05:48.978-05:00Win oneSo I'm back with no shortage of things to say about Corona virus and what it will be like when all our hospitals are lined with gurneys full of the sick. Just like the 1980s only this time, the old and comorbid. This, kids, is what dishonesty looks like. Then we had Act Up. Now, we have Act Blue. Go vote.<br /><br />Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-35211041118244426732015-03-26T12:34:00.003-04:002015-03-26T12:34:28.035-04:00Cancer propaganda hate<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_5514346722d9c0009879198">
Here's why I hate the rosy portrait of cancer survival you see everywhere nowadays.<br />
1. it's a lie, medically speaking. Survival means you made it 5 years.
That's not the same thing as being cured. Doctors use that artificial
milestone to make themselves look better. Don't believe me? Google it.<br />
2. Cancer treatment center ads make it sound like if you do the right
things, or go to the right center, or spend the right money on the right
doctor, you will be cured. (Therefore, it<span class="text_exposed_show">'s your fault if you're not. A little bit your fault. Or maybe a lot, but you're dead and also you can't sue us.)<br />
3. They make it sound like cancer isn't such a big deal. It's curable!
Look away, and forget there are causes. Causes that you as one person
have very, very little control over. Look how healthy random former
patient looks now! They're eternally indebted to us for saving them!
(It's still your fault.)<br /> 4. So what if the environment is so toxic
that you lose the cancer lottery, it's NBD! We don't have to regulate,
we can just fix the random outliers who succumb to it. Plus sunshine can
give you cancer! The cancer centers and societies might as well be
bankrolled by the very corporations that are destroying the air, land
and food and water supply-- oh wait, they are!!<br /> 5. Come to our
center and spend everything you got. Did we bankrupt you? No worries, we
can use you to blackmail your family, too. And your neighbors, your
community, entire nations of running, walking, telethoning suckers.<br />
6. Special hate goes out to the meme that cancer is a lottery, and it's
just your bad luck you got it. There are causes, and we are making more
of them every day. Eating them, drinking them, pouring them into the
world around us. Shirley Jackson wouldn't need to edit much.<br /> 7. One
more thing: cancer doctors who treat patients like experimental animals
because, hey, they're going to die anyway. They don't state this to you
overtly when you're in their facility. But they think it, and they act
on it. Worse, they don't really know why you're sick, and they don't
really know how the shit they pour into you or cut out of you changes
that, or for how long, or what it's going to do to you afterward. All
they know is you have no other option but to die. </span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
But then, I'm not the most objective person in the world.</div>
</div>
</div>
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Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-39017425791671914982014-12-08T18:13:00.000-05:002014-12-08T18:13:27.625-05:00Why I cried today <br /> Today I ran into a beautiful person I haven't
seen in two decades at least. Her name is Carol. I don't know if I've
ever known her last name. She was one of the moms at the playground in
Washington Square Park when my kids were little. We recognized each
other over the vegetable bins at the Whole Foods store in mutual
disbelief. We both blurted out how we'd thought of each other recently,
then shared the explanatory anecdote. Then she asked me about Jesse.<br />
There is a thing you do, when you know about loss, to help each other
not cry in public, while still communicating the depth of sorrow and
sympathy you share. It's the secret face of womanhood.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1r.1:3:1:$comment10154890154625176_10154890163990176:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1r.1:3:1:$comment10154890154625176_10154890163990176:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1r.1:3:1:$comment10154890154625176_10154890163990176:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0">
The reason I love her is that I was nursing my son in the playground
one day, and an extremely well dressed man came over to me and started
verbally abusing me for doing so. I didn't know Carol, but she walked
over to defend me just as I held up my hands, one arm cradling my son's
head against my breast, middle fingers extended and told him, "Like
fruit? Have a pair!"</span></span></span> Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-75006215280943595692014-10-27T10:50:00.002-04:002014-10-27T10:50:59.158-04:00Working things out in dreamlandLast night I dreamed I had been told I have 4 days to live. So the very first day, I made a list of all my assets, from bank accounts and 401k right down to items of clothing, and who should get each one. I wanted to be sure no one would be stuck with the burden of sorting it all out. The next day, I had my family all around me, and began to tell them I had 3 days left. I wasn't sad, or angry, just wanted to be sure they knew I loved them, and that they would be okay. Then a doctor walked in and told me that I actually only had one day left. Still I felt no fear, no sorrow, no senes of loss. I was glad they were there to hear it, and to understand what was happening. I went around the room hugging everyone and saying goodbye. The first person who came to say goodbye was Jesse. Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-8393223676852591212014-08-04T11:07:00.002-04:002014-08-04T11:07:33.378-04:00An evaluation of options for the drowning.<div class="MsoNormal">
Therapy patient: help! I’m drowning!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Family: Why can’t you
stop drowning! Nobody else is drowning!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Western Religion: Stop drowning!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eastern Religion: There is no drowning; there is only
drowning<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Psychoanalysis: How long have you felt you were drowning?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gestalt psychology: Maybe drowning is where you need to be
right now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Short term behavioral therapy: What strategies have you used
in the past to avoid drowning?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Psychiatry: here are some pills that will help you forget
you’re drowning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recovery movement: you can save yourself from drowning!<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cognitive behavioral therapy: try feeling for the bottom with
your feet. Too deep? Try floating on your back. Did that work? Good. Now try floating
on your back and kicking your legs. Good. The shore is about 20 feet away. Point
yourself that way and keep kicking.<o:p></o:p></div>
Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-60667765151650538032014-02-25T09:08:00.002-05:002014-02-25T09:08:54.134-05:00Religion vs morality<span data-reactid=".4n.1:3:1:$comment834192413262752_834252949923365:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:2"> </span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".4n.1:3:1:$comment834192413262752_834252949923365:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span data-reactid=".4n.1:3:1:$comment834192413262752_834252949923365:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".4n.1:3:1:$comment834192413262752_834252949923365:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0">I
took the Catholic religion *very* seriously when I was a kid. My
parents and grandparents on both sides were deeply religious, without
any religious hypocrisy to point to in their lives. They didn't leave it
in church in the least. But for me, by the time I hit high
school/college, the "truths" of religion meant less and less to me, so
that by 21 I believed that religion was a crutch for people who had
trouble having a relationship with God. So I raised my kids without a
religion. We made sure they knew and respected the history and beliefs
of the major religions, but in the process of teaching them how to make
good moral choices in life, I began to see that what everyone was
calling God was kind of a false idea. </span><br data-reactid=".4n.1:3:1:$comment834192413262752_834252949923365:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$1:0" /><br data-reactid=".4n.1:3:1:$comment834192413262752_834252949923365:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$3:0" /><span data-reactid=".4n.1:3:1:$comment834192413262752_834252949923365:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$4:0">It
seemed false to me to pray for anything except acceptance of God's
will. Praying to God for your life on earth, when heaven was supposed to
be so much better, seemed wrong. I tried to believe in an intercessory
God that you could petition to avert disaster, but when my sister in law
died and another in law declared it was because she didn't pray right, I
began to see the contradiction: either you are a servant of God's will,
or you are trying to manipulate God. Either you in your pride think you
are better than those who suffer in this world, or you humbly accept
what God sends your way, and devote your life to helping others who are
less fortunate. </span><br data-reactid=".4n.1:3:1:$comment834192413262752_834252949923365:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$5:0" /><br data-reactid=".4n.1:3:1:$comment834192413262752_834252949923365:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$7:0" /><span data-reactid=".4n.1:3:1:$comment834192413262752_834252949923365:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$8:0">I
could go on about this, but the point was: who did I want to be, and
what moral tools did I want my children to have? They both, as they hit
their teens, told me they were atheists. At first it scared me, but it
didn't change who they were. They were making mistakes like any teen,
but they were good people, making themselves better as they grew up. The
other atheists in my life were also the most moral, least hypocritical
people I knew. They suffered less, spiritually, than those trying to
force their religion to fit what they knew was right and wrong.</span><br data-reactid=".4n.1:3:1:$comment834192413262752_834252949923365:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$9:0" /><br data-reactid=".4n.1:3:1:$comment834192413262752_834252949923365:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$11:0" /><span data-reactid=".4n.1:3:1:$comment834192413262752_834252949923365:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$12:0">When
Jesse got leukemia the first time, I really believed in the power of
prayer and faith. By the time he died, I realized that it's an illusion.
Nowadays I see atheism being used as a political definition, or even as
a kind of religion. So maybe I should call myself something else.
Non-theist, maybe.</span></span></span>Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-26151605732930926712014-02-09T15:22:00.002-05:002014-02-09T15:22:49.614-05:00February 9th- the day between death and the funeral.I have a message for the world untouched by grief: back the hell off.
Grief is not a disease. It isn't a crime. It should not be forced into
dark rooms and discussed in whispers. It shouldn't be eradicated or
drugged out of existence. It's the province of the grieving, a place
you may be invited to, but you have no business barging in. Much less
pretending to rule.<br /> <br /> Modern psychology is full of shit: grief is not something you need to "get out" right away, it's not a tumor m<span class="text_exposed_show">ade
of words that you must immediately pry out of someone who has been
through a tragedy. It's not your job to make a grieving person "talk
about it." You have no right to tell another person to "get over it" or
that there's a time limit to "normal" grief. You can do more damage
forcing a grieving person to "relive" the events in order to "fix" them,
than by ignoring them altogether.<br /> <br /> Grief is not a thing you get
rid of in six months like a bad hair cut. Do not tell grieving people
they should be "get over it" just because your magical timeline says so.
<br /> <br /> There's no need to pretend nothing happened, but do not
assume you have the right to pry into another person's grief just
because you know about it. If they're not talking about it, do not,
especially in public, bring up their grief and try to make them "talk it
out." You are not the special grief whisperer. Yes you can make me cry
in the middle of an otherwise good day, but that doesn't take much
talent. And it doesn't mean we have a special connection. It means you
used my weakness to create a false intimacy. <br /> <br /> If you ask me how
many children I have and I say two, but then explain that I lost one,
be respectful. Don't just ignore it; say something, however awkward, to
acknowledge me. I will be grateful no matter what it is or how stupid
you think it will sound. To me it will sound like a gift of common
humanity. It will feel like a hug. I will appreciate that you, a total
stranger, made the effort and paid respect to my pain. <br /> <br /> If a
grieving person chooses to share their feelings with you, realize how
much trust and love is in that sharing and be honored, and accepting,
and unjudgmental. Listen to what they have to say, ask questions if you
need more in order to understand. But most of all listen, every word
they pass on to you is a gift. One day, unless you die very young, grief
will visit you, and wreck everything in its path; and every emotional
gift that grieving friend once gave you will become the power tools
you'll need to rebuild your life.</span>Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-79563162590789043712014-01-30T14:17:00.002-05:002014-01-30T14:17:11.885-05:00The vigil, day 1, year 7.<div class="uiStreamMessage userContentWrapper" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent">On
this day every year since 2007, I thank the
people who came to me on what, up till that moment anyway, was the worst
day of my life. Particularly the friend. who was there when no one else was, and Jesse's high schoolf friend Alex, whose last name I can never quite remember-- and all of Jesse's friends, and my
family, who turned that grim corner of the neuro ICU into a loving
vigil of Jesse's gypsies-- you all kept me whole in those horrible days.
You will always have a home.</span></span></div>
Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-4006380549797764272014-01-24T20:47:00.000-05:002014-01-24T20:47:12.836-05:00Tentative steps.<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".5l.1:3:1:$comment814433688571958_814705318544795:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:3"><span data-reactid=".5l.1:3:1:$comment814433688571958_814705318544795:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:3.0"><span data-reactid=".5l.1:3:1:$comment814433688571958_814705318544795:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:3.0.$end:0:$0:0">I
had to take a cab in the snowstorm to get to work, and my cab driver
was from Mali, in West Africa. We talked about his life and mine, and
our families, and he told me that his father had two wives, as way of
explaining his family over there. I said, well the Koran says you can
have more than one if you can treat them fairly and equally. He seemed
surprised that I knew this, but, he said, you can have up to four! And I
had to laugh because of course, I can't. </span><br data-reactid=".5l.1:3:1:$comment814433688571958_814705318544795:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:3.0.$end:0:$1:0" /><br data-reactid=".5l.1:3:1:$comment814433688571958_814705318544795:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:3.0.$end:0:$3:0" /><span data-reactid=".5l.1:3:1:$comment814433688571958_814705318544795:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:3.0.$end:0:$4:0">I
can understand though, if I lived in a culture where life was so
dangerous and meager that a woman by herself couldn't protect and feed
herself, it might make sense to join the large family of a man who could
feed me and my kids, and protect me from the dangers outside the walls.
As an atheist and a feminist, I find it morally appalling, but when I
walk a little ways in their shoes, the culture makes sense. It wouldn't
help them or me for me to start telling him what I see as wrong in his
family system. I wouldn't learn anything, and I wouldn't have climbed
out of his cab feeling a little more connected to the world. That was a
gift.</span><span data-reactid=".5l.1:3:1:$comment814433688571958_814705318544795:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:3.0.$end:0:$8:0"><br /><br />I don't know how much of my truth is only cultural truth; I'm not sure I'm able to see all that well.</span></span></span>Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-7188160555478578922014-01-20T14:00:00.001-05:002014-01-20T14:00:30.334-05:00It doesn't get better, you just get better at dealing with it.Seven years. There's a deadened layer of forgetfulness: was it MLK day when he went into the hospital? The day after? I go into the room where I saw him the last time before the hospital call. In my mind he will always be there leaning back against the table, looking tired, thin, pale. Why didn't I see it? Why didn't he? If he'd gone to the hospital that day, he might be alive now. He was tired he said, from finals. He had lost Lisa already. He wa trying to move on. In my mind I reach to him and hug him and beg him to see a doctor. In reality we just chatted-- he still kept me at arms length. Even at the hospital, he complained to friends on AIM that I was there all the time. He didn't understand why I couldn't leave him there. He would have had to live 30 more years to understand. So many decades stolen from him. A large part of my future taken from me. If he'd gone to the hospital a week earlier, it would not have been the last time.<br /><br />I think, by the end we both realized that his life would be in and out of hospitals. I think, in the end, he didn't want that life.Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-7773020295205081532014-01-14T19:49:00.001-05:002014-01-14T19:49:29.625-05:00Dream life.<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[8].[1][3][1]{comment10152251305131042_32759229}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".r[8].[1][3][1]{comment10152251305131042_32759229}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[8].[1][3][1]{comment10152251305131042_32759229}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[8].[1][3][1]{comment10152251305131042_32759229}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0].{end}[0]{0}[0]">I
can remember dreams as far back as age 3 (scary little-girl-eating
Sinclair dinosaur chasing me through my neighborhood). That one was in
black and white, but they're almost always in color, sometimes even with
physical sensation (once Captain</span></span><span data-reactid=".r[8].[1][3][1]{comment10152251305131042_32759229}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3]"><span data-reactid=".r[8].[1][3][1]{comment10152251305131042_32759229}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[8].[1][3][1]{comment10152251305131042_32759229}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].{end}[0]{0}[0]">
Crunch punched me in the ribs to prove I was awake and woke me up), and
even taste (particularly chocolate and bacon). My dreams often have
entire story lines, sometimes an entire life (not mine) involved. I see
people's faces, hear their voices, have relationships with them (not
necessarily anyone I know in reality). Sometimes I can read from pages,
sometimes I speak French or play musical instruments, fly, breathe
underwater... but the only thing that I find really strange is that I
can travel around in the dream and come back to the same place, and
everything is still the same in the room, or on the street, wherever I
return to. How do I do that???</span><br data-reactid=".r[8].[1][3][1]{comment10152251305131042_32759229}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].{end}[0]{1}[0]" /><br data-reactid=".r[8].[1][3][1]{comment10152251305131042_32759229}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].{end}[0]{3}[0]" /><span data-reactid=".r[8].[1][3][1]{comment10152251305131042_32759229}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3].[0].{end}[0]{4}[0]">I've
read that dreams like these are considered a sign of
mental illness. In which case I'd rather be crazy, it's more fun.</span></span></span></span></span>Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-55842397571030072312013-11-10T14:20:00.001-05:002013-11-10T14:20:51.261-05:00Read to write.<br />
<h5 class="uiStreamMessage userContentWrapper" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><div>
<span class="userContent" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Bad
writing is everywhere. You can find it without even looking. But you
have to go out of your way for good writing. You have to seek it out,
and absorb it, and remember it, immerse yourself in it, so you'll know
the difference. And so when you're the one doing the writing you'll know
when it's going wrong.</span></span></div>
</span></h5>
Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-60841491947259063152013-10-14T10:22:00.003-04:002020-03-02T14:07:38.846-05:00GravityI've been reminded to announce spoiler alerts when I say things like this. <i><br /></i>Although I love Neil deGrasse Tyson's litany of <i>Gravity</i> physics errors, and I'm sure he meant them to be tangential to the movie's story, I disagree that it's a movie about physics. I also disagree with other critics' dismissing of the plot and characters as secondary to the special effects, even though they are amazing. Because<i> Gravity</i> isn't really about space. It's a metaphor for the grief of losing your child. Stone doesn't have the training, the tools, or the culture to survive what happens. She's not even an astronaut really, she's only half trained when they send her up. She's only there to facilitate a medical experiment she devised. <br />
<br />Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-51814749993614580992013-09-11T20:41:00.002-04:002013-09-11T20:41:37.841-04:00The bells toll for me.Today is the anniversary of the beginning of the end of Jesse's life. Every year since I learned what he did, I've felt torn between pride and horror at that pride, that he went down there to volunteer. That I raised a child who had the moral courage to do that, and that my teaching him this concept ultimately cost him his life. <br /><br />I don't know how many of his friends realize why he died, what the cause was. You knew a hero. You knew he was special, that he goaded you to do more, do better, change the world for those who couldn't. I've heard some of your stories, and I am so proud of each of you for what you do. Tears well in my eyes as I type this and think of how you are risking your lives, or devoting your time to enlightening the next generation, each in your own way leaping forward into a career where you know you can do good for others. A little bit of Jesse I know follows with you.<br />
<br /> 9-11 gave him the leukemia that killed him. But it gave him time that other victims didn't have. And he used that time-- he lived -- as hard as could. As if he knew the clock was ticking. I am grateful to all of you who were part of that whirlwind of full-on living. The trip to Europe, the sky dive, the push through college to law school. The push toward knowledge, understanding, and greater compassion. The push to teach that zest for knowledge and exchange of ideas to kids a few years younger than him. And the wise ass humor he sought in every aspect of life. He could be a pill I know. He could be rough. He had a temper he was learning to channel in better ways.<br /><br />It breaks my heart to know who he might be now, at 29. How proud we all would be of him. What risks he would be taking for someone else's sake. What ideas he would have inspired us with. And how we'd be laughing when he turned things on their heads so we could shake the humor out of it.<br />
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I am certain that one thing he would be doing is pushing awareness of the relationship between acute leukemia and 9-11. Warning the volunteers and residents of the signs and symptoms, so they will know. I wonder sometimes, if Martin Tallman's move to Sloan Kettering was just a little inspired by Jesse. The man who knew all there is to know about APL is here now, that means that lives will be saved, where before, when Jesse was there, the ignorance was so deep that Sloan Kettering refused to admit him early, till Tallman called and told them he would die within a week.<br />
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Because of this, his death was not in vain. His life certainly never was.Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-87494503454164439602013-09-08T15:53:00.000-04:002013-09-11T21:25:05.809-04:00Missed ConnectionThe first fossil I ever found on my own was a whole trilobite, curled up in a ball like a potato bug about the size of the tip of my thumb. I'd never seen such a complete little specimen in my life. It was resting on a bed of limestone on a hillside park in Ohio, probably knocked loose by the recent rain. I picked it up and showed it to my biology teacher, who asked if I'd mind him displaying it in the park's museum. I was thrilled. I knew my dad would love to see it, so I put it in a cup and stuck it in the back of the car. At some point after I got home, I went back to the car to get it to show him, and it was gone. When I found him and asked him if he'd seen it, he was mad at me for leaving trash in the back seat. He said he chucked it in the grass and threw the cup away.<br />
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I never did figure out where he tossed it.Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-13677615815918477202013-08-29T16:30:00.001-04:002013-08-29T16:30:33.260-04:00Maybe notI've gone back and read my old novel, looking for what to keep. Even though it's what got me into grad school, it doesn't feel as good as it did. It seems slower, more talky, less active than I remember. I read scenes and wonder why I felt the need to include them. They cover the conversations and relationships among the characters, but they seem pointless, the kind of thing people write when they're much younger, I suppose. <br /><br />I have a method when I write, that includes retyping a piece. It helps me to see where it slows down. If I get bored typing it, readers will probably get bored reading it. And so it appears I will be rewriting a great deal if I want to keep this novel. Not sure I do. So much has changed. The town it was set in was wiped away by a hurricane. The people in it seem distant, characters I once had dreams about and felt were real in some recognizable way.<br /><br />I feel like I've forgotten how to write characters. Not sketches of characters, the characters themselves. Personalities. Maybe I'll use it as an exercise. Or maybe I'll write about my actual life again. You learn so much about human nature online. One thing's for sure, you won't get bored reading it.Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308651597853939605.post-11988611879908160702013-05-13T14:11:00.000-04:002013-05-13T14:11:13.061-04:00Dear new mothers:<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13px/18px "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Don't be sad about how your body looks, worry whether you're still pretty, wonder where your youth went. Stop holding yourself up to society's standards, and you'll find yourself happier with who you are. Look at yourself through your children's eyes and you'll never feel low about yourself again. To them you are a goddess, you are the most beautiful woman in the world, your every mood is of prime importance to them; they watch and learn everything from you, including how to feel about themselves and about how they look. So for their sakes, learn to look at yourself as you would have them look at themselves.</span>Isonomisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09453935939171338581noreply@blogger.com0