GoGo on a Page

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Location: Midwest, United States

"Power lines, my travlin' partner on this ride. Dripping, pulling - up and down, in this sing song, their lullaby blends with the swaying train. I curl myself into this journey; folding myself up into this pocket of time. Old familiars greet me - that swing set in the back yard, the ruins of an old church covered in new birth and old - mixed with unremembered newness." Journal Entry, October 13, 2005~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~All words are copyrighted by GoGo on a Page/gogoroku.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

votin' times a-comin'

Joining their hands together, they promised with Divine assistance to be a loving faithful partner to one another. They vowed to honor and respect one another, support one another in their personal growth, and be attentive and present their relationship.

Sounds good doesn’t it? It’s a paraphrased quote from two friends of mine’s marriage ceremony. Though they are not by law married in this State, and a new law is quickly taking away their health insurance rights, I and many others witnessed and committed to support their marriage. I think about how messed up this country is that commitment in love scares so many folks out there. First of all, the idea that the government can say who can or cannot get married blows my mind. It’s a game of rock, paper, scissors except its parchment, parchment, and parchment. Which is more true, the document we all signed or the one the State voted on? Of course, the answer lies in which one carries the harmful power, right. I say power because that piece of paper committing to marriage between two beautiful women has power, no matter what the masses may think. I say harmful because the greater law of society that deems worth also authorizes the devaluing of those not in the approved circle. What is being taken away is the right to see one's partner dieing sick in a hospital bed if they "family" doesn't recognize the marriage. What is being taken away if the right to keep the finances, home, and life that two built when one dies. What is being taken is the tax breaks, social recognition, and the visibility in the family value fight. But it never stops there. Remember, slavery? Remember the holocaust? Remember, the displacement of Native Americans from this land?

I wonder if people think they are safer, if another group of folks is outside their circle of rights. Wars still happen, sickness, famine, natural disasters, your neighbor will probably still piss you off when the music’s played way too loud. Family values will continue to depreciate.

Votin’ times a-coming. I keep getting documents from the Republican party who wants me to know they believe in family values. So, do I. I think our definition are different and I am having a hard time wanting to vote for someone who lets me know there top concerns are family values, the war of terror, and taxes. Doesn’t sound like a leader, but that crazy sales rep uncle at a party who’s going to bombarded folks with bad jokes. Stop feeding us hot topic fights that are meant to spur division, so the powerful can stay that way. Many democrats aren’t much better these days either.

I was looking at that parchment paper today while watching my friends’ daughter. They are married and they now have a child together. I wondered what the election will do to this country. I wonder how long my leaders will escalate hatred, bigotry, and socioeconomic difference. Last election, marriage was defined in this State as only something between a man and a woman. This election, we are voting on Affirmative Action. We are deciding if Affirmative Action should be struck off the books. Of course, most people don’t know this because the folks trying to get it passed are hiding it behind a Civil Rights Act, saying it’s not fair to white folk. Being white and a woman, I ironically benefit most from Affirmative Action, but besides that…its bull shit. Sorry, that’s my political opinion on the matter.

What was the point of this entry? This is why I don’t write about politics…I read much but still feel like I have a rudimentary understanding of it all. I was looking at this parchment. Looking at the child I sometimes kid-sit, knowing the two people who committed themselves to marriage…regardless of what the State thinks…and I felt proud we all were actively a part of civil disobedience. I also felt scared because I believe that where there are laws, there is enforcement and I wonder how long before that game of parchment, parchment, parchment gets enforced.

*The photo is of three politicians in this City and State who I invited to speak to the coffee group I facilitated last year. The places they sat were dubbed "the hot seats" by the group.

Monday, October 30, 2006

morning coffee

Time change leads into sleep change, and suddenly I can wake up without cue once again in the morning. My snooze button thanks me. I get up this morning an hour before my alarm clock went off, pulling this self out of bed without negotiation or second thoughts. I feel like I have gotten enough sleep for once in the last two months. So, I take the extra time and walk around my home, drinking coffee and looking at the piles that have once again invaded my space. It really is hard to keep everything in tip top shape, while simultaneously putting myself through Grad school. I’m proud of my piles, as I begin to excavate them for the organization that lies at the bottom. :)

Then I realize, with the extra time I have better things to do. So, I grab my warm cup of coffee and sit on the couch that has become my badly needed coffee table. I begin to read Curve Magazine, a spontaneous buy yesterday. This woman named Michelle Wolff is on the cover and she is from a show called Dante’s Cove. Yeah, I wanted to know more about her. I ask myself why I didn’t know about this show that claims to mix Buffy the Vampire slayer with my favorite subject – lesbian women. I flip through the mag, reading about Babeland which is one of the top businesses to work for. My preference in reading any magazine is to randomly flip through and read the articles as they catch my eye. I admit, Babeland caught my eye first, then the short Julie Goldman article because I am seeing her next month at a local festival, and then I turned my attention to the intriguing women of Dante’s Cove. Hmm. I make note to add this show to my TV DVD watch list.


Sunday, October 29, 2006

Dave and Bill O'Reilly

I appreciate the last words of Letterman here.

Sunday Scribblings: Bedtime Story

Reading the prompt for this week's Sunday Scribblings, I watch the cursor blinking on the screen, my eyes melting into its rhythm as I ask myself what bed time story do I want to write tonight. Should I write a story to those unnamed grandchildren thought up in my head, sharing some good day moral or offer some comfort for days ahead? Do I pass along the stories we learned as children growing up? Do I share another bedtime story I tell myself in the deep late night when I’m ready to go to bed? :O). Then it comes to me, this one burning bright in this head. ~gogo

the bedtime story:
a mother sits close, arms wrapped around her little one lying prostrate in bed. Eyes worn and scratchy, she knew her sleepiness a thicket of a long day not yet done, while her child waited bright eyed and ready for that story to be read over and over again. Mom wanted to make the story short, "Once upon a time, there was a kid who was tired. Then she went to bed, the end." Somehow, she didn’t think that would fly tonight, her child’s imagination grown to the place where it lingered in the clouds of her words and soared in the elaboration of all those new stories discovered. At this point in the game, her little one’s response would have been, "That’s not a story." Tonight, with her star filled eyes longing to snap shut, she wished it was her child’s story.

For all those parents out there who read to their kids, even when they are tired. :)

You can go here to check out more Sunday Scribblings on the page.


Saturday, October 28, 2006

addressing the gossip

yeah, i'm sharing a universal byproduct of living it seems. I unfortunately know many can relate.

after hearing some gossip about this self; a poem written
anger brewnig, fear wanting to be shed.
Do I go to the source and try to repair?
Do I walk away once again, further out of view?
Do I run faster then my pace will carry
because I really don't know what to do?
Do I cry these tears, stinging my eyes
or rub my brow with these pursed knuckles?
Do I take reprieve in that long learned lesson -
it really is better to let others spin their wheels,
taking simple pleasure knowing that though
they defame me, reframing minds of people
who don't even know me, this ugly is their
ugly and they are giving power to it?
Do I ask advice from friends,
another game of telephone,
I just won't play in?
Or do I sit in silence choosing
not to engage?
Do I laugh it off, hoping that
something higher steps in
and saves my name?
Do I question why it is my
problem anyway to make amends
when I have done nothing wrong?
Do I send out a press release to
this small community of lesbians
and say, "Please, don't listen!"
Or do I settle for the simplicity
of knowing this is only validation
for what kind of person this
person turned out to be after all?
Do I breathe in deep, run around
the track, shedding it in physical
exercise then mental exacerbation
because there is really nothing I can
do to save this self, this name,
this safe place
I have tried to carve out,
and realize its best to just
walk away?

The one question I need answered is how do I take care of myself in a healing loving manner, that does not include me saying sorry for something I have not done? How do I hold my head up high?

Friday, October 27, 2006

having fun with blocks, spelling s-t-r-e-s-s

I realized writing the last entry I sound morose and I don’t feel this way in my personal realm at all. Tired, yes. Worn, absolutely. A little gnawed by the stress of midterms at the moment, pretty much. I so cannot write another entry about school and being tired though! I have decided to make a shirt that says, “i’m tired” and be done with it. I believe I could make a pretty penny from class mates with this one! I’m also done with writing about school in general, preferring to leave it for another page…like that paper I have to write for my theory class, for example.

I’m having some serious writers block. I have written the entry for this page over and over again tonight, just to avoid staring at the cursor marking where I am stuck in my paper. I haven’t spent this long trying to write an entry EVER, and am quickly becoming delinquent in my studies. I’m having blogger growing pains I believe, moving out of one developmental stage of writing into another and am struggling to figure out what I want to do with this page.

Am I having a blogger identity crisis? Who am I? What am I doing on this page?

That so made me smile.

In my mind’s eye, I can see this page as a creative outlet, letting myself mix personal experience with creative expression. There are entries when I can see this happen beautifully, surprising myself. I honestly like some of the things I’ve written. I truly appreciate the writing process in general.

I feel like I’m teething though. My gums are swollen, there is a lot of drool, but I got nothing to chew with. Yeah, I know I’m stretching the imagery used on this page, but it popped into my head…I thought I could make it work. I’m done with the public journaling stuff. School was a safe subject to write about and am quickly feeling stuck with the commentary of it all – tired, burned out, and because I am in Social Work I really can’t delve into any of it. I can’t write another entry about the research thing either. I said that at the beginning didn’t I? Darn.

Okay, so there it is tonight. This GoGo is A) So ready to be done with school and B) has writers block mixed with C) not sure where I want to go with this blog page. There is also, D) my imagery comes from babysitting and E) the grade I am going to get if I don’t write that paper.


Signing out,


written last night in the middle of page 3 of a paper due. it gave me a good laugh. i'm still on page 3.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

i just wanted to write poop-y over & over

What the hell am I doing here tonight? I’ve kind of lost the point again of this blog. Am I a writer trying to share some creations, building my tool block? Am I a journalist of my own life? Am I a mystic dancing the rim of light that experiences shed in our lives? Am I just a person with way too many things to say?

Perhaps I am all these things. Perhaps I am simply a writer who has a page.

I’m sitting at the coffee shop again tonight. Its Chess Night here and folks of all ages are playing the game downstairs. I wish I had time to play. I want to learn from the kids down there. The best lessons a person can learn are from children I think. Besides I hear there is this kid who can take anybody down in minutes. Yeah, I’d like to get my chess butt kick by this kid! Speaking of kids, the babysitting gig I have these days has been a very calming experience in my life. It’s nice to put my life down and focus on someone else who is just beginning to learn to relate to the world. Just getting a smile back, makes the whole thing worth it. I’m watching this wee thing learn something new every time I watch her, and somehow that humbles me. Of course, so does the poop-y diaper changing. :O).

I’m at the coffee shop to work on the research thing. From last week to this one, I have gone from this isn’t going to happen to I am now approved to start the Internal Review Board process. I’ve barely had time to prepare for the significance in all this. I kind of wish I had more time with the “possibly maybe” part of it all. There was less responsibility there. I am now officially the proprietor of a research project. I am now officially building a program and documenting its progress. There is pressure with this. I am scared.

Its funny how this new responsibility has brought up feelings I didn’t know I was having until I am in the middle of something else. It has quieted some other fears I’ve been playing out ‘cause I had the time. Without the time, I welcome this silence, but in the silence I realized the noise I was living in before. And it was noisy. This has definitely brought up some poop-y stuff that needs to be changed. Hmm. I find this a beautiful statement of living. I’m still scared…still left realizing how I’ve spent my time when I had it…still not sure what I am doing. But sitting with it feels beautiful.

In the middle of all this, I am feeling tired. I’m not the only one, which in a sick way is comforting. There is not a day that goes by that I am not talking to someone in my school program who doesn’t share the same tired expressions. It’s a comfort to know that I am not the only one. It also makes for a good b!tch fest to know we are all feeling pushed to limits we never wanted to tread. I realized though that the reason why I can fall asleep so quickly is the fact that I need it more then not. So, I look forward to the day that all of this is balanced again. There is a part of this self that feels disappointed in myself, like I should know the best way to do everything, including getting my 8hours of balanced sleep. Like I should life without multitasking, but I just don't know how to get it all done. What if I am not supposed to know? I have to let go of being the zen master of doing things right. Ah, another old way I’ve learned to live. There is a story in that statement, but it doesn’t belong here. Not tonight.

The electoral heat is rising; politicians fling poop-y statements back and forth as we are divided into camps of right and left. Sometimes, I remember I have two hands – one right and one left. I appreciate the use of both and would harbor sadness if I lost the use of one. That’s the analysis of what I think of this bi-party government of ours. This is why I do not write about politics. For me, neither side gets what needs to be done. They seem like magnets playing out that old kid’s game of polar opposites, forgetting that there is more to life then being the opposite of something. I think our government is a reflection of old habits that do not work anymore. The problem is, I think both sides are so focused on proving they are right, that they aren’t focusing on the changes that need to be made. It’s an old game, perhaps the only one most know how to play. I am burning a candle for this country. Besides voting, which I plan to do, and being the social activist I am in my personal realm, it’s the other thing I know how to do. I burn a light for us to see it before its too late and we have lost the use of both our hands.

And my last words tonight are for my Mother and Father. My Dad has been struggling for over a year now with a low blood count. My Mother, the ever diligent nurse, has worked with doctors from all specialties to find out why. She is tired and so is he. Both work hard to support my brother and my sister and in the middle of it all are struggling with this unknown illness of my Dad’s. They are going through some poop-y sh!t these days. How I feel is mine to keep for now, but they are in my thoughts and never stop to be there. I wanted to give them a moment on this page too.

Monday, October 23, 2006

whip flash for president: a ramble

Laughter and silliness creeps into the sidebar of working.

I am stuck at work tonight, a shift I was not scheduled to work, but to venture into telling the story would really sound like a rant and not a ramble, so I’ll leave it at that. Though I do not want to be here because I should not be here, I am glad I am here tonight...if I had to be.

A coworker and I are finally working together again after a number of months where our schedules didn’t match. I've missed our fun. My side hurts from laughing between the job done. My laughter has run the gambit of my laughs from the rat-a-tat of a machine gun to the hissing sounds like Ernie from Bert & Ernie. It all depends on what we were laughing at and how deep the laugh went inside this soul of mine. I wonder if other people have varying laughs? If I am oxygen deprived while laughing I’ll get the hiccups. If I’m laughing too hard, I’ll snort on occasion.

I always love a good laugh. This past week, and a few more before, have kept this me on the taskier side of living. I don’t love this busy living. Busy is expected with the program I am in, and though I make it a point to socialize*, I feel like its been forever since I have had a real good laugh. I’ve laughed. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t get a giggle going on about something. But really laugh, tonight has been a good exercise in that.

Oh wait, to be fair I did crack up to the core this week when I found out that Whip Lash is not in fact called Whip Flash. Yes, I have been calling Whip Lash, Whip Flash. This one friend of mine, who I just adore for many reasons, totally cracked up because I was saying Whip Flash. I busted up with laughter because I seriously thought it was Whip Flash. I felt a little like she had told me there was no Santa Claus, which just made the whole thing even funnier. I think Whip Flash sounds better and might just continue to call it such. Something tells me I could get away with it, if I slur it right. I know that will drive some folks nuts who need to be verbally appropriate, but that’s their nuts to drive, I suppose. ;).

I wonder if I can get more people to say Whip Flash instead of Whip Lash. Some day they’ll change the dictionary!!!!

And then I realize I am rambling into tangents on the page. But I think the reader would get the theme. Laughter. I’m glad its in my life.

How about you?

*I can't believe I used the word socialize. I'm way too busy.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Sunday Scribblings: Good

Welcome to the next installment of Sunday Scribblings. This weeks prompt was the word: Good. This was a hard one, since I seem to have a bit of writer's block these days. All right, enough disclaiming, just read it.
As always, I had fun stretching the creativity. ~GoGo

reach out your hand and look at it. No, I did not ask you to roll your eyes. I asked you to reach out your hand. In no particular direction, just reach it out and look at it. No, not the back part of the hand, the palm part. Yeah, that’s it. Now look at the lines in the palm of the hand.


See those lines running along the palm. When a palm reader looks at the palm she/he sees a road map in those lines.

Oh, sorry, you can put down your hand.

Anyway, those lines are like highways, dirt roads and rivers on a road map. Put together a good palm reader can read your topography of self. Those lines are ever changing and forming into whatever you are changing and forming into. No, seriously. Make a print of your palm, then make another one in 6 months and look at the difference. There will be a difference.

The lines reflect what you have carried with you from your past, and how you are in the present. They do not predict the future, though there are lines that grow as choices weight a destination.

A good palm reader will never try and predict, but simply look at that map and help you navigate that self called you. That’s an important piece. That’s the difference between a reader and a fortune teller. Fortunately for you, your talking to a reader.

Do I believe in palm reading? I don’t know. I suppose since I grew up learning how to do it, I appreciate the endeavor of palm reading. Its entertaining to say the least. At the most, its an interesting tool for those who see it as such. Yeah, that was a good answer, wasn’t it.

What? No. I don’t do palm readings over the internet. No. I’ve never tried to read a picture of palms.

How Many have I read? I believe I am in the hundreds, but never really kept count.

How long have I been reading? I did my first solo reading when I was 7-years-old in the back of the bus with a girl named Andrea. I also kissed a frog in the back of that bus in the same year. My grandfather was not happy...about the reading not the frog kissing.

Oh, it was my grandfather who taught me how to read. Yeah, this was the grandfather who I recently wrote about.

Am I good?

You’d have to ask my clients.


Thursday, October 19, 2006

the things i know

There are things I know, walking this journey for 30 turns now. The common sense unfolding seems to help make sense of the things going round. I know that the WIFI signal of the wire connection to the laptop is always stronger before one connects. I know that the sun rises over the horizon even if a cloud blocks our view. I know that given enough time, perspectives change and understanding changes the belly’s reactions to things. Yep, it’s pretty much guaranteed.
At the coffee shop a smile creeps on my face though, I’m feeling a little rough today. My stress level is increasing even though I tell it not to worry. I can feel it in my body, worn and tired. My eyes are puffed warm and sleepy. It’s my body telling me “I don’t want to do this” and “this” happens to be the research class Internal Review Board problems. My mind disagrees, knowing what I know about sun rises and drama. I know that it’s best to let other people get worked up. Let other people spin their tires. Old habits are hard to break, and I let my body struggle with feeling safe. I don’t struggle against the doubt, nor do I let my head get caught in a whirlwind of doubt, and I simply remind myself its going to be okay. Then I type out itinerary for the upcoming meetings.


In a course of yesterday until today, I have gone from my research survey “wasn’t going to happen in my life time” to “possibly maybe”. I love the words “possibly maybe” together. It is now in the hands of this unnamed board to review AND changes are definitely imminent. I go to my prof’s office. I set some boundaries and hopes. The hope is whether I do this survey thing for class or not, I want to continue to try and make my research happen. The hope is she’ll be my mentor. I really like this Prof. I can see my tool basket getting fuller with her around. I see her strength and ability to disagree with the masses. I like this characteristic. The boundary is at this point in the game, I am disconnecting my internship with the class. I ask for pseudo data to analyze for the class to finish the course. My research problems continue, but I don’t want them connected to my assignments. She had the same idea. She agrees to both the hope and the boundary.
I parked my car in the museum parking adjacent to the Social Work Departments building for my meeting with my prof. As I looked at the other cars parked next to mine, I see each of them have a ticket. The tickets look like a car strung necklace. The middle car tried to fool the parking officer by putting an old ticket envelope on the car. It’s a common urban myth that if you make it look like you already have a ticket, they won’t give you another one. It didn’t work. I know this is a sign of what is going to happen to mine, so I go into the museum and buy the $1 parking pass for two hours. I go into said hopes & boundaries meeting. Afterwards I have 45 minutes left on the pass, so I go into the museum and tour the halls. Why not? I know I’d find something in there I was glad I took this little detour to see. I did. While walking in and out of rooms full, I notice the theme is tools. Damn, I love this relationship I have with the universe. I smile as the mah-nah-mah-nah song goes through my head while I look at all the artwork.


Wednesday, October 18, 2006

The Original 1969 Sesame Street version of Mah-Nah-Mah-Nah

I found this from Ruminating the Roses. I had to pass along here. It made my day much better, please see below. ~GoGo

hope & frustration: Acme approved

Twist and turn, life gives you lemons and you’re suppose to do what with them?

School is definitely teaching me a good number of things these days. That's what they call the political point view. Maybe a little history on what I am doing in school before I explain why my brain feels like it just did a belly flop in my head and fell right out my ear.

This semester I only have two classes. One of them is a research class where I am learning all about research. Seems appropriately titled doesn’t it. The class is intense with an assignment due each week that builds on one another until the final project which is a completed research project complete with statistical analysis, data collection, and dissemination of the information from the whole process. Yeah, it’s a long winded process too. We started out creating this lovely little logic model about the internship programs we have. The next step was building surveys questions and research protocols. When this is finalized we are suppose to get the surveys passed out, returned, create a code book (to help with analysis), analyze the data, etc. Well, I am at the part where the survey is being refined for dissemination to the clients. I have hit the Internal Research Board wall. If you want to know what that sounds like, its like Wile E. Coyote crashing into a rock on the back of a rocket and ironically enough accompanied by a distant sound of “Meep, Meep” in the background noise. I may not be able to pass any surveys along to any clients. I may have to add more hours to this part of the process to get anything done AND the next half of the project – returned surveys and paper – which is due 10/30 may not happen. Its the due dates that messing this whole thing up.

I’m a busy gyrl. I’m pretty impressed that I have organized my life so well to date, but this research class is kicking my butt [meep, meep]. Let’s not forget that the internship program I am in is a new one which means added to this is me creating pamphlets, resource material, and TRYING to start two support groups for Vet Techs and clients. I believe I may have just reached my human capacity. I want to learn, I do. But so much in 1 semester? Am I nuts to think this may be too much? I feel scratched under the collar, as I reach to loosen my tie. This little brain of mine wants to check out and go to the beach, climb to the top of the bluff and slide all the way down…it sounds like fun doesn’t it. I figure if I am going to feel this sensation of falling, might as well be down a sandy hill.

Don’t get me wrong, there is a huge part of me that actually gets a tickle from this. That part of self that has enjoyed delving into a subject I’ve never really understood or wanted to learn – research. Personally, just because I don’t like something is not an excuse not to learn about it. Not only that, I really wanted to position myself for a peer-reviewed journal article. That’s slipping away, but at least I tried. It wasn’t something I absolutely needed in my life; it would have been a bonus. I’m sad.

I just want to be a person who sees life as challenges faced, because I already know what life looks like from a crisis point of view. But today, right here and now, I’m pretty stuck, my brain is fried, and I’m in denial that its time to stop writing and put that time into school. My brain hurts.

Excuse me while I get back on my Acme rocket and aim for that rock.


Sunday, October 15, 2006

three parts randomness

These are three parts randomness, rambled on the page. I step towards making a complete thought, another stage in getting the words out, another phase in telling a story. I balance the impatience, the desire for the buffed and buffered end product, with the excitement of simply letting myself be a part of this process. I love this process. ~gogo

i. The student and the writer: a polyandrous endeavor
I’ve been spending time at the coffee shop, procrastinating. My mind not wanting to focus on my paper, my fingers occupied with the rat-ta-tat-tat of this keyboard of mine. I’m stuck with a thought, wanting to come out, and having nothing to do with the implementation of research protocols for that sruvey I created. I keep thinking, if I can get it out, putting the words I want on paper, it might stop distracting the student in me. Every word an excursion into this wonderful process, I get further away from what I want to say, and deeper into the exploration of how many ways I can not say it. I think the student in me is in trouble, because I have found another lover to occupy all my time. But still not wanting to give up my endeavor towards that Masters paper, I am not ready to completely release that writer in me. I tell myself, I must keep these two relationships content with me. Thank the goddess for a blog. :O).

ii. Another one stanza poem
Dusk is pulling at the edges
of the horizon,
the light dimmer these days
dims into the night in this day.
and here i am again,
stuck in the first stanza
of another one stanza poem.

iii. Going Home: The Rough Draft
This is a story of a treaded road that leads me home. I want to write this story. Share the experience as I have known it, know it, and will know it this next weekend when I travel it once more to go to a friend’s baby shower. I want to pass along the wisdom shed between flat highways and rolling hills as I cut off the main roads to experience all those side roads towards home. It’s funny how many roads I have collected since I first learned to drive. I cut my teeth driving the back roads looking for a way out of my home town, then built my experience driving back and forth to that home and school. I could drive it eyes closed, leaning on the experience of that waviness in the roads. There is a story in this road – one that offers conclusion and inclusion of who I am now from what I was then. I can almost hear the tread on pavement, connecting me to this story. For now, all I can offer the page that is ready to absorb my words is that I’m listening for what needs to be said.

Saturday, October 14, 2006

filling time trying not to repeat myself:

I was lying in bed this evening trying to get some sleep between the internship and the over night job. Tossing and turning, my mind couldn’t shut off. I work over nights on the weekend at a crisis unit, so I have to switch up my sleeping pattern at the end of the week, then switch it back at the beginning of the week.. I live a diurnal week and a nocturnal weekend. I am not a fan, but the job pays me and gives me insurance while I live my day life as a full time student. I go to my internship on Fridays, so I try to sleep 4-5hours before my Friday night shift.

I’ve been pretty lucky with my sleep patterns. I usually can sleep when I need to, turning off the mind while turning on the drool like a flip of the switch. I’m not a huge fan of this experiment in stamina of sleeping though. The next job I get after I am done with this Masters program is one where I work days. I want my weekends back. I want to be a diurnal mammal once again! I want that feeling back where I feel like I’ve gotten enough sleep. I simply remind myself this is impermanent, a temporary act toward a goal lived.

I have to say, this year I have a pretty decent sleep routine down. I appreciate a routine, so I know Friday I will want to sleep 4hours between shifts. I also appreciate my flexibility too, in that if I have something to do on Friday, I will/can schedule more sleep on Saturday. Of course, all of this is contingent on my wonderful ability of letting go of things quickly and falling to sleep. No time to get caught up in heady thoughts or an unsettled body...its time to sleep!

With all this said, sometimes I can’t get my body to rest no matter what I do. Tonight was one of those sometimes. I spent my "sleep" time preoccupied with everything not sleep related, like if I could be a color what would it be, why don’t I buy into string theory, and wondering what kind of cats I’d get when I finally settle down. I’m thinking siamese and calico. I’m still torn about what color I’d be. By the time I started that lull into sleep where the thought process turns into hypnogogic nonsense, I only had 2 hours of sleep.

I may be a champ of getting to sleep, when it comes to waking up, I’m the worst. I talk to my alarm clock like it’s listening to me when I say, "Five more minutes, I promise I’ll get up." I swear that my sleep button has stopped working because it no longer believes me when I say I’m getting up. :O).

But in the end, this is the long version of, I’m tired and can’t wait to go to sleep.

Happy weekend!

P.S. I counted 19 times I wrote the word sleep...this makes 20.

Friday, October 13, 2006

meme: five things feminism has given me

1) Given me a language to understand why all the classic novels I loved had males as the hero and the female as an underdeveloped character. I use to get so frustrated. Feminism validated that there was something more to this frustration then this self not understanding my role as wife and mother. Language to understand social construction that perpetuates sexual assault, the fashion industry, and George W. Bush as president.
2) A foundation to understand how I participate in oppression and perpetuate oppression.
3) Freedom from having to genderize my personality or character for either main stream America or lesbian America. Cause I find both heterosexuals and homosexuals expect me to be packing when I leave my home. I think anyone who has been caught in Fem or Butch gender roles that don’t fit would understand this statement.
4) The understanding that feminism is a theory evolving and not a theology that some confuse it to be. It did not give me equality, reproductive rights or the power to vote. Women made this happen, just like it is up to the people of the US to get Bush out of Office and for us to choose alternatives to oil dependence. Theory and belief won’t do it for us! People change things, theories give us a foundation for conversation.
5) The space where I could see a city/Fesitval built by women, ran by women, and sad to say perpetuate social constructed rules by women. and the experience of watching those social constructions change and be questioned by the same women. It gives me hope.


Wednesday, October 11, 2006

and in this corner: prelude to another day

Hey There,

I am a tiny bit busy right now. I want my next post to respond to the meme I got tagged for this last week, but am running behind on most things at the moment. I did sit down last night and pop out an initial 5 minute dialogue on the matter. It doesn't address the meme at all, but I totally loved writing it...so I thought those who come by this way can chew on it until I can get back to writing. It is gonna be a few days.

As for the Learning Agreement, it is a contract between the School, my internship and myself regarding my goals at stated internship. I am in the MSW program and am currently finishing my 2nd and final year. My internship is at the Campus Veterinary Medical Hospital where I counsel human's whose pets are in medical crisis. The internship gives me clinical as well as program development experience.

Anyway, I enjoy the work it takes to get my MSW and the idea of finally becoming that clinical therapist...who works with an a enviromental humanistic model then a medical model. I am realizes on this journey through school that I enjoy the writing process even more, yearning to spend 8 hours a day scribbling just to get one decent paragraph. The below is something that just popped out, and felt REAL good...so I wanted to share. I swear in a few days, I'll actually write that meme.

Peace to your web browser,

Ode to the Meme:
Here I am finally sitting down to address this Meme. My first invite to do one and it’s about feminism. Seems about right. I was hoping I might get a Meme where I could make off the cuff remarks, be funny and cute all on the same page.
When I first read this question, I felt my mental boxing gloves come on, weighting my body and shifting my feet. Am I defending feminism, my right glove hits the air, aiming for all those misconceptions and biases born out of fear? Am I fighting feminism, turning my right foot and setting my left hook at those same misconceptions expected of me? And I had to ask myself, why do I feel like a cocky boxer jabbing my words in my head like something trying to bruise the belly of fear? Why do I feel like I have to be the champion of this question? Then the question, dancing in my head, hit me in the middle of my boxed steps. It’s a hard question to answer with candid honesty, ‘cause though I know I am a feminist, I don’t feel like I represent so well what that word means.

So, I take a step back, taking off my gloves, unwinding the tape, and letting my fingers relax. Being in the here and now of my living, living life like the student I want to be and not the fighter pumped full of adrenaline, I study my history and this theory.

Monday, October 09, 2006

guess what i just did...

I just finised:

my Learning Agreement
~It was due on Friday, but I got an extension. For the first time in my school career, I asked for a little more time so that I could be low functioning sick. Don't think I am a work-a-holic or have ethics or anything, if this was my job I'd call in sick to go to the beach. I see school more like my career then a job.

My Initial draft of a Satisfaction Survey for my internship and research class.
~Now here I can be construed as a work-a-holic. My anal attentiveness has haunted me this entire project

My Initial draft of my Interview Question for my internship and research class.
~Same here. Haunted I tell you, HAUNTED!

My homemade blackbean and rice burrito.
~urp. good stuff

It may not be a big deal to anyone else (except maybe my peers in school), but I so rock at this moment! I took care of myself, and got my work done. Now excuse me while I run my rear all over campus and beyond to get the appropriate signatures I need on my learning agreement, so I might be able to get a "still recooping" nap in before my 6 pm class. I am feeling much better though.

Sunday, October 08, 2006

Sunday Scribblings: tha assignment

This week for Sunday Scribblings we were given an assignment to go out and observe a person then write about them. You can go here to read the specifics to the assignment. I took it as an experiment in observation and creative projection. I say projection because I'd never claim to know someone by my first voyeur's view. Anyway, my oberservation actually blended a person, a thought, and a memory of a friend from the home town. I had fun. ~gg

The Inside Panels of Book Covers, by gogo

She stood fixing an invisible sock in her Wellington Boots, hiding the casual scratch of an itch, with the facade of sock maintenance. It was all about propping the circumstance for her when it came to body image. Her clothes, finely put together, each piece hemmed together with precise color coordination and style. Though the colors and styles did not rely on any sense of today’s fashion-in, the observer would have been lulled into believing she was naturally fashionable by how her outfit came together so. She supposed she was fashionable, after years of paying close attention to this part of herself.

Her skirt was an old thin knitted blanket with pale blues, greens, and yellow waves that she sowed into its new existence. She gave it a kilt cut and starched look simply by molding it with felt underneath. She had found the felt in some random thrift store box during an unremembered experience. Her navy Peacoat was a petite find at an army surplus store down Route 66 in Missouri. It was the best place to shop army surplus she thought. The Wellie boots were the off the cuff accent for the rainy day, that brought her look together.

She wasn’t a materialistic person in her mind’s eye, and thought her friends wouldn’t think it of her. She just liked to decorate herself. As a little girl, she always seemed to loose those Barbie dolls she got at one Foster home or another. She never had time to play dress up with them anyway, and when the time came to give them up, she still had the need – the desire to dress something, so she decided to start with herself. This is what she thought as she found the window of the vacuum cleaner repair shop to push back the coffee stained brown curl behind her ear. She didn’t mind if her curly bobby cut look fell out of place, it just gave her a chance to play with it.

She felt most people just saw the outside, became intimidated or judgmental because she took time to present her outside, but that wasn’t about her. She supposed, if given a chance, she could explain to them that the image helped her maintain a structure to her outside world that never really seemed to be there, but then that was too deep a thought for those who only went as far as the surface to judge her.

She always found it interesting that everyone was kind of a book cover in the world. A labeled shirt or not, everyone seem to judge a book by its cover looking for the type they’d like to read. She knew those who tried to come into her life because of her book cover, who could only seem to wade at the surface were just folks she weeded out, like she weeded out the noise from all those judgmental stares. She was after all a person, complicated and real, just like everyone else.

~~~~~~~~~~ go here to check out what others wrote for the sunday scribblings assignment.


Saturday, October 07, 2006

"we'll i ain't got no more bull shit to feed you": in memory of

I’m listening to this new CD, Chris Bathgate - Throatsleep. Well, it’s been with me for a few weeks but I like to absorb my music, so this is the first time I have popped it into the CD player. I only mention the artist and album title in case there are other folks out there who appreciate random finds now and again. I know I do. In fact, I only knew about this artist because a friend of mine introduced me to his music.

This is where I want to become concise in my ramble on this page. I want to mention that there is a song on this album that I have heard before. I want to talk about how this wonderful/insightful/artistic and talented friend makes me road trip CDs when I travel and how Chris was on a few of the compilations I’ve received. I want to talk about how it was great to see him perform live a few weeks ago and get a slew of albums from him – to pass along and share. I want to share about how this friend, who introduced me to his music, makes the best compilations and her attentiveness to the song list never escapes me. That hearing the song tonight, spurred memories of being on the road and how the music she shared accentuated the trips. Finally, I want to mention one road trip, when I was first introduced to C.B, and the journey itself because out of all the things I want to mention - it is this memory I want to put to page. AND A BIG THANK YOU TO kp, in case you come by this way again. And thank you for telling me you read my page.

The Memory: "love ya, kiddo"

The memory was of driving down route 9 to my grandfather’s funeral. It was an expected death that happened at an unexpected moment. I was working two jobs, trying to taper off the travel gig while preparing for graduate school the following fall.

What do I remember?

I remember the death happened during a very busy week for me. The funeral itself felt like a day off since I was working 7 days a week at that point. Getting the call from my parents that Grandpa Ray had died was the unexpected part. A month or so earlier, I had called him during a hard period in his life. Treatments were sketchy and the docs thought he wouldn’t pull through. It was the last conversation he and I would have, though a week later he had a sudden turn for the better and prognosis was good. We all expected him to pass on at some point, but at his death everyone thought he was in a good phase. His death was sudden without lingering insult or pain.

To back up to the last conversation we had, I cannot think of a better last dialogued shared. My grandfather was my nomadic storyteller. He taught me to how to read palms and appreciate a funny story. Tried to get me to chew, but that’s a story on its own. He taught me a good laugh comes from the belly and that a stagnated soul dies earlier than the body does. Our last words shared were simple ones. I told him about getting into graduate school and he was the first family member to tell me congratulation and how proud he was of me. Ray told me about his prognosis and how he had no intention of letting "those docs" predict his death. He said he would walk out of that hospital and he did, even though those docs expected him to die before the end of the week.

Ray told me he was gonna pick a day to die when no one was looking for his death, and he did just that. His last words, you know those valuable monologues we yearn for and cling to in movies, plays, and in our personal worlds, that echo in our ears for years to come, were as cherished to me as the experiences I shared with him. On his memorial card at the funeral, I wrote those words:

"Well, I ain’t got no more bull shit to feed you. Love ya Kiddo."

Driving down Route 9 to Cemetery Street where the funeral was held, a block a way from his home, those words rolled off my silent tongue channeling his voice. Even now, I can hear his voice and his laugh. The music played and my mind went wondering down all the memories of him. I practiced the words I would say at the service during his eulogy. It was my intention to share stories of him that he told to us over and over again, that made us laugh more from his own contagious laughter then the retelling of the story. I wanted everyone to know his last words to me because they were the epitome of his essence.

In the car on the way down, I didn’t feel sad for his death, though knew he was someone I would mourn. Not a sad mourning of loss and regret, but like an Irish wake I knew I would mourn with the recanting of his memory and stories he shared. I realized he was the inspiration behind my own need to be a good storyteller and my attraction to a good laugh. Being a person who has distanced herself from her family, in order to become the best of them and not the worst, Ray’s death brought me face to face with everyone in my family as I was at that moment. To honor him, I wanted to present myself as the better part in all of us, but scared I’d get lost in old ways and habits where there was no I in the situation. On that drive down, as I remembered him, I was happy to know the better parts of me included him, including the storyteller and laughter.

When I stood in front of my family at the memorial service, I took on the role of canter and retold his story. We laughed together and his last words told to me became something that belonged to everyone.

This is the memory spurred by a song. That old travel music for that particular drive has become the soundtrack for that moment and that memory...and a few more, but that’s another story. And if I had any wrap up to this ramble, I would say that life is a layered thing.

Embrace those layers.

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Friday, October 06, 2006

please stay tuned...

The week wanes into the weekend and I have spent most of my time caring for the cold that landed in my chest. Sleep a big priority, the part of my head that usually begins to sound alarms blaring I have too much to do to slow down my pace was too tired to report on the state of things. It happens. Colds get the best of us. The best thing to do is to slow down the pace so the body can catch up. That’s what I did.

I do have a few stories to tell from this week. My favorite word to toss around in my head is tittles. It’s the little details in life, like dotting the i’s, that bring out the best stories life has to offer. I’m not at a point where I can write at the moment. I just need a minute to get back into the pace of things. My sidekick pile needs attending to and I am still not gorged on excessive sleep for the moment.


Sunday, October 01, 2006

sunday scribblings: skin

~I told myself I was going to start writing for Sunday Scribbles again. I promised myself, no matter the prompt I would write what came to mind and post what that was. Well, what came to mind was rough. I was surprised I went directly to thoughts of touching skin when I read this prompt. It may be very inappropriate, perhaps down right rated R, but this is one of the things I love about skin - being touched and touching. I offer with respect and hope no one is too insulted by my response. Read at your own risk.

Thinking of skin,
my mind went to touch,
touching skin,
that apothecary shop of sensuality.

What is your favorite part of the skin?
The nape of the neck,
scented sweet
or the concaved dent between
clavicle and sternum?
The forehead?
Perhaps we move downward towards the shoulders,
rounded and soft, the arms firm or downy?
The palms, the tops of hands – fingertips?
Perhaps the subtle seduction of the breast,
queen areola in her fleshy goodness?
The navel – a hidden world born the moment
we are cut into an individual at birth?
Perhaps toes, or the sandy softness of the treaded foot?
The ankle? The calf, or perhaps the thigh, going higher and higher?
The skin covering the sharpened hip bones waiting for a kiss?
Or is it somewhere else among meadows and southern lips?

- Want to know what other people said about skin? Go to Sunday Scribbles.

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