The Comfort of People Like You

[hi david.]
Facebook is a life-sucker, isn't it? But there are some really good things that come out of social networking sites. Like getting back in touch with the past, with old friends. For me, this makes myspace and facebook totally worth the cost (for the most part) in the time I've spent on them.

Recently I decided to search for some old friends from my childhood on Facebook, my bygone childhood, lost in the south, never to be confirmed or denied by anyone. Except maybe my sister, my parents, and the actual house (which seems to hold nothing of me. I went there in 2004. Our soul vapors weren't there. But some of my memories were. But things were different.) And I found these old friends! And it's so interesting what happens in my head as I look at their photos, because ... they seem ... at least superficially ... just like me ... !!!

Ah, the comfort of people like you. I'm looking at these 3 girls, who I last saw when we were all about 8 years old in Houston, Texas, and they look "normal." They're not plastic women with slick hair, perfect bodies, well-done makeup and tailored clothes. They are naturally good looking, but don't appear to spend too much time on their appearance. Is this a learned behavior of growing up in CA? Is that why my sister and I never quite fit in? (At least one of the reasons, I'm sure.)

I always wonder what I'd be like if we'd stayed in Texas. Part of me reverberates with the idea that I'd be me -- I'd be the same -- except maybe Christian and maybe Republican. [??? is that possible ???]

Another trip and a half is that while nearly everyone still lives in Texas, one of my childhood friends lives in the Bay Area, just about 2 hours away from me. Wow!! Crazy.
I guess we have to go see her!

On Death (and Naming)

I think it’s always hard when someone you know dies, even if you didn’t have a particularly wonderful relationship with the person. It signals an end, and we don’t like ends, we really like beginnings and middles.

I’m still getting used to the idea of death. The idea of finality.

Our culture does a really crap job of preparing us to deal with death. Even as I was growing up, I didn’t see my pets die. Pets are a great way to realize a final loss. Our pets always got sick and sulked away somewhere in the country to go die. I was young, and I didn’t understand that they hadn’t just chosen to go do something else.

Gramma’s death was really the first time I had someone close to me die. Watching mom go through her grief, which I don’t think will ever be resolved (she says it can’t be resolved. That gramma was her best friend and she misses her so much and just can’t accept and can’t believe that she’s gone. And I think it’s so interesting how mom's family immortalized their mother, believing she was greater than the power of life and death and that she would live forever. I think she will live forever in the things she’s woven with other people, the circus museum and memorabilia, her lineage, her name, her store, her customers and friends, her legacy, her bloodline. But the woman dies. The myth can live on, but the body dies.)

Then with Julie back in December and now Paul—these people I was close to at one time, but drifted drifted drifted very far away from. And ultimately, at the time of their passing, didn’t have relationships with them. …

The absolute corporeal end just puts me in a really reflective mood. I am awash with spiritual confusion. By that I mean, I don’t know what I believe any more, and don’t know if I believe anything at all. Faith (and I use that term in the loosest way possible) takes effort. You have to remember to think about it, or remember that you’re committing to the idea that something is there. The only constant, so Descartes, is that voice in your head. Ergo cogito sum. And then when people die, do they hear their voices? Do they think? I don’t believe we think identity is what makes us real. I don’t believe people approach the world from a singular perspective and that all reality is subjective. I think people rely on a shared sense of objective reality – at least for a few things, like calendar year, the “present” and “past” (chronology, space, time), axioms, etc.

Reflective. Brings up a lot. For instance. With Paul (Myers, that is), she asked me if I didn’t have a relationship with that side of the family really, and I didn’t share a bloodline, and didn’t trust those people, then why would I keep my last name? Why not change it? I gave her a laundry list of reasons, including but not limited to the fact that I don’t particularly like the name, and that it’s political, in that I thought I was giving something up in getting married so I might as well keep my last name. And of course, that women’s name change started because women were property and it was a way trace property transfer. Yuck.

But perhaps more importantly, it brought up that I’ve been thinking about this. Recently. I was talking with someone about our plans to start a family, Jeff and I. Yes we want to have kids, but not yet. After my master’s program. And I was thinking about what last name we’ll give our kids, and thinking I don’t want to wait too long, because I know Bill wants to see his grandchildren. I anticipate the day I can see Bill hold his grandchildren. Can’t wait to see that smile. I’m sure he’ll tear up. How couldn’t he. And also that Jeff is the last of his line, and how Bill has been the kind of man I always wanted for a father, and has kind of been a father figure to me, without even trying. And then Jessica asked, why not hyphenate? I said because Jeff won’t, and if one person is going to hyphenate then both should, or it’s not even and fair. So that’s lame. But then I thought about the kids, and how it’s kind of impractical to have two names, because the general public, it’s its general hurry, shortens everything, and just uses the first name anyway. All of this is too absurd. Naming conventions. Lame.

Haley’s Maple

The tree was a young tree, just like me. Looking at our house from the street, it was in the side yard, to the left of the house. It seemed so tall, but it must have been only 8 feet at most. Skinny trunk, swaying leaves or still, depending on the season—I had a tree. It was the first thing I remember feeling that I owned. And I was proud of it. My dad gave it to me. The leaves were green green in the spring and summer, and the color turned, hued and varied and brown jewel tones in autumn. I remember sitting under it, playing around and around its trunk, taking its precious fallen leaves and making impromptu collages on the concrete outside our front door. That tree witnessed my childhood.

Marla Olmstead and Abstract Art

I'm a bit late on the bandwagon here, but Leanne just emailed me and asked me if I've seen that documentary about child artist Marla Olmstead, called My Kid Could Paint That. No I haven't seen it, but it's started a deluge of interesting thoughts for me. And I was just saying how much I missed art.

OK I will have to get this movie. i did a little bit of looking around -- i've only vaguely heard of her/remember her name...so i looked at her work, watched the trailer for the movie, read a review and another article, etc. i'm very interested. what's to suggest that kids do anything differently than adults? and if abstract art is spontaneous and messy and impulsive and stream of consciousness (along with what canvas and what paint you have available), then what's to say its a sham? Isn't art...isn't the utility of art, the satisfaction from it, derived from looking at it and saying, "that's interesting" or "that's pretty" or you just have some physical reaction? and why would that be bad, if people are willing to pay for it? how bout the guy that does the color block squares? what about him? its a red canvas. awesome. people like it. like i've always said, i'm not a "real" artist, but i do love to paint, when i have time, and i can't say i do much differently than what that little girl does, when i go totally abstract...like the paintings i did for jeff...art is impulsive to me, its a beautiful mess, and that's why i love it. who's to say a 4 year old can't do that? now as far as the exploitation factor, i have to see the movie...

Then a conversation ensues where I had to go find out what that guy's name was who did the color block paintings, so I went and talked to some graphic designers here at work...

so i just talked to some graphic designers here at work and they strongly disagree with me (except for the part that if someone is willing to pay thousands of dollars for a painting, let them). they think that abstract art-- and the intention behind it -- is cool and worthwhile and meaningful because it comes from somewhere, and part of where it comes from is learning the fundamentals and working within the boundaries of traditional skill, getting good at it, and then learning to break or supersede the boundaries, and go abstract. and as for my previous mention of mark rothko, they shot my theory down to ignorance, which i claim. they were saying you have to know WHY he chose the red, and the intention and meaning of what he's trying to convey. well, i don't know those things but i still enjoy it. does that count? you don't have to be an artist to appreciate art. but is there such a thing as proper appreciation? i guess there's education and knowledge. educated appreciation. i guess i'm just the starry eyed girl drooling at all the pretty colors!?

i've just had another thought. remember how disgruntled and pissed off the literati were when italian (and spanish?) opera made its way to england? they were pissed because the general public (assumedly relatively uneducated -- the masses) go to an opera, don't have any idea what's being said in the language they don't understand, and react to these costumes and the show. The SPECTACLE. Remember how the "ancients" --right -- got so mad about the fact that people would cry watching this spectacle that they didn't understand? So I'm relating it to abstract art. Perhaps they would say I am just the starry eyed drooling girl...yikes...

cat hair? abundant. my life? nowhere to be found.

Cat hair is everywhere. Easy to find. But everything I wanted to do on nearly-28 and counting, well, its in the wings. Alan Watts would have a lot to say about this. "Trying to find yourself is the biggest ego trip going." [ok, its trying to lose yourself, but whatev.] Watts would say, "Nowhere is a word comprised of two other words, which get at the truth of the situation at hand: now, here your life is to be found." ok alan. point taken.

i'm distressed because i had my review today and got no money. i talked to jeff about it, let the tiger out of the cage, when i got home. (that's a non-sexual reference.) my issue is, it feels like i was hired to be stagnant. and that's the stupidest thing i can imagine. it's like theater of the absurd. "ok haley, we're gonna hire you to do one thing, change your job a whole lot, give you a whole lot more responsibility including managing people -- and we're not going to recognize you for this -- and then after all those changes are done, and you're good and adjusted, well then, stay the same. don't improve, don't strive for more, don't look ahead -- that's very dangerous. keep two feet on the floor and your head down, and always wear a dress." [remember that old joke from golden girls where sofia tells blanche to keep both her feet on the floor and blanche says that's cool, cuz she's wearing a dress.]

no money, no room for advancement, no new projects, no change, no advice for improvement on a personal or project level. no change in responsibility, no recognition for a job well done, and most importantly, no goal to aim my stern at, and buoys to pass through. that metaphor is lame, i know, but you'd think a job would want you to grow, ENCOURAGE you to grow. to give more to the company. "Wow, what a great asset we have here. Let's see what else she can do, and if she's really good, let's pay her to stay around for a long time."

I called my mom in the afternoon. I took a break and walked around the block. I realized I'd been starting at my computer screen and sitting on my ass for like 6.5 hrs straight and I should probably experience the sun today. So out into the elements, mom was shopping, and we ended up having a pretty good 15-min chat. we were talking about the nature of um, company cohesion, group morale and its waning importance, positive attitutude and its waning importance, and how the art/act of negotiation is disappearing rapidly. that negotiation pretty much isn't happening anymore. people are just lucky to have a job. or, they have a job, and want to keep it or want to move on, and that the work and the people and praise in front of others are more liekly to keep someone at a job than money. is this the current economy or is this a semi-permanent shift, we don't know. but stay tuned, we're certain to have the world figured out in about the next 2 weeks.

gosh, things don't really make sense. what a sham this whole "trying to plan for life" thing is.

remember reading shel silverstein when you were a kid? i do. i had to memorize that poem "ickle me, pickle me, tickle me too." do you think he was stoned when he wrote that? yah, i do. that poem didn't make sense at all. perhaps that's adults' interpretation of what's "fun" for a kid -- nonsense that rhymes and sounds funny. whatever, i do remember it fondly, but don't have any real memories associated with it.

its safe to say this schpiel is not only inspired by my lame review, but also this cool issue of INTERVIEW magazine I just thumbed through. Turns out, Andy Warhol founded/started/owned INTERVIEW, and apparently started it as "a tribute to ROLLING STONE." Cool. I get ROLLING STONE, too. My favorite thing in there is the "Threat Assessment." Anyway, I never knew much about Andy Warhol, and I even lived in Pittsburgh for a whole year. (he attended Carnegie Mellon there.) So this issue was dedicated or was a tribute to Warhol, and I learned so much about him by seeing his scary photos and reading quotes from his friends and circle of peers. He seemed to have a really captivating take on life, and held some beliefs I just am incapable of agreeing with (One friend said one thing people might not know about Warhol was that he didn't really have any opinions. Is that possibly true? How can that be true?) Regardless, he seemed open to what everyone had to say, including fierce critics (he told them they were right when they said he was a no-talent ass clown). He gave anyone a chance. He said art movements and the art world was dead, and that commercialism was where it was at. At INTERVIEW, he used to introduce people the way they wanted to be introduced; rather, with the title they wished they had. So he'd say, "You, average employee #28 named Shera Johnson, (in reality jsut an average employee), she is the owner of INTERVIEW." Awesome. Imagine how just that small gesture could change employee's attitudes, even though everyone knows its not true. It means you know your employees, one. Two, it means you're not threatened. I would love the chance to do this and see everyone smile from ear to ear.

The whole Andy Warhol introduction served to remind me of the creative group I used to have around, where you get to have any opinion you want and like whatever you want, and you don't have to have a reason for it. An idea was an idea, and people would entertain it, and some would even tell you it was shallow or not worthwhile, and others would think it was brilliant, and people would experiment with the way they viewed the world and their role in their surroundings. people in that environment believed that what they wrote mattered. but on a really, really basic level. not even on a level of conscious thought. The act [of writing] precedes the thought [that its meaningful, or it matters]. You write because you have something to say, and if nothing else, its in your head and it needs out and meaningfulness doesn't really factor into it, except in the a priori way of knowing that "I" is important to that subject. Did that make sense?

Perhaps irrelevant, but I am reminded of two quotes I like very much:
1. "At what point did people stop asking questions?"
2. "We are not here to answer questions. Just say you don't know."

And to everyone else, goodnight.

3 weeks to life - my time at a chico women's shelter

College is a formative time for most people, where we’re encouraged to dream and believe that the world lies at our fingertips, if only we are willing to reach out and grab it. One of the dreams I cultivated during the two years I worked for Cal Poly Women’s Programs and ran the first and only feminist club on campus (yes, first) was that I wanted to develop education programs targeted at young, rural, female youth across the country. Ultimately, I wanted to build women’s shelters and centers as resource centers and community gathering spots from the ground up; develop the concept, implement it and duplicate it across the country. The idea was that these centers could provide rural young women the vision of possibility and choice in low-income areas where sex education and education in general may not have been much of a priority for young women and those raising them. My first step in that direction was to work at a women’s shelter.

I got a job with an organization called Catalyst Domestic Violence Services in Chico as the night supervisor of a local women’s shelter. I worked at the shelter from 4:30 pm to 2:30 am Monday through Friday, and my tenure lasted three weeks. I realized a myriad of incredible things about the nature of abuse, of the human heart, of my own spirit and my own tolerance in those weeks. I realized that I was entering into the lifecycle of a problem at the end, and that I felt inert in the wake of abuse. I was 22 years old trying to provide leadership and mentorship to drug addicted, abused women who were unable to hold a job or maintain custody of their children. The 12 women in the house fought constantly. No one did their chores—the small amount of responsibility they held. We would stand outside together and smoke cigarettes and I would listen to them complain about each other, and listen to their tragic stories. All the while, trying to problem-solve the lives of people who seemed beyond help; who seemed broken.

I wielded no governance over these ladies. One night, sitting at the dinner table and observing the swirling chaos of the house in the throes of dinner preparation, I refused to tolerate what I was witnessing. My mind turned against the current scene and forced my voice. I told everyone to shut up, yelling at the top of my lungs. They stopped, because I’d never behaved like that. I made everyone leave their tasks, their brooms, spoons and rice and come sit at the table together. I told them they were ridiculous. “Look at yourselves,” I urged. “All you can do is fight and yell and abuse each other, and you don’t see that each of you have endured the same struggles. You don’t see that Shaon and Cleo have lived the same lives, have ended up here for the same reasons. You have an opportunity to connect with each other, share stories, try to learn from the other women here and listen. You have a chance to try to heal. You could be friends, if you’d only support each other.” I told them I didn’t care if they did their chores or not. I didn’t sweep my kitchen floor every night, so I thought it was absurd they would have to. What I did do every day was act like a civilized person and try to respect the people around me.

I don’t know why they listened to me or continued to sit at the table and pay attention to what I was saying, but they did. I worked there for one more week. My last night in the house, those 12 women threw me a surprise going away party. They somehow knew that I was a vegetarian and made veggie egg rolls from scratch, and made chocolate covered strawberries. They used their food stamps to buy the food. They showered me with gifts, from stuffed animals to dried flowers and cards. These women had nothing, and gave up their own possessions for me, to see me off.

I did make an impact. One person, at least temporarily, made a difference. i don't know what I made those women see and i don't know why their compassion bloomed in the winter of that house. but i witnessed it, and it changed me.

again, for the people who say "it can't be done." i've been one of those people.

I guess we just have to decide what it is we want to do.

RANT: feminist / weddings

A note on feminist weddings

I am beginning to think they are possible. After reading some very encouraging articles and blogs today, and realizing that I could look at commitment ceremonies to help guide me (potentially).

I resent that because i don't want a girly, poofy dress wedding and i think diamonds are an extremely effective marketing scheme that i don't fall into, that i'm somehow less of a woman, or that i "must just not want to get married." or be married. my mom actually said to me on the phone last night, after an hour of struggling to explain WHY the importance of flowers is ridiculous to me (consumerism, hello), that i better think long and hard if this is what i really want to do, because i just seem so angry. "it doesn't seem like you really want to be married or that you want to do this, at all, so you better think if this is right for you."

i appreciate the "tough questions." i really do. i forgot that my family has some innate block to feminist ideas/ideals. lovely jefferson said, "it makes me want to say f--- it, let's just go somewhere and get married because i don't think you should have to deal with this." that's why i love the guy.

it's not even that the traditions are humiliating, its just that they're forced. it's like, "oh, you're getting married, please step into this box." um, no thanks. i want to be married, but the wedding industry is enough to make me gag. the creation of false necessities for profit. the encouragement of making women feel inadequate. that's a big part of it. what you currently have isn't good enough. you have to do better and be better than what you are. this is a public display as a prize and a public display of your greatness as a couple.

you know, i had a friend -- a close friend -- who did the same thing. She asked, "Why even get married if it makes you so angry?" The apt question is, "why does it make you so angry?" that is complicated and shaded by my trust issues and my own parents' divorce, but is largely influenced by everyone else's expectations. "you're not taking his name? oh. why not?" my response, often aimed at men: "do you want to change your last name? me neither. you never thought about it? me neither. you wouldn't do it? me neither."

it makes me angry because people automatically think because i love this man and want to spend my life with him, that now i am going to work and fret over stupid little details. i will do what i can to plan an event, but because the wedding industry says i need to dance and have a dj, it doesn't make the idea more attractive to me. what's some of my favorite times, or my favorite scene? I think of sitting on the back porch of Streets of London in summer in early evening, when its still light but not so blistering hot. Pitcher of beer, my guy, some friends, just chilling, talking, drinking, smoking cigarettes, shooting the shit. Casual. Laid back. Real. Who doesn't want to go chill with a pitcher at Streets? That's what I want, but somehow it's not really acceptable. Or/and, i don't know how to get it. (Plus, the food at Streets isn't really the good for a vegetarian. :) )

I'm really surprised I haven't written about this sooner. I think I will have many more feminist rants on weddings to come. Like 8 more months' worth.

Ah, an outlet. It's nice to talk and not have anyone talk back, asking me to justify my strangely feminist and counter-culture ideas. (it's like by being counter-culture, i'm subversive. somehow, a feminist bride is a threat to all the carefully placed cards in the house [of cards]. you know what i'm saying.)