NOT a book club....

Reading Middlesex (no C, not a little sex) by Jeffrey Eugenides and feeling dissatisfied. I'm on p. 207 of 529. I keep reading because I want to discuss it with library book discussion group. But it feels a bit wasteful to keep reading, four little uninterrupted and untired hours in which to read a week and I'm filling it up with a book that I don't want to read just because I miss my job (for those unaware, I QUIT; for those aware I need to keep saying it, I QUIT) and have a, some might say unnatural, NEED to talk about books and the why and the how and the who and the where and the when.

Here's what I'm thinking and I hope that at least one person will bite. One night a month--or every other month--some of the people I know or don't know who like to read books can read a book--the same book--and then come over to my house after the kids are asleep and we can eat food (that someone else cooks, unless it's simple and easy and then I might be able to handle it) and drink wine (or something else if you don't like wine) and we can talk about this book. Or, if we're running short on time for reading things long, we could read an article of some sort, an essay, short story, some poetry. I'm reminded of one of my college professors who would get all crazy drinking wine and reading The Faerie Queene and other works with a bunch of folks, some married, some not, some with kids, some without, some older, some younger. All mixed up.

This may sound an awful lot like a book club, but it's not...mostly because I have a hard time associating myself with clubs of any sort--especially clubs that require participants to wear special underwear, clubs that repress all kinds of natural desires, clubs that don't allow non-club members into their big, fancy temples, clubs that tell people how to think, whom to vote for for president, what to read and not read, etc.

People play golf with clubs. People hit other people with clubs. People go to nightclubs for a bit of dancing and a good time. People play cards with clubs.

Clubs are for clubbing. Books are for reading. Do you want to read some? Please send titles/ideas. Will meet at end of May?

--Jane

Thinking in black and white

My Horoscope

I'm not really into horoscopes, unless you count a period of kleptomania between the ages of 15 and 17 during which my friends and I lifted tiny scrolls of love-life information from the candy aisle of 7-11. Orange for Leo. Not to justify this behavior, and of course I have guilt about it, but what else was a good Mormon girl supposed to do for a thrill, what with no drinking and no smoking and no premarital sex? And stealing may have been wrong in Mormondom, but in the great hierarchy of sins, it was minor enough to allow admittance into the Celestial kingdom of heaven (note to those who don't know about Mormon kingdoms: "The Celestial is for perfect Mormons, the Terrestrial is for moral people and lukewarm LDS, and the Telestial Kingdom is for everyone else."). At least that's what I thought. So I stole. Greedily unrolled MY horoscope and read. This tiny piece of paper told me many important things--like which days were good for romance, which days I would achieve financial success. Things I needed to know. Things that may have altered the course of the universe, like having the nerve to walk up to cute boy and talk to him because September 8th predicted love and such.

It is with slightly guilty pleasure then, that I post my horoscope for the week. I feel as greedy about reading it and reveling in it now as I did when I was 15. And how much do I want to believe the part about the "past no longer holding me back"? How much do I want to believe the part about "partial breakthroughs"? How much do I want to turn "almost" into "completely"? "VICTORY"

I'm posting my horoscope here because just like I did when I was 15, I SO hope it's true.


Leo Horoscope for week of April 28, 2005

You've been given a prophetic glimpse of the great victory that's possible. You're very close to neutralizing an old bugaboo and making sure that the past will no longer hold you back. Now comes the hardest part: Will you be able to sustain your concentration until the triumphs are actually accomplished? Or will you be lulled into lazy complacency by the sense of security that your partial breakthroughs have provided? Personally, I believe you will summon the dogged ingenuity necessary to finish the job; you will turn almost into completely.

Mildly interested in what Rob Brezsny has to say about you? Click on the title of this post. I think you'll know what to do.

All Giddy

Must say. I get all giddy and happy when people not called Stewingham write things here. Imagine my utter elation this morning, head hurting from only THREE drinks, reading posts from Beth AND Sheila. You laugh. But it's the little things. Really. It is.

Keep it coming you Friday mothers.

who takes pictures of letters of resignation?

who takes pictures of letters of resignation?
Originally uploaded by stewingham.

Just so you know--I went through with it. So why don't I feel better? And I even used a pretty stamp.

A letter...

Dear Superintendent:

I am contemplating another leave of absence because I am mentally and physically incapable of writing a letter of resignation. Quitting. After 14 years of thinking about becoming a teacher, going to school to become a teacher (whatever that means) and actually teaching. Quitting means acknowledging on paper and with a signature that I am a full time mother. This is my job. Who I am? This is what I do. Dishes. Laundry. Diapers. Clean. Noses. Feed. Water. Plant. Tub. Vacuum. Laugh. Chase. Sweep. Come. Go. Play. Teach. Worry. Worry about not worrying. Love.

I am contemplating another leave of absence because I am terrified of becoming intellectually stale and uninteresting. Teaching has given me reason and desire to inform myself, to think so that I can teach others to think. Teaching gives me permission to obsess, which is something I am good at. Reason for me to research a piece of literature, talk ad nauseam about a book. Research an author. Think about time, place, other works that relate to the piece with which I am obsessed. And it's ok to talk, over lunch, about my obsession. Let's say, Animal Farm. Discussions that involve working definitions of capitalism, socialism, communism. Discussions that involve talking pigs and their politics and the music of Billy Bragg. And it's ok to go to local tavern at the end of the week to finish, as much as they can be finished, these conversations.

Contemplating a leave of absence frustrates me because I think that mothering my children is more important than teaching, though I don't expect others to feel this way or to have the luxury of feeling this way. It's entirely personal and the word "caveman" comes to mind when thinking about those who insist that mothering, teaching happen ONE way.

So then it is for selfish reasons that I don't want to quit. It is because I feel like a piece of me is dying when I say the word "resign." How dramatic, but I am serious. Maybe it's because I've seen too many people go to jobs that they despise, some because they have to, some because they don't know any better. With teaching, I dislike aspects of the job. I dislike these apsects a lot, but the opposite extreme is the satisfaction that comes from watching students form ideas, think, discuss, think some more, struggle with ideas, write persuasively, creatively and often honestly, ferociously, and eloquently, sometimes with humor, with dignity, about these ideas. At least as much as and most likely more than I hate my job, I love it. And how many people can say this about what they do? For money.

There is reason then for contemplating, but I am not allowing myself to do any more of it. I am going to resign. Today. Letter in mail tomorrow, though my letter will sound nothing like this. It will be written in resignese--toneless and faceless (do you remember me from Virgilio's) and struggleless and hollow.

In the end though, the outcome will be the same. With or without details. But not without my realizing that the details are what matter. It matters that I work at not becoming an intellectual slug. It matters that I love my kids but find subjects to talk about not related to what comes out of or goes into an orifice. It matters that I find some thing or some things productive with which to obsess. It matters that I go to Rhumbline on Monday nights. It matters that resigning matters.

I quit. I'll get used to saying it. And I'm wearing sweat pants to prove it.

I quit.

Killing Birds

Sorry to have missed the moms this week but I was killing tons of birds with surprisingly few stones. How many birds can you kill with one stone?

I'm beginning to think I need more rules in my life. Rules and systems. My new rule is that I have to do the thing I am dreading most first. I have developed new systems for getting things done. Ways to make chance work for me. A whole new set of rules for me to ignore.

Rules for feeding the baby. Try something savory first. Then fruit. Then yogurt. Rules for finishing knitting projects. Pick a project to work on each day for some time before I can work on what I really want to. Rules for laundry. Do it. Often.

What is hanging over my head today? Finishing the books. Moving plants. Make toys.

What are you doing this dark and dreary day?

Later

Dead fish still in tank.
Tub still dirty
DVD player going to landfill. ERRRR. Unless I start creating sculptures with pieces from obsolete appliances.
Contract not signed.
Thank you note not written.
Going to move to Canada.
Eight pairs of sandals purchased. Seven to return.
Appointment made. For belts, not pump.
Check not written, but phone call made.
To registry and yarn shop with Amanda.
Made biker guy laugh about trying to be Red Sox fan.
Letter not written. In denial about quitting job.
Met artists at art store.
Talked with frame guy.
Decided to stay with acrylic. Mix something in for volume. Sheen.
Decided to buy paint and canvas from local guy.
Decided interests are expensive. Decided that I have too many.
Decided to look for job. Or way to make money. Don't think prostitution will work for me--though it could be fun.
Decided not to take Cole and Aidan to see Whitman impersonator.
Reserved passes for PEM. Don't forget to pick up tomorrow.
Didn't vacuum.
Fed, loved children--when they weren't at Nanny's house.
Didn't accomplish as much as I thought I had, but accomplished enough.
Had good day.

Things I May or May Not want to Do Today

Remove dead fish from tank, scrub algae off of rock and glass, put old, alive fish in new tank.
Clean tub scum. Has it been that long?
Take DVD player to Beverly for repair, may cost more than buying new one but don't want to add old one to landfill??
Agree to sign Verizon contract for two years. Will it cost less?
Write thank you note. Send envelope to retrieve birth certificate and passports left in Quebec.
Ask, "Is it a sign that we should move to Canada?"
Aidan could use some sandals. Target?
Make appointment to replace power steering pump.
Write check for unknown amount to sister.
Call Amanda with music idea.
Compose letter to superintendent. Resign?
Walk to library, Jim's Frame and Chrisleedarrand.
Vacuum dried up pasta, dehydrated peas, old cheerios from rug.
Try to become a Red Sox fan. Look for website.
Start business. This could be complicated and I might need help.
Always. Upload photos and order them for someone.
Feed children. Wash children. Nap children. Play with children. Love children. Send children to Nanny's house.
Buy giant canvas.
Paint in basement. Musty as it is. Open door. Get lost.

Butterflies and Flies

It's a lovely spring day but I woke up thinking about decay. Black fly decay. Butterfly decay. Went to art museum over the weekend and saw an exhibit by Hirst. He covered a canvas with at least a thousand dead flies. Held together by resin. Makes me wonder whether or not he had help. The fly piece was both repulsive and stunning and I'm still thinking about it so I'm counting it as art that did something for me. Also, it stunk. Or maybe that odor was the butterflies in the glass house with the sand and broken glass and scientist mannequin whose hand and lungs moved from time to time. Artist's statement said something about capturing a butterfly, capturing a woman. Or maybe it said girl.

Girl. Capture. Woman. Decay. Spring. Butterfly. Fly. Fly away.

Why am I trying to make sense of someone else's art? There isn't sense.

Better, today, to create my own. Art, that is.

spring....

Needing spring. And then. Here it is.

Rhymes with Lie

Wondering: Why do some filter some things and others filter other things? And some filter nothing? And others filter everything?

A filter is something I can attach to my camera, or myself (that's debatable). Filters come in colors. Blue. Green. Yellow. Red.

Why do some lie and think that they are fooling? Some tell half truths. Lies that are white?

When is honest too honest? What don't you want to know?

Lay or lie. Lain or laid. Lie.

Lie. Die. Rye. Pie. Shy. Robert Bly. Mai Tai. Sky. Chai. Fly. Dry. High.

Lie.

Through a lens

Liked roofs.
Liked stone.
Liked color.
Liked art.
Looked for religious symbols.
Adored Mary and Alexandre.





















Should anyone want to see a few more pictures of Quebec city, click on a picture, click on "where the river narrows" set. And hey. Thanks for looking.

Ambivalent

Four days without nursing, Tad and I to Quebec. He didn't mention it once. But he didn't forget it. One of the first things he said to me when he saw me. "Mama, noose." Like he'd been thinking about it for four days. And nothing else.

Now I have to decide. Is it worth it to fight the fight? How much do I want to keep nursing? How much don't I? And this after full blown temper tantrum this morning when I gently said, "No. No more nursing," and tried to give him extra love. He pulled my hair, scratched my nose and hit me, all while screaming "noose" again and again.

All of these emotions over a breast. I'm sad, a bit. He's probably my last. The last baby I'll nurse. I want to hold on. Let go slowly.

But then there's my body. Four years of pregnancy and/or nursing. I have a body, been realizing it lately, and I want part of it back. Doesn't seem unreasonable.

For now. While I'm deciding. Eat chocolate made in Quebec. Some of the best I've ever had. Decide to decide when I'm ready to decide. Prepare for battle with very sweet and very surly little boy. Prepare to win. Prepare to lose. Prepare.

Enter MOTHER.

To clean, or not to clean, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler all the whites to launder
And pinks with bows in girly fashion,
Or to take arms of dirty towels
And by sunlight dry them. To clean, to sweep--
Some more; and by to clean we mean to say
that all the fuzz and all the fallen socks
are clean too. 'Tis a constant pastime
Never to be finished-- to clean, to sweep--
To sweep, perchance vacuum, and high chairs rub;
For in that tray, food stuck like gum
That we have mushed from its natural form
Must give us pause-- what was it
That makes such orange stains.
For who will clean this tray and the floor around it,
Be oppressed by it, and man's dirty socks,
The pans of dinners served, old fruit's decay,
Newspapers left out, and the smell
That milk left in a sippy cup makes,
And see the horror when someone quickly takes
A sip? Who will mop kitchen floors,
Grunt and sweat (a weary wife),
In hopes that something will stay done,
Finds some undiscovered pile, from under which
Should reappear last month's phone bill,
And a graham cracker, and a truck, and
want to fly somewhere, anywhere else one could go?
And thus the housewife's resolution
To finish one more room is stopped
And a diaper is changed in that moment
In just this instant her plans go awry
And the day turns to chaos.--So mothers now,
gentle mothers,-- Women, in your houses,
to the mess surrender.

Monday night and the lights are low...

Ladies. Wish you could have been there. This Monday, perhaps? Kim T, please give the bacteria, germs in your body a message from me, "Get the fuck out." Thank you.

So good it was that I was inspired to find these lyrics, adding a few comments of my own. Wish I had Elizabeth and Amanda with me for this. Please add, if you feel the urge or need.

Wish I could give you the music, too. Recommend downloading from itunes for .99. You should see my download list. Things like Night Ranger, Cyndi Lauper, Tom Petty (though I've been told it's o.k. to like him). Now this. Are you embarrassed for me? Admit it. You love Dancing Queen too.

ABBA

(oooo ya)
You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life ohh yaa
Ooo.. see that girl, watch that scene, dig in the Dancing Queen ahhh ahhh

Friday (MONDAY) night and the lights are low
Looking out for the place to go (THERE'S ONLY ONE, FOR NOW)
Where they play the right music (MOST OF THE TIME), getting in the swing
You come in to look for a king (DAN)
Anybody (NOT JUST ANYBODY?) could be that guy
Night is young and the music's high
With a bit of rock (AND ROLL) music, everything is fine
You're in the mood for a dance
And when you get the chance

You are the Dancing Queen, young (STILL) and sweet (STILL), only seventeen (PLUS A FEW YEARS, WHO WANTS TO BE 17?)
Dancing Queen, feel the beat from the tambourine (LEO'S DRUMS) ohh yaaa
You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life
Ooo.. see that girl, watch that scene, dig in the Dancing Queen

You're a teaser, you turn 'em on (HELL YES)
Leave 'em burning and then you're gone (OF COURSE)
Looking out for another, anyone will do (OK, FOR NOW)
You're in the mood for a dance
And when you get the chance

You are the Dancing Queen, young and sweet, only seventeen
Dancing Queen, feel the beat from the tambourine ohh yaaa
You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life
Ooo.. see that girl, watch that scene, dig in the Dancing Queen

Dig in the Dancing Queen

Dancing Queen

Hips achin' from hip shakin'. Too tired to walk around the block twice. Danced for hours in new heels. Spring is here- no more boots for me!*

Sunny day, sun on the deck, fresh air. Good for drying laundry. All morning putting things in the washer. Bedding. Clothing. Comforter. Diapers. Rugs. As much as would fit outside on the rack, drying in the sun.

I can't find Olivia. I haven't looked too hard for her. Once I've done that I will have to admit she is lost. I'm hoping she's just hiding.


*Of course cowboy boots are an exception.

For fun...

"What do you do for fun?" asked after a few minutes of careful conversation. How to say, "You aren't going to like what I say"? And it's an odd topic for discussion. Fun? or escape? Or both.

Seems hollow, superficial to ask after three years. Three years, not much seeing your grandchildren, not seeing me, your daughter, the commitment being such. And I know that you know that there isn't a way to explain this commitment to me. I am not going to understand.

Our last conversation, tension real, disappointment real. Trying to get over it. Realized that I haven't gotten over it, though I'm not one to hold a grudge. Get it out, move on. That's how I deal. But this isn't about a grudge, a single incident. It's about growing resentment. It's about disagreeing in a way that is permanent?, children involved, both holding on to what we believe is us.

Where to go from here, for me, except guilt? Accept guilt. Accept that I love you and that you love me. Accept that our views are not going to change, but that our relationship can.

Write. Let go. Move on.

Blue: a list

or When it's raining

Compute taxes.
Plant pansies.
Add wiper fluid.
Drive big rig.
Fight the power.
Wipe nose.
Blow nose.
Mother. Hot or soft?
Become superhero.
Take a picture.
Keep.