I’ve been preoccupied with events concluding this weekend, and have written of little else. If only my mind were uncluttered. I’ve been considering my mother’s health and the changes she will endure in the coming years. Having seen a glimpse of what her future holds, I’m not optimistic.

She’s been cursed with a wretched spine for years. There have been three back surgeries with little success to alleviate pain or improve mobility. The most recent, implanting a device in her hip that provided electrical stimulation to reduce pain. Today, she was in the surgeon’s office pleading to have it removed, because it causes more discomfort than it alleviates.

She’s in considerable pain, otherwise she wouldn’t have made the appointment (she’s stubborn that way). She requested a consult with the orthopedic who recommended the procedure, but he isn’t available until September. My sister was at the previous appointment with him and the prognosis was not good. He believed there were more surgeries in her future, but he didn’t offer much to relieve pain, only hope to keep her mobile.

She walks unassisted, but watching her move makes you wince. She isn’t comfortable sitting or standing, leaving few options. She doesn’t discuss the pain, or tell us what meds she takes. (Anyone with a lesser constitution wouldn’t be able to drive on them.) My sister and I play different roles in order to extract information from her. It’s difficult asking the right question. I play the game, because I’m like her when it comes to disclosing information.

There isn’t much to say or do now. Only time will tell if she has fifteen mobile years in her future or five. I will enjoy the days on her behalf as long as they last. I don’t care how she passes her time as long as she enjoys herself. Maybe she will learn the humility required to ask for help, and hopefully I will learn too.

Tension. ©2007, Mixed Media
Note: may rework later.

Nouns, verbs, complete sentences, coherent thought, and punctuation; it’s all a swirling mass of letters and symbols. Taming letters to form words, and beating words into submission to adequately articulate emotion seem impossible. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it writer’s block. In order to have writer’s block, one would have to be a writer. I am a philanderer of words.

I don’t know if it is diarrhea or constipation of the brain. Am I overwhelmed by too many thoughts or too few? I’ve started at least five posts. Each time, the train of thought pulls out of the station before my luggage is loaded. If I were complaining about this to my mother she would smile grandly, point to the gene pool, and say,”You’re getting older”. I would roll my eyes, and mutter, “shit”. Oversimplification.

The passing weeks have been consumed by abstract business. I don’t feel I’ve accomplished much, unless you count eliminating the free time I would normally spend over-thinking EVERYTHING. My husband would call it puttering. I hate that word. It’s the same word he uses to describe his mother’s obsessive compulsive activity. Interesting, now that the hair on the back of my neck standing up, I remember things I’ve accomplished…

Excitement.

I can’t stand being near myself when I get excited. I enjoy seeing others get excited. But for some reason, it makes me feel vulnerable. I talk too much. Reveal too much, not T.M.I. too much, more like intoxicated honesty. I’m a little relieved the Mister is at work, and can’t see me this way, but maybe that’s selfish. He would like to see me more open and less guarded. He’s a sensitive man, so restraint on my part, avoids arguments that aren’t worth having (Does this mean I’m adapting to his family’s tradition of denial? Damn, if I want to take the time to consider that now.)

Apprehensive about Blogher?

Not really. I probably should be, having a deficiency in self-esteem. As the date approaches, I consider the conference less and less. I should be reviewing tracks, and speakers, but I don’t seem to care. Blogging strategy? Building an audience? I’m lacking goals. Two years ago, I had goals, I wanted a large audience and ad revenues. I wanted validation that I wasn’t getting from my desk job. Today, I only want to make eye contact with some of the talented writers I’ve been reading. I guess that counts as a goal.

In blog hopping a few weeks ago, one writer expressed concerns about the Blogher conference and evolving group dynamics. There was concern about whether or not meeting some bloggers in person would change the way the larger group interacted. As someone who has spent decades outside the fray, I regard her concerns thoughtfully and respectfully.

Exclusionary behavior is common. A good example of kill or be killed in group interaction is high school. Oh the angst, oh the hormones, and oh the pressure to conform. Those are years will not be missed, and are largely responsible for my revulsion of the small town I once called home. Cliques extend beyond the topography of high school, college, sorority, fraternity and junior league, but do they dominate all social castes?

I’m not a social participant as frequently as I am an observer of human interaction. Group dynamics are perplexing when your main goal is to belong. I’ve struggled since childhood to fill that hole. I finally discovered, whether or not I included was partially my responsibility and not entirely dependent on whether the others voted me on or off the island.

I assumed since I didn’t receive an engraved invitation, my presence wasn’t desired. It never occurred to me my low self-esteem should be shouldering some of the blame. I was not part of groups, because I made no effort to interact with them. They weren’t trying to exclude me, they simply didn’t know I was there. In essence my snap judgement made their decision before they had an opportunity to consider it.

Exclusion isn’t always intentional, sometimes it’s simply a circumstantial
oversight. I have to accept responsibility for my own behavior. When you are withdrawn or closed, people will assume you don’t want to be a part. Body language conveys insecurity words fail to express. Words from she who is trying to learn the art of better posture and not standing with her arms crossed.

As long as people have preferences, group dynamics will persist. Preferences are extensions of individuality; they make us different, influencing cruelty, and compassion. Life would be easier, if everyone shared commonality, but would we continue to grow and blossom if life existed as a strait line without a change of plane or direction?

A few weeks ago I made a self-deprecating joke to a friend trying to apologize for my lack of contact, and remarked I was a borderline recluse. Always upbeat, she responded, “Oh, you’re not a hermit. You’re just comfortable with your sense of self.” Sure, maybe today, but it’s taking a long time to get here.

I saw this meme, and decided it was time to embrace my inner angst driven teenager. Now if I can only remember to kick the bitch to the curb when this post is complete…. If you’re interested in comparing notes, here are others: meno, liv, bob, chani, and flutter.

Some refer to high school as their glory days, but for me they were anything but. I wasn’t shagging the captain of the football team (my gain), but I wasn’t getting pantsed in gym either. My freshman year, I changed schools, because mine closed. My friends former classmates went to one school and I went to another.

1. Who was your best friend? Didn’t really have one. My senior year, there was Robin, a transfer student. She was smart, charismatic, and had a stronger sense of social justice than your average teenager.

2. What sports did you play? Nada.

3. What kind of car did you drive? 1969 Volkswagon Beetle. I had saved up for a car since I was thirteen. I did all kinds of non-social-security-number-cash-and-carry-jobs. I tended horses, cut grass, picked black berries, painted shirts, swept pine straw, and once painted a logo on a truck. It was a great first car with a few unfortunate electrical gremlins.

4. It’s Friday night, where were you? There was a rare football game. By my senior year, my sister had a teaching job, thirty minutes away. She welcomed weekend company, and bought beer.

5. Were you a party animal? Not unless you count #4. My parents kept a watchful eye over me. They asked so many questions, I never tried to go to the really good parties. Of course it was a non-issue, since I usually wasn’t invited.

6. Were you considered a flirt? No. I wasn’t good at flirting with guys my age.

7. Were you in band, orchestra, or choir? No

8. Were you a nerd? In the traditional connotation of the word, no. I was a fringe person, who could communicate equally well with the different castes in my high school. I wasn’t part of any cliques, just non-threatening.

9. Did you get suspended/expelled? Nope

10. Can you sing the fight song? WTF? I wasn’t in the band or the chorus

11. Who was your favorite teacher? Mrs. Bou, my art teacher. She checked me out of school more than my own parents. She understood teenage angst better than most adults. She was also kind enough to pretend she didn’t hear me threaten another student who nailed me between the eyes with a wad of clay. She helped me earn a partial art scholarship. I still keep in touch.

12. School mascot? goat Ram.

13. Did you go to Prom? Not junior year, but I decorated for it. I was often enlisted pressured to decorate for dances because I could draw. I decorated for at least five dances I didn’t attend. We always picked themes and one year we chose an ocean theme. There was a large mural of King Neptune in his chariot. Neptune was anatomically correct and hung to his knees. The art teacher tried to de-emphasize his mythological proportions, but just emphasized them instead. And no, I wasn’t responsible.

14. If you could go back and do it over, would you? Did you read items 1-13? Hell, no.

15. What do you remember most about graduation? I remember being irked about having to attend. I hate participating in formal ceremonies. I wore white shorts under my gown because I hated dresses. That was the night my parents found out about my scholarship. I also remember coming home early, because I was too tired to stay out . The night before I hung out with a handful of other nerds and we went swimming at 2AM…. at the principal’s house.

16. Where were you on senior skip day? Probably school. I had perfect attendance my senior year. What a loser!

17. Did you have a job your senior year? I worked at a pharmacy.

18. Where did you go most often for lunch? For the first two years, I hung out in the courtyard. Junior year, I studied in the library. Senior year, I worked in the art studio compiling a portfolio.

19. Have you gained weight since then? I’ve yoyo-ed. I’m not sure if I weight five pounds more or less, but I know I need to scrap ten.

20. What did you do after graduation? Started college within twenty days, and worked part-time. After two quarters I had enough credit to qualify as a sophomore.

21. Who was your Senior prom date? Ryan. It was an unexpected invitation. He’s one of the most inspiring people I have ever met. Kind, determined and fucking brilliant. I should probably frame the context better. He was born with physical limitations and overcame a lot of obstacles just to walk. He was intelligent and charming. I was the lucky one.

23. Are you going / did you go to your 10 year reunion? No. My mother and I had an argument about this. I requested she not distribute my address. Her response? What should I tell them? I don’t want to be contacted. Seems straight forward to me.

24. Who was your home room teacher? Mrs. Stewart, she taught typing. I dropped her typing class my senior year because I sucked. Three weeks in, I begged the guidance counselor to move to physics instead.

25. Who will repost this after you? About a thousand other people who don’t read this blog, but read one of many others that have already posted.

• Traveling for the sake of convenience is usually inconvenient. Life is a series of waits measured by uncomfortable chairs. Four hours by car, Three hour airport wait Flight delay, five hour airport wait, One hour wait at the gate, eight hour flight, Twenty minute ride to hotel. All to crawl in a strange bed for a two hour nap.

• Alarm, shower, dress. Explore Pub crawl. Ten years? Nostalgic longing for glory days, my glory days. Strong cider with real fish and chips.

• Walking along the river in short sleeves, temperature mid sixties, and the locals are bundled in wool jackets and track suits. Are the they wimps, or have I spent too much time living under the humid heat cloaking the southeast?

• Christ, traffic is coming from the opposite direction. Must look right. Adapt or perish.

• Crawl back in strange bed, and nuzzle against a familiar warm body.

• Wake up, check watch, 9:30. Wrong time zone. AM or PM for fuck’s sake? Add five hours or subtract? It’s either 4:30AM or 2:30AM. Why can’t I calculate basic travel math? Consumption or jet lag? Jet lag. Can’t sleep. Too scared of oversleeping.

• Fall asleep minutes before the alarm. Shower, dress, pack, passport, check. Meet the shuttle.

• Soundtrack keeps playing in my head. I hear this and this. Odd, these artists have nothing in common. I hear them in my dreams, Light airy sleep almost not sleep at all. Dozing in strange places, hotel, car, airplane. Hurried dreams. Sleep or trance?

• Say goodbye at the airport, he goes his way and I go mine. We’ll meet at home, Saturday. Diplomatic hoop jumping (security, customs, immigration). Board plane and pass time drawing, reading and dreaming. Hazy dreams, more soundtracks.

• Bad weather, holding pattern. Late arrival. Sprint through customs hoping to make my connection. Delayed by two officials who are perplexed by my traveling 8,000 miles with only a backpack and a sling bag. Second flight delayed. Passenger at the gate smells like fresh grass clippings. Small irritable children are placated by tired parents. I get on by the skin of my teeth because of weight/balance/weather issues.

• Last leg home, and I’m trapped in a tiny aluminum tube with a flight attendant, who just needs someone to smile and nod. I’m too tired to be engaged, but I play along because everyone needs someone to listen.

• Can hardly wait to brush my teeth.

• Scoop litterbox, check mail, cancel cat sitter, and clean fish pond. Life returns to normal. Nerve wracking, but worth it. Jet lag over 2AM, 3 days later, maybe tomorrow.