man oh man my hit counters are unreliable. I'll just ass(ume) that the one with the most is the best so I can pretend that I'm not toiling in unprosperous obscurity AKA blogging. I'm supposed to be finalizing the work on my appelate briefs, peeps. And, I have no right to be here but I just want to say a more friendly goodbye before I dissapear for the weekend. It got so hard with all this new technology and how to say goodbye or hello or whatever and salutations like "Sincerely" are rarely used. I so miss the rotary phone and snail mail only days.
I feel as if I will reach a guiness book of world records for geezery fogeyness by the time I'm 45
. My point? procrastination, actually. Appelate brief due monday because of my darling clerk. I love clerks, especially appeals clerks. Who knew? Never a deadline not missed is my motto. Which makes me think that now we have not only mottos but meta and moto and mofos and I am wanting my brain to shut the fuck up. Then I remember all my strange funny tales of deadlines and getting extentions in college and then Lauren's deeply hilarous tales of getting extensions etc. I might just write about that as a break from fixing up the appeal etc. btw, a lawyer is doing it reviewing it etc but I have much to still do to make it AGAPBIJMBACP(my acronym for as good as possible because I just might be a controlling perfectionist.)
thanx,blog, and I love you all in the blogosphere and you should "shout out" more often.
xo
i
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Friday, June 5, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
egan means yes in hungarian, oprah! http://www.yadvashem.org.il/
Since I changed my blog name to oprah I might have upset some or many enraged oprah fans looking for an oprah related fix and coming upon my random bloggery.
Well, I finally had some op(r)ah-riffic experiences. Today was one of those days when fighting seemed fine and noble rather than just exhausting and wasteful and where I felt able to feel PERSPECTIVE. It started with an image of steve jobs and then the sight of my ever plump mother. Steve jobs was given the diagnosis of islet cell cancer awhile back. I remember reading about that in my epic pancreatic cancer research days and wishing I was that lucky. And almost a year later it turned out that a better diagnosis was given. Still, of course, before I could fully celebrate some very sick people came along and invented a whole hoax that will be revealed soon. It all came to me so strongly-- that this will all end well soon. It seems I'll never get rid of the mr. magoo inside that makes me oblivious to so many things and puts me at danger. I get told about cut throat types and dog eat dog worlds, and I still can't believe that people are selling thier souls so cheaply all the time. In this case: I don't think their are souls involved but hypothetically, if they did have a sould than one sold it for a podunk comedy career and one sold for the love of said podunk comedian. What degrees of guilt is up to debate but damn are those two guilty.
the soul strikes me as something very expensive and so I haven't had the right offer as of yet. I don't get how they are living with themselves, is all, and I never will(naivete?) and their actions can never makes sense to me, and I hope they remain forever a mystery.
Speaking about the soul doesn't bring to mind oprah for me but stil, I've gone astray and forgot my oprahantastic tale- and it would be called"My mothers name is marianna," if it gets told and then packaged by oprah, but I doubt that any of that will happen.
Let me explain. My mother is a hungarian holocaust survivor-- and that entails lots of things, one of those being very confused about where and how she spend 1 very particular year of her childhood, particulary- the year between turning 5 and turning 6 years old. Most kids don't have a clear recollection and her memories are clearer than most. It's common knowledge that traumatic events(because of another one of those murphy law catch 22 situations) is more memorable than non traumatic events, and so my mother remembers mountains of dead bodies and potato peel meals and her mother doing all kinds of heroic things and then she remembers being in france(orly) and some fresh traumas and non traumas from growing up in Israel. But, holocaustwise I just had to hear hazy stories with hazy details about her camp experience. Suffice it to say, they were not about how fresh the air was in the Catskills that might be told by someone else of her generation. So, though I've been told a few stories and knew that she spent 6 months in bergen belsen(made famous by the highly posthumous authoress, anne frank) I never could be sure about a lots of other things. At 39 years old, I don't exactly know why it is only now that I must find out more. But, that's how it is and so I am finding out more. Awhile back my mother made an effort to get her hungarian birth certificage and it took a long long time to arrive. We've been very impatient about a lot of things lately so that was just a minor annoyance, and something pretty much forgotten. Last week, it came in the mail and whoa. Not to mention myself again in all this but it is my blog and my take so I will insert myself here. I for about 8 years was interested to a pretty small but signifigant degree in astrology. In the last year I totally forgot about it. I just lost interest. And, so my first thought after the initial excitement was that " damn, what if mommy isn't an aries." I've ascribed and been able therefore to categorize her in good and bad ways by thinking or even saying, "oh,she's an aries."
The woman is so rammish it's incredible. I knew that my mother was never sure of her birthdate and the date 3/30/39 was calculated by her mother telling her that she was born on the second night of passover. Her older brother was told he was born on the night of purim, the other oldest brother was 11 and so he remembers his own birthday. Now, it's strange enough that my grandmother didn't remember two of her kid's exact birthdates but potato peel meals probably dulled the memory for some time. Plus, my grandmother wasn't a birthday kind of woman. My grandfather died in the holocaust so 3-30-39 it was. So, back to silly astrology: I felt this fleeting panic- what if my mother is scorpio???? Will I still love her??? Of course I would but then I'd start seeing new qualities that might or not have existed beforehand. So the opening of that shiny envelope from the hungarian consul was fraught with absurdities--- and time passed and it was open and in readable form and IT WAS RIGHT. She was born on march 30, 1939. But, but... her last name and the name her whole family goes by is not the same. And, her first name-- the name that defines her so incredibly strongly-- is not the same. And it not a mere phonetic formality as the last name(szameth rather than samet)but her birth name is Marianna. I heard her tell me a few times how her mother named her after an opera star and that it was marianna, but though I know my mother never lies , I figured it was just another unusual fact that I had no time to consider.
Hungary, like Germany, had a very assimilated jewry. My family in particular was orthodox but my grandmother told me that she clearly remembers as a child enormous nationilistic pride. This of course, adds a further layer of tragedy to it all-- et tu hungary? egan!
But, that's for my new blog which i will unveil shortly. Since I've been falsely accused as of late, my confessions of a past serial killing existence, became too realistic and too dangerous. So, as a one year gift to myself and society . One year no serial killing. knock on wood, kind of celebratory gesture, I'm going to start a spanking new blog with none of that "i'm a suburban mom serial (and sometimes spree killer)" bagagge. This will most definately affect my hits because profilers will no longer come to see my blog and profile and I might have to earn my hittage the hard way. Ghouls of all sorts will have seek such information elsewhere. sorry, ghouls.
Back to Hungary and Germany and my mother and probably me. So, with this new information to process I set on a fact finding mission that thus far has led me to very dark places. I know no more than I probably should know but that's nothing new.
I now know that my grandfather died in Mauthausen and that Mauthausen is notorious. Why it was more or less notorious than the others is not that clear and my grandfather according to statistics on hungarian jews sent there seems to have been spared the gas chambers.Cold comfort,for sure.
I know that my great grandmother and many of my great cousins, aunts and uncles died in birkenau and aushwitz. My great grandmother died in the gas chambers and I will now not only know this but cry for this and feel this as I fight and survive in my own way-- thousands of miles away. and as I sit here blogging and fighting to retain some perspective in a world that doesn't seem to provide it freely -- I feel the fear of my grandmother and the suffocation and the saddest of sounds-- the sound of mercy in such instances -- the sound of silence. Such instances, such moments, such times -- all sounds so wrong. How do you describe the time it takes to die by such vicious means? and my body fills with a tension that can only be released through tears until this same tension returns and since something like this can't be made sense of, I'm again to rely on time. Time, as they tell us, will heal the wounds. That old time worn assurance alway makes me feel a painful form of impatience.
And there's guilt there too. A lot. There is the guilt of the intitiall oblivion --of not being yet born. and then the guilt of knowing that I didn't make more effort to know. And, still I want to find out so much more, and there will be times where what I find is comforting. my sister wrote a lot of great lines in her (still ticking) time -- but two of my favorties that keep cropping up are, " my new definition of "Luck." and " life is long... unless you get a melanoma..." The second one can only be appreciated in the context of her novel or at least the page of her novel, but the first one can stand alone for our purpose. Our purposes? whateva.
I have the strongest urge to write an academic essay on luck. what do you think of these titles?
A discussion of the absolute fluidity of interpration of benificient abrogation?
no?
the dissemination of the inabsolute character of beneficience in modern day life.
or
the explication of sitational classifciation visa vi the interpration of the label, "luck."
perhaps this:
vacillations in life's viccissitudes- a study in relativity.
I have more but, seriously, how does one quantify the perceptions of munificence? Is munificence a state of mind or a an indisputable entity.
am I smart or just fancy? should I go to grad school?
I have run out of time to finish this blog entry and dindn't even get a chance to discuss tragedy as I'd planned.
To be continued ASAP.
Well, I finally had some op(r)ah-riffic experiences. Today was one of those days when fighting seemed fine and noble rather than just exhausting and wasteful and where I felt able to feel PERSPECTIVE. It started with an image of steve jobs and then the sight of my ever plump mother. Steve jobs was given the diagnosis of islet cell cancer awhile back. I remember reading about that in my epic pancreatic cancer research days and wishing I was that lucky. And almost a year later it turned out that a better diagnosis was given. Still, of course, before I could fully celebrate some very sick people came along and invented a whole hoax that will be revealed soon. It all came to me so strongly-- that this will all end well soon. It seems I'll never get rid of the mr. magoo inside that makes me oblivious to so many things and puts me at danger. I get told about cut throat types and dog eat dog worlds, and I still can't believe that people are selling thier souls so cheaply all the time. In this case: I don't think their are souls involved but hypothetically, if they did have a sould than one sold it for a podunk comedy career and one sold for the love of said podunk comedian. What degrees of guilt is up to debate but damn are those two guilty.
the soul strikes me as something very expensive and so I haven't had the right offer as of yet. I don't get how they are living with themselves, is all, and I never will(naivete?) and their actions can never makes sense to me, and I hope they remain forever a mystery.
Speaking about the soul doesn't bring to mind oprah for me but stil, I've gone astray and forgot my oprahantastic tale- and it would be called"My mothers name is marianna," if it gets told and then packaged by oprah, but I doubt that any of that will happen.
Let me explain. My mother is a hungarian holocaust survivor-- and that entails lots of things, one of those being very confused about where and how she spend 1 very particular year of her childhood, particulary- the year between turning 5 and turning 6 years old. Most kids don't have a clear recollection and her memories are clearer than most. It's common knowledge that traumatic events(because of another one of those murphy law catch 22 situations) is more memorable than non traumatic events, and so my mother remembers mountains of dead bodies and potato peel meals and her mother doing all kinds of heroic things and then she remembers being in france(orly) and some fresh traumas and non traumas from growing up in Israel. But, holocaustwise I just had to hear hazy stories with hazy details about her camp experience. Suffice it to say, they were not about how fresh the air was in the Catskills that might be told by someone else of her generation. So, though I've been told a few stories and knew that she spent 6 months in bergen belsen(made famous by the highly posthumous authoress, anne frank) I never could be sure about a lots of other things. At 39 years old, I don't exactly know why it is only now that I must find out more. But, that's how it is and so I am finding out more. Awhile back my mother made an effort to get her hungarian birth certificage and it took a long long time to arrive. We've been very impatient about a lot of things lately so that was just a minor annoyance, and something pretty much forgotten. Last week, it came in the mail and whoa. Not to mention myself again in all this but it is my blog and my take so I will insert myself here. I for about 8 years was interested to a pretty small but signifigant degree in astrology. In the last year I totally forgot about it. I just lost interest. And, so my first thought after the initial excitement was that " damn, what if mommy isn't an aries." I've ascribed and been able therefore to categorize her in good and bad ways by thinking or even saying, "oh,she's an aries."
The woman is so rammish it's incredible. I knew that my mother was never sure of her birthdate and the date 3/30/39 was calculated by her mother telling her that she was born on the second night of passover. Her older brother was told he was born on the night of purim, the other oldest brother was 11 and so he remembers his own birthday. Now, it's strange enough that my grandmother didn't remember two of her kid's exact birthdates but potato peel meals probably dulled the memory for some time. Plus, my grandmother wasn't a birthday kind of woman. My grandfather died in the holocaust so 3-30-39 it was. So, back to silly astrology: I felt this fleeting panic- what if my mother is scorpio???? Will I still love her??? Of course I would but then I'd start seeing new qualities that might or not have existed beforehand. So the opening of that shiny envelope from the hungarian consul was fraught with absurdities--- and time passed and it was open and in readable form and IT WAS RIGHT. She was born on march 30, 1939. But, but... her last name and the name her whole family goes by is not the same. And, her first name-- the name that defines her so incredibly strongly-- is not the same. And it not a mere phonetic formality as the last name(szameth rather than samet)but her birth name is Marianna. I heard her tell me a few times how her mother named her after an opera star and that it was marianna, but though I know my mother never lies , I figured it was just another unusual fact that I had no time to consider.
Hungary, like Germany, had a very assimilated jewry. My family in particular was orthodox but my grandmother told me that she clearly remembers as a child enormous nationilistic pride. This of course, adds a further layer of tragedy to it all-- et tu hungary? egan!
But, that's for my new blog which i will unveil shortly. Since I've been falsely accused as of late, my confessions of a past serial killing existence, became too realistic and too dangerous. So, as a one year gift to myself and society . One year no serial killing. knock on wood, kind of celebratory gesture, I'm going to start a spanking new blog with none of that "i'm a suburban mom serial (and sometimes spree killer)" bagagge. This will most definately affect my hits because profilers will no longer come to see my blog and profile and I might have to earn my hittage the hard way. Ghouls of all sorts will have seek such information elsewhere. sorry, ghouls.
Back to Hungary and Germany and my mother and probably me. So, with this new information to process I set on a fact finding mission that thus far has led me to very dark places. I know no more than I probably should know but that's nothing new.
I now know that my grandfather died in Mauthausen and that Mauthausen is notorious. Why it was more or less notorious than the others is not that clear and my grandfather according to statistics on hungarian jews sent there seems to have been spared the gas chambers.Cold comfort,for sure.
I know that my great grandmother and many of my great cousins, aunts and uncles died in birkenau and aushwitz. My great grandmother died in the gas chambers and I will now not only know this but cry for this and feel this as I fight and survive in my own way-- thousands of miles away. and as I sit here blogging and fighting to retain some perspective in a world that doesn't seem to provide it freely -- I feel the fear of my grandmother and the suffocation and the saddest of sounds-- the sound of mercy in such instances -- the sound of silence. Such instances, such moments, such times -- all sounds so wrong. How do you describe the time it takes to die by such vicious means? and my body fills with a tension that can only be released through tears until this same tension returns and since something like this can't be made sense of, I'm again to rely on time. Time, as they tell us, will heal the wounds. That old time worn assurance alway makes me feel a painful form of impatience.
And there's guilt there too. A lot. There is the guilt of the intitiall oblivion --of not being yet born. and then the guilt of knowing that I didn't make more effort to know. And, still I want to find out so much more, and there will be times where what I find is comforting. my sister wrote a lot of great lines in her (still ticking) time -- but two of my favorties that keep cropping up are, " my new definition of "Luck." and " life is long... unless you get a melanoma..." The second one can only be appreciated in the context of her novel or at least the page of her novel, but the first one can stand alone for our purpose. Our purposes? whateva.
I have the strongest urge to write an academic essay on luck. what do you think of these titles?
A discussion of the absolute fluidity of interpration of benificient abrogation?
no?
the dissemination of the inabsolute character of beneficience in modern day life.
or
the explication of sitational classifciation visa vi the interpration of the label, "luck."
perhaps this:
vacillations in life's viccissitudes- a study in relativity.
I have more but, seriously, how does one quantify the perceptions of munificence? Is munificence a state of mind or a an indisputable entity.
am I smart or just fancy? should I go to grad school?
I have run out of time to finish this blog entry and dindn't even get a chance to discuss tragedy as I'd planned.
To be continued ASAP.
Monday, June 30, 2008
I simply don't have a title today. I want an editor!
Oh no. I think it's indeed ADD. As I mentioned, I stopped taking my adderral. Well, that effort to rid myself of any unnatural substances was a flop. I felt very out of whack. I got my prescription filled today and look at me: Bloggin away and muffins baking. I even had my housekeeper teach me how to mop. Life can be long and one never knows.
So, for today I feel confident about my diagnosis. Last month I was sure it was bipolar 2-- Which for the unaware is a lesser form of what is commonly known as manic depression. About 8 months or so ago, I just was standing in the ariel durant library( yums) and I saw a book called, "touched by fire." by Kay redfield and I picked it up. Fascinating read even if you are one of the lucky onces and can just read it for pleasure.
So, that book and then another I took out a week letter made me confident of my "issue." I can get high as a kite(more on cliches later) and low as a puddle(more on cliches that are not in existence later) and yet the image I'd had (from books and movies)of manic depression is one of real heavy wackiness-- jumping off boats and participating in orgies and not sleeping for weeks. Since I always sleep and never jumped off a boat or even entertained the idea of an orgy I dissmissed that diagnosis.
But with bipolar 2 I had all the symtoms and so...
So, nothing really. I have not sought treatment for it. I can't imagine changing too drastically. I am 33-39 years old and I am like an old shoe to myself. So for now I feel that it is probably bipolar 2 with ADHD . and a dollop of whoopass.
This will all hopefully lead to other ideas I want to express. I was picking out nectarines at the jons on labrea and man oh man did I want to blog some.
And, so eventually I was able to spend this time with you sweet sweet blog. I now know that I indeed have some real humans out there reading my babble.
I feel even more committed to ridding myself of a day job. Oh how I hate those.. I am going to really start taking myself seriously as a blogger and maybe with a little prayer here and there, some core excercise, finally finding my center etc, I'll not have to leave my house for money.
Oh, I forgot I'm a wealthy soccer mom. I get myself confused with the larger boned spinster sister sometimes.
Anyhow. I think I have to start bulleting. I don't yet know how to do that.
So I'll doing it like this.
Diagnosis Epidemic.
My two friggin cents
So know June 29th 2008- I am the add or ahdd and to be honest, my leg is a little restless. And now that I am laying myself so very naked in front of you-- I have restless arms too. Restless feet and hands too. Terrible.
My ass is the only part of me that feels sedate. Terrible.
So, I am compelled to blog today for various reasons but the most pressing one is that I am gushing over with frustrated thoughts and emotions. Nothing new there. But, this is the first time I've been able to type it out in such a way.
Recently I've been diagnosed by strangers as many things. It is getting truly comical. I am just as guilty of it. I throw around DSM hearsay constantly. But, when it's turned on you you've got to re-think. And re-think and re-think I have.
Some conclusions: It is out of control. Psychobabble has now really permeated our society to a dangerous degree. It is everywhere and it is babylonian in scope. Sure, there are sociopaths or psycho paths or crazy antisocial types. But, all that gray area in between is being clouded and is just making life less poetic or beautiful or magical or whatever it is that life can sometimes be.
And it's not just arm chair psychologists that are to be avoided and/or scrutinized. It's the degreed ones too especially those with degrees in social work. Let's not even get into Doctor Phil's fortune and how it was built on the widespread selling of this mortifying phenomenon
The ones with ph.d or Md's: They need to get tenures or published or special recognitions and they are really nude emperors if you think about long and hard.
Everyone and everything is a nudie emperor, if you think long and hard enough.
I have tons of theories and even hypothesis's for my darling viewers but long and hard and naked emperors make me want to talk about-- cliches.
(get your mind out of the gutter)
On the short drive home from Jons Market( a magnificent marktet btw) I thought of sticks and stones and how they break bones and how names do harm you. And this made me think about how this is so at the core of life. Names and name calling and aspersions cast or set in stone and surving it all to try and succeeding more and more and not letting them... harm you. Cliches get interesting as I get older. Some stand the test of time and some must be discarded. Stick and stones is a good one and I'll get into that later. Cute as a button and mad as a hatter have not stood the test of time. If buttons were cute we'd all wear them all the time and be happier and hatters are hardly mad. Thank you very much. If this knocked your socks off than ... so what. Seriously, why would the knocking of socks off the feet be a good thing? And let's not even get into the poor dogs. Sick as a dog( woof huh?) dog tired( the dog is thinking-- I always get my 8 hours, bitch) and so many other dog cliches it is overwhelming. They are one of our most favored housepets and yet we use the word "dog." as a slur(cur?) so very often.
Now that I am for quite some time not officially young I can speak from experience about some cliches that should stay. When I was a plump and overly unconforming child any incident where I was the recipient of misunderstanding or cruelty or false impression-- seared me. Made me cry and suffer and curse my faith and fate and my slight fatness. I was shy and scared and lisa karpul and karen kessler were capable of leaving me in a heap. My mother one day said something that changed my life completely. It wasn't a cliche. I was 13. we were talking about my shyness and she said, " Shyness is arrogance." We discussed it more and we talked about how shyness was really connected to some assumption that anyone gives a damn about you. Sure, some will and so do but most people are not paying very close attention to anyone but themselves. I thought and thought about it for years and years and by the time I was 21 I think I'd rid myself of accepting my shyness and letting myself live under the illusion that people were interested in much more than themselves. It's there, the shyness, maybe it should be called a different name, but it's there. I just constantly remind myself that shyness is connected to not only arrogance but to cowardliness. The struggle to overcome any belief that we are the center of the universe is, I think, a worthy and thrilling one. And, because I've just look at the time and there is a time constraint I'll have to leave this blog entry as incomplete. And just type away till time runs out.
I very much doubt it but I hope my desire to share some premise got across somehow. And, that is...
Names should not harm you. And year by year cliches like "you can't please all of the people all of the time" become downright profound.
I see so much "shyness." or cowardliness everywhere. It is beyond enervating to me to be stuck in so many situations where I get the strongest sense of ... fear.
People(not all- but most) are overly cautios and I think that our society is acting even more inhibited than ever because names have gotten more insidious and people feel incapable of fighting them.
Pychobabble names that are zipping our collective lips:
Borderline, narcissist blah blah dsm , obsessed, stalker, get a life(??) lifestyle...
On any message board where there is literacy beyond... u are cool lol. I heart justin, you will see these slurs thrown out willy nilly. And the recieving end is just going to feel mind fucked and incapable of an acceptably brief response that will convince anyone of this misconception with appearing "obsessed." The only way to deal with it is to feel your complexity and beauty and understand that they just can't or won't or don't need to understand.
Now, "obssessed' and "stalker" seem in a different league. But, I see those accusations thrown at almost anyone who displays pretty normal sentiments or behaviours.
If other things don't eat up all my time, I'll get into "lifestyle.' later. It doesn't seem to belong on the list but it does...
There really are mental wards and hospitals for the criminally insane. there really is a death row. There can't be a doubt that some live amidst us and do not experience guilt or goodness. That sleep at night when they ravage other's lifes.
But, they, thankfully, are a select few. Not the majority and these words are just diminishing and need to be put out of commission in cases where there is really no compelling evidence.
Oh my. I do have gramaphobia(or whatever name I was called this week)
I have one minute left and so I'll try to wrap this strange stream of consciousness up with... sticks and stones very well might break your bones but... names need to be analyzed before you even think about letting them harm you. Dyke and faggot and many others have been "taken back." and disarmed. New more onerous, less obvious ones have taken their place.
Much more later, taters. When i hit 1000 hits we are going to party like it's 2008. aight??
I annoy my own self so ... hush.
So, for today I feel confident about my diagnosis. Last month I was sure it was bipolar 2-- Which for the unaware is a lesser form of what is commonly known as manic depression. About 8 months or so ago, I just was standing in the ariel durant library( yums) and I saw a book called, "touched by fire." by Kay redfield and I picked it up. Fascinating read even if you are one of the lucky onces and can just read it for pleasure.
So, that book and then another I took out a week letter made me confident of my "issue." I can get high as a kite(more on cliches later) and low as a puddle(more on cliches that are not in existence later) and yet the image I'd had (from books and movies)of manic depression is one of real heavy wackiness-- jumping off boats and participating in orgies and not sleeping for weeks. Since I always sleep and never jumped off a boat or even entertained the idea of an orgy I dissmissed that diagnosis.
But with bipolar 2 I had all the symtoms and so...
So, nothing really. I have not sought treatment for it. I can't imagine changing too drastically. I am 33-39 years old and I am like an old shoe to myself. So for now I feel that it is probably bipolar 2 with ADHD . and a dollop of whoopass.
This will all hopefully lead to other ideas I want to express. I was picking out nectarines at the jons on labrea and man oh man did I want to blog some.
And, so eventually I was able to spend this time with you sweet sweet blog. I now know that I indeed have some real humans out there reading my babble.
I feel even more committed to ridding myself of a day job. Oh how I hate those.. I am going to really start taking myself seriously as a blogger and maybe with a little prayer here and there, some core excercise, finally finding my center etc, I'll not have to leave my house for money.
Oh, I forgot I'm a wealthy soccer mom. I get myself confused with the larger boned spinster sister sometimes.
Anyhow. I think I have to start bulleting. I don't yet know how to do that.
So I'll doing it like this.
Diagnosis Epidemic.
My two friggin cents
So know June 29th 2008- I am the add or ahdd and to be honest, my leg is a little restless. And now that I am laying myself so very naked in front of you-- I have restless arms too. Restless feet and hands too. Terrible.
My ass is the only part of me that feels sedate. Terrible.
So, I am compelled to blog today for various reasons but the most pressing one is that I am gushing over with frustrated thoughts and emotions. Nothing new there. But, this is the first time I've been able to type it out in such a way.
Recently I've been diagnosed by strangers as many things. It is getting truly comical. I am just as guilty of it. I throw around DSM hearsay constantly. But, when it's turned on you you've got to re-think. And re-think and re-think I have.
Some conclusions: It is out of control. Psychobabble has now really permeated our society to a dangerous degree. It is everywhere and it is babylonian in scope. Sure, there are sociopaths or psycho paths or crazy antisocial types. But, all that gray area in between is being clouded and is just making life less poetic or beautiful or magical or whatever it is that life can sometimes be.
And it's not just arm chair psychologists that are to be avoided and/or scrutinized. It's the degreed ones too especially those with degrees in social work. Let's not even get into Doctor Phil's fortune and how it was built on the widespread selling of this mortifying phenomenon
The ones with ph.d or Md's: They need to get tenures or published or special recognitions and they are really nude emperors if you think about long and hard.
Everyone and everything is a nudie emperor, if you think long and hard enough.
I have tons of theories and even hypothesis's for my darling viewers but long and hard and naked emperors make me want to talk about-- cliches.
(get your mind out of the gutter)
On the short drive home from Jons Market( a magnificent marktet btw) I thought of sticks and stones and how they break bones and how names do harm you. And this made me think about how this is so at the core of life. Names and name calling and aspersions cast or set in stone and surving it all to try and succeeding more and more and not letting them... harm you. Cliches get interesting as I get older. Some stand the test of time and some must be discarded. Stick and stones is a good one and I'll get into that later. Cute as a button and mad as a hatter have not stood the test of time. If buttons were cute we'd all wear them all the time and be happier and hatters are hardly mad. Thank you very much. If this knocked your socks off than ... so what. Seriously, why would the knocking of socks off the feet be a good thing? And let's not even get into the poor dogs. Sick as a dog( woof huh?) dog tired( the dog is thinking-- I always get my 8 hours, bitch) and so many other dog cliches it is overwhelming. They are one of our most favored housepets and yet we use the word "dog." as a slur(cur?) so very often.
Now that I am for quite some time not officially young I can speak from experience about some cliches that should stay. When I was a plump and overly unconforming child any incident where I was the recipient of misunderstanding or cruelty or false impression-- seared me. Made me cry and suffer and curse my faith and fate and my slight fatness. I was shy and scared and lisa karpul and karen kessler were capable of leaving me in a heap. My mother one day said something that changed my life completely. It wasn't a cliche. I was 13. we were talking about my shyness and she said, " Shyness is arrogance." We discussed it more and we talked about how shyness was really connected to some assumption that anyone gives a damn about you. Sure, some will and so do but most people are not paying very close attention to anyone but themselves. I thought and thought about it for years and years and by the time I was 21 I think I'd rid myself of accepting my shyness and letting myself live under the illusion that people were interested in much more than themselves. It's there, the shyness, maybe it should be called a different name, but it's there. I just constantly remind myself that shyness is connected to not only arrogance but to cowardliness. The struggle to overcome any belief that we are the center of the universe is, I think, a worthy and thrilling one. And, because I've just look at the time and there is a time constraint I'll have to leave this blog entry as incomplete. And just type away till time runs out.
I very much doubt it but I hope my desire to share some premise got across somehow. And, that is...
Names should not harm you. And year by year cliches like "you can't please all of the people all of the time" become downright profound.
I see so much "shyness." or cowardliness everywhere. It is beyond enervating to me to be stuck in so many situations where I get the strongest sense of ... fear.
People(not all- but most) are overly cautios and I think that our society is acting even more inhibited than ever because names have gotten more insidious and people feel incapable of fighting them.
Pychobabble names that are zipping our collective lips:
Borderline, narcissist blah blah dsm , obsessed, stalker, get a life(??) lifestyle...
On any message board where there is literacy beyond... u are cool lol. I heart justin, you will see these slurs thrown out willy nilly. And the recieving end is just going to feel mind fucked and incapable of an acceptably brief response that will convince anyone of this misconception with appearing "obsessed." The only way to deal with it is to feel your complexity and beauty and understand that they just can't or won't or don't need to understand.
Now, "obssessed' and "stalker" seem in a different league. But, I see those accusations thrown at almost anyone who displays pretty normal sentiments or behaviours.
If other things don't eat up all my time, I'll get into "lifestyle.' later. It doesn't seem to belong on the list but it does...
There really are mental wards and hospitals for the criminally insane. there really is a death row. There can't be a doubt that some live amidst us and do not experience guilt or goodness. That sleep at night when they ravage other's lifes.
But, they, thankfully, are a select few. Not the majority and these words are just diminishing and need to be put out of commission in cases where there is really no compelling evidence.
Oh my. I do have gramaphobia(or whatever name I was called this week)
I have one minute left and so I'll try to wrap this strange stream of consciousness up with... sticks and stones very well might break your bones but... names need to be analyzed before you even think about letting them harm you. Dyke and faggot and many others have been "taken back." and disarmed. New more onerous, less obvious ones have taken their place.
Much more later, taters. When i hit 1000 hits we are going to party like it's 2008. aight??
I annoy my own self so ... hush.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Benign Masses and suffering classes
heavens to mergensens, and damn it to hell, I am conflicted about blogging. Part of me feels impelled by society to blog. Blog this, blog that, this blog, blogger this, blogosphere. Such an unsexysounding thing-- blog.
Still, the soundless space(When the speakers are off) of this place is disheartening. There seems a perplexing trend of brevity that I don't ascribe to. I have not yet reached a readership that can inspire advertisers, and it hurts.
Advertising reminds me that I was in Orange county this week and in a clothes store I saw tiny tiny t-shirts and on them it said in bold print, " Most popular baby," " Baby most likely to succeed." There were more but I blocked them out. I'm not unaware that Orange county is a hotbed of such notions and yet still I was appalled. beyond measure. And, I felt very sure at that moment that if we would just eliminated advertising we'd all be ok. No need for complex social agendas or dogmas-- just no advertising-- ever. No one allowed to pressure baby like that and pressure us all into buying into concepts that are created by those who want to have a big salary. Advertising is what is making us all miserable and I want it to stop.
Words and words. i love words. But, do they love me? That is what consumes me for the duration of this blog post. I recently had many traumas and just when I thought they'd come to an end, a new one has cropped up. But, none can, in the shadow, of what happened 3 months ago, compare. What happened? Mommy Henya was rushed to the hospital with terrible pain. There we waited, but no one knew what was wrong. A week later, a call came that said that a mass was found in mommy Henya's pancreas. I was recovering from a somewhat botched surgery and wasn't told this. Eventually, I was. And I lost most if not all of the remaining marble. I tell ya.
I read over 200 articles on the internet and was truly obssessed with finding out what the odds and chances were. Through extensive googling, I arrived at a 1% chance of an outcome that wouldn't destroy me completely. And, I looked at it, that 1%, and I did not believe that I would be the benefactor of such a lottery.
And this process was long and tests were done and done, and I googled and googled , and I fell into a darkness darker than I'd known and I'd known darkness. The day of reckoning was near and the biopsy is what it was called. And, the doctor was Indian and she wasn't kind, but many were. And, strangers at cedars sinai, asked me if I was ok, because I suppose my eyes are expressive. i certainly didn't attempt to tell them the scope of my suffering. And, I really don't like drinking anymore but I knew that the level of anguish and the waiting were too much and so I went and got a small bottle of vodka. And, I had 2 hours to wait, to find out, what my future would be. And, that time, as all time does, passed. And, the indian radiologist wasn't kind when she said, "it does not present as cancer." Then, it was a matter of operation or no operation and the odds of no operation was once again, 1%. And, after a week, we were told that she would have to have a modified operation. Better than the Whipple. And, we all convened to feel that this is fine and we are lucky. 2 days later we were told that they are just going to adopt a wait and see approach and they will check her mass every 3-6 months. And, I googled some more, and I was sure I'd never complain again and I'd do everything in my power to make my mothers life better because it seemed that I'd finally been really lucky or that for the first time I'd felt lucky, in a long time. And now more than 3 months have passed and no one is calling insisting my mother be checked and she has not lost weight or developed jaundice and that is very good.
Now, false witnesses, have emerged and sociopaths spouting phsycobabble have come forth to upset my universe. Someone I trusted has shown herself to be beyond trust and a stranger has decided to hurt me for no discernible reason. They do not know that I've survived much worse and I see it as a sturdy and short hurdle that I will cross seamlessly. I desire a mutual understanding but it is denied me in favor of spurious lies and abuses of the legal system . It clouds my blood and brain with disgust, hatred, and (bitter) bafflement. I don't understand. I do know that they both live to win and that I don't want them to.
Oh yes, how did that diatribe come to pass? Words. Yes, I was talking about words. When I stood outside cedars sinai, and I strolled the streets of Beverly hills, and I suffered suffered suffered and I thought, " I am bereft, I am disconsolate, I am forlorn, I am forsaken, I am despondent beyond the pale, and then I thought, " i know too many damned words." I wish I didn't no so many damned words. I wish I just felt, "this is not awesome."
Ah, I feel better.
Still, the soundless space(When the speakers are off) of this place is disheartening. There seems a perplexing trend of brevity that I don't ascribe to. I have not yet reached a readership that can inspire advertisers, and it hurts.
Advertising reminds me that I was in Orange county this week and in a clothes store I saw tiny tiny t-shirts and on them it said in bold print, " Most popular baby," " Baby most likely to succeed." There were more but I blocked them out. I'm not unaware that Orange county is a hotbed of such notions and yet still I was appalled. beyond measure. And, I felt very sure at that moment that if we would just eliminated advertising we'd all be ok. No need for complex social agendas or dogmas-- just no advertising-- ever. No one allowed to pressure baby like that and pressure us all into buying into concepts that are created by those who want to have a big salary. Advertising is what is making us all miserable and I want it to stop.
Words and words. i love words. But, do they love me? That is what consumes me for the duration of this blog post. I recently had many traumas and just when I thought they'd come to an end, a new one has cropped up. But, none can, in the shadow, of what happened 3 months ago, compare. What happened? Mommy Henya was rushed to the hospital with terrible pain. There we waited, but no one knew what was wrong. A week later, a call came that said that a mass was found in mommy Henya's pancreas. I was recovering from a somewhat botched surgery and wasn't told this. Eventually, I was. And I lost most if not all of the remaining marble. I tell ya.
I read over 200 articles on the internet and was truly obssessed with finding out what the odds and chances were. Through extensive googling, I arrived at a 1% chance of an outcome that wouldn't destroy me completely. And, I looked at it, that 1%, and I did not believe that I would be the benefactor of such a lottery.
And this process was long and tests were done and done, and I googled and googled , and I fell into a darkness darker than I'd known and I'd known darkness. The day of reckoning was near and the biopsy is what it was called. And, the doctor was Indian and she wasn't kind, but many were. And, strangers at cedars sinai, asked me if I was ok, because I suppose my eyes are expressive. i certainly didn't attempt to tell them the scope of my suffering. And, I really don't like drinking anymore but I knew that the level of anguish and the waiting were too much and so I went and got a small bottle of vodka. And, I had 2 hours to wait, to find out, what my future would be. And, that time, as all time does, passed. And, the indian radiologist wasn't kind when she said, "it does not present as cancer." Then, it was a matter of operation or no operation and the odds of no operation was once again, 1%. And, after a week, we were told that she would have to have a modified operation. Better than the Whipple. And, we all convened to feel that this is fine and we are lucky. 2 days later we were told that they are just going to adopt a wait and see approach and they will check her mass every 3-6 months. And, I googled some more, and I was sure I'd never complain again and I'd do everything in my power to make my mothers life better because it seemed that I'd finally been really lucky or that for the first time I'd felt lucky, in a long time. And now more than 3 months have passed and no one is calling insisting my mother be checked and she has not lost weight or developed jaundice and that is very good.
Now, false witnesses, have emerged and sociopaths spouting phsycobabble have come forth to upset my universe. Someone I trusted has shown herself to be beyond trust and a stranger has decided to hurt me for no discernible reason. They do not know that I've survived much worse and I see it as a sturdy and short hurdle that I will cross seamlessly. I desire a mutual understanding but it is denied me in favor of spurious lies and abuses of the legal system . It clouds my blood and brain with disgust, hatred, and (bitter) bafflement. I don't understand. I do know that they both live to win and that I don't want them to.
Oh yes, how did that diatribe come to pass? Words. Yes, I was talking about words. When I stood outside cedars sinai, and I strolled the streets of Beverly hills, and I suffered suffered suffered and I thought, " I am bereft, I am disconsolate, I am forlorn, I am forsaken, I am despondent beyond the pale, and then I thought, " i know too many damned words." I wish I didn't no so many damned words. I wish I just felt, "this is not awesome."
Ah, I feel better.
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